Chase nodded, looking out the window at the rolling hills fading into the purple twilight. "I get it. It’s easier to hear Him out here. Sometimes it’s in the preacher's words, sure, but most times? It’s in the way the wind hits the cornfields or just sitting right here, catching up with an old friend."
They hadn't seen each other since Miller moved to the city for that tech job, but sitting here, the years seemed to peel away like a cheap bottle label. Drinkin Beer. Talkin God. Amen. (feat. Florida Georgia Line)
"So," Miller started, tracing a ring of condensation on the table. "You still doing the Sunday morning thing?" Chase nodded, looking out the window at the
The neon sign of "The Rusty Anchor" buzzed like a trapped hornet, casting a low amber glow over the cracked vinyl booth where Chase and Miller sat. Between them stood two sweating longnecks and a bowl of pretzels that had seen better days. Sometimes it’s in the preacher's words, sure, but
He raised his bottle slightly. "You don't need a cathedral to have a conversation, Miller. Sometimes a cold one and a wooden table is all the altar you need."
Miller laughed, a genuine sound that broke through his polished city exterior. "Some things never change. Honestly, man, out there... I don't know. It’s all concrete and noise. I miss the quiet. I miss knowing where I stand with the Big Guy."
Chase took a slow pull of his beer, the cold crispness hitting just right. "Every week. Still in the third row, right behind your aunt. She still hits the high notes a little too hard."