All That Really Matters by Nicole Deese (new books to read TXT) 📕

up a handwritten sign on white poster board. I read them one by one, from left to right, my heart pounding as their words drilled straight through my chest.

Devon: Broke. No family.

Monica: High school dropout. Fear of homelessness.

Amy: Insecure. Bad relationships. No place to call home.

Diego: Addicted. No job. Sleeping in my car.

Wren: Grieving and afraid. No hope. No friends.

As we neared the end of the line, reading and stepping our way down the row in silence, my hand hovered close to my heart, as if the action alone might soothe the ache. It didn’t.

As we read the last sign, Monica gave a cue for everyone to flip their signs over, and I gasped, taking several steps back to read them all at once.

Wren: No longer afraid. Enrolled in community college. Deep friendships.

Diego: Sober ten months. Mechanic school. Roommates like family.

Amy: Know my worth. Relationship with God. Thankful for my community.

Monica: Second year studying in PA program. Savings account. Security.

Devon: Part-time job. Full-time friends.

Silas and I didn’t move from our places on the carpet squares. But the way he cleared his throat and shifted his feet told me I hadn’t been the only one affected by the powerful display of vulnerability and strength. Wren stepped forward, her shy smile as steady as her blue-eyed gaze. She focused on me.

“We understand why you say The Event has to be canceled. But you’ve also said our efforts deserve to be seen by the world. And that our voices deserve to be heard by people who could help our cause.” She paused, looking at the others around her. “Each of us know kids our age who weren’t fortunate enough to secure a home like this, or be in a program that helps them make a plan for their future. We think we can do something about that. Maybe it won’t bring in as much as we could have raised with the fancy dinner, but we all have stories to tell about what our life was like before The Bridge and what it’s like now. We want to ask you to help us share them—not some day in the future, but now, while we still have time.”

Only, time was the one thing we didn’t have. August thirty-first was only days away.

“Wow, this is . . . ” I felt the weight of the room on my shoulders. On my heart. I studied each of their hope-filled faces, holding back a laugh-sob when Devon made pleading hands while he waggled his thick eyebrows in anticipation. But while I wanted nothing more than to say yes to them, and to create a special series post to promote each of their stories . . . I no longer had a platform to do so.

I looked at Silas, who seemed to be dealing with his own inner turmoil. No doubt he saw his oldest brother in each of these kids’ signs. The Carlos who could have avoided much of his strife and addiction if only he’d been given a chance to thrive, a home that supported him the way The Bridge supported these twenty-two lives. But we both knew it couldn’t happen like this. Not without a tried-and-true strategy, not without the use of a visible platform. Gaining any sort of traction on a single post would be next to impossible. It had taken me nearly three years to grow the kind of visibility these kids hoped to reach in days. Even for a glass-half-full thinker like me, I refused to be the one to fill them with false hope. Not again.

I swallowed and lifted my chin to address them all with the same courtesy and respect they’d addressed us with. This time I wouldn’t let Silas be the deliverer of bad news. I was the one who had let them down, not him. I was the one who made promises I couldn’t keep. “What you’ve done with these signs is powerful. A brilliant idea that should make you proud of your testimonies and of a program you’ve worked and succeeded in . . . but I’m afraid what you’re asking can’t be done. Not in so little time and not with so few resources. I don’t have a platform I can access. I don’t have hundreds of thousands of followers who can share your stories with the world and link to a donation account. Even if I had those things, the timing would still be tight to raise the funds we need by the deadline.”

“I have five hundred followers,” Monica said, stepping out and lowering her sign. “And I’m on a few study group pages for my classes at school. I can ask them all to share our posts, and they all have people who would share them, too. It’s a great cause.”

“And I have almost a thousand on my Instagram,” Amy said. “And one of my old foster sisters has nearly four thousand. She’s in a pop band.”

“As of today,” Devon said, glancing at his phone screen, “I have two hundred and thirty-six fans on TikTok. But that’s only because I just signed up when I got my phone. I’m sure I can wrangle up more.”

“See?” Wren pleaded. “We can do this if we all work together.”

I glanced back at Silas, whose steadfast gaze was trained on the kids.

“I’m so sorry, I know how much this means to you all, but those numbers simply won’t be enough to get us there.”

“Would you say that to a waiting kid?” Diego asked, his voice tinged with tears. “Because if not for Silas going to bat for me after I failed my mechanic exam, I’d be back on that list. And I’d probably be living under a breezeway or in a friend’s car. What’s the harm in us trying? If not for The Bridge, every one of us could have been a statistic for homelessness, addiction . . . and worse.”

My throat burned so badly I could barely speak. “I don’t want to say no to you, Diego. I don’t want to say no to any waiting