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."
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. Drinkin Beer. Talkin God. Amen. (feat. Florida Georgia Line)
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." Chase nodded, looking out the window at the
"So," Miller started, tracing a ring of condensation on the table. "You still doing the Sunday morning thing?" Sometimes it’s in the preacher's words, sure, but
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."