Catholics and lutherans

“Are you religious at all?”

I shake my head without thinking, a reflex more than a response. My fingers retreat to my lap. I glance down at the glass tabletop between us—clear, cold, and clean—except for a small stack of coasters resting nearest to him.

He catches my eyes flicker that way, then shifts in his white plastic deck chair. The legs squeak slightly as he leans forward, socks tucked under the table now. With one big sigh, he reaches out his hand—still tan from the sun, a little calloused—and places a coaster right in front of me, like it weighed a hundred pounds.

“Thanks,” I mutter, my voice quiet, as I set my glass of merlot on top of it. I cross my legs under the wooden lawn chair and glance up again.

He’s watching the trees sway—almost hypnotized by them. The backyard is bathed in golden light. It’s an early evening glow that feels like it’s holding a big breath before dusk. Then he does the thing. He pushes his straight hair back, fingers trailing just a beat too long. I’ve known Tyler for almost seven years now, and I only just realized: that’s what he does when he’s thinking. Like really thinking. It’s a tell. A flicker of something before it spills out.

“But your mom is Catholic, you said?” he asks, gaze shifting back to me.

His voice is calm. Soft, even. Arms resting wide across his chair. He’s more relaxed than I remember—more scruffy, too, with that dark beard he keeps tugging at. Still a wise guy, sure, but less of a show about it now.

“Yeah!” I say too quickly, voice pitching higher than I mean. Ugh. Why did I sound like that?

My cheeks grow warm. “We used to go to church every Sunday when I was little.”

“But you’re not Catholic anymore?” he presses, cocking his head, still twisting that patch of beard under his chin.

I shake my head again, but before I can explain, he holds up a finger.

“Hold onto that thought,” he says, reaching for a small black speaker and pressing the button. A beep. Then a blinking blue light. He pulls out his phone, taps around, and sets it down screen-up.

Doja Cat’s “Vegas” starts to play.

I let out a laugh, folding over my chair. “No way.”

He’s leaning forward now, head tilted just enough toward the speaker like he’s inspecting the beat. “I like this one,” he says, the corner of his mouth curling.

“I actually had this on my workout playlist when I was coaching at school,” he adds, sitting back a bit. “Played it during lifts with the girls’ field hockey team. Used to hype them up. So much that one even hit a PR.”

“Nice,” I grin. “My friend Mariana and I played this on loop during a road trip in Arizona last summer. It was a great soundtrack for the Grand Canyon.”

He raises his eyebrows in approval. “Must’ve been boiling out there. Could never be me. But that’s cool—you got to see one of the greatest wonders of the world.”

I giggle and drop my eyes. He takes a swig of his beer and then points at my phone.

“And you picked it as the very first song on your track.”

“You should play your own stuff though,” I laugh, trying to keep it light.

Honestly, the idea of him listening through all of my songs feels a little too vulnerable. This is Tyler—the guy who plays like 50 billion instruments and probably loves music more than I ever could. And here I am, someone who literally downloaded Spotify last week just so I could also share my favorite songs with him. I made this playlist maybe 12 hours ago, on a whim. Now it’s suddenly playing live on his deck. 

“I already did. A few days ago,” he says, shaking his head with a chuckle, reaching for his phone to lower the volume.

“So your family used to go to church,” he continues, “what changed?”

I exhale slowly. “I just… don’t agree with some stuff that the church says.”

He nods, slow and thoughtful. “Understandable.”

“One time in high school, the deacon gave a homily about who we should vote for,” I add, remembering the tension in the pews. “It was right before the election. Some people actually got up and left.”

He hums. “Yeah. Religion and politics shouldn’t mix.”

“But!” I say quickly, eyebrows jumping. He catches the lighthearted shift, and smiles faintly. “I do like what it gave me. Like… morals. A sense of what’s right and wrong. And the traditions. Holidays, being with family. I like that.”

“Hm,” he says again. He nods. “Do you believe in a god?”

I lean back a little, caught off guard by the depth of his question. This man is really trying to crawl through my entire belief system right now. I search my own mind.

“I think I believe in a higher power. And that everything happens for a reason. But I don’t know if I believe in Jesus exactly—or at least not the way Catholics do. I’d say I’m more spiritual than religious.”

A red bird flutters onto the railing just behind him. I glance at it. I tuck my curly hair behind my ears.

“What about you?”

“I’m Christian. Technically Lutheran.”

“Oh, okay. How Lutheran are you?”

He laughs, just once. “I don’t go every Sunday like you used to. But I do believe in God.”

I start to say something—then he cuts in.

“So if you’re spiritual… do you believe in an afterlife?”

“Maybe?” I pause. “I hope so.”

“What does that look like for you?”

What does it look like?  I’ve never actually tried to picture it. Maybe he has. Maybe he thinks about this a lot. The question hangs there.

“I mean, they used to talk about it in church,” I start slowly. “But I don’t really know. Sometimes I have dreams with my grandparents in them, and it feels like they’re visiting me. That makes me think maybe something’s out there. But at the same time, I get why some people think when you die, that’s just… it. Still, I don’t like thinking about it. Death is scary.”

“Death seems great,” he says suddenly, eyes calm. “If there’s an afterlife, I’m excited for it.”

What.

My eyes flick over to him, but he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t shift in his seat. If this was three years ago, I’d think he was kidding. He used to say stuff like that just to get a rise out of me, then backtrack with a smirk or a snort. But now? His tone is flat. I can’t tell if I’m supposed to laugh or lean in. I really, really want to believe he’s joking.

He’s joking. Right?

“Have you thought about what you’d want if you died?” he asks, breaking the silence. “Like, what your funeral would be like?”

My stomach tightens. “No.”

I take a sip of wine—trying to think of something to say that won’t feel too weird. But he’s got me wondering now. Would I even be ready for that? I don’t want to imagine it, but suddenly the thought is there.

A light, spacey piano intro starts floating in, layered with an airy synth and a slow, echoey beat. It’s Sky Walking. But the lyrics roll in and get clipped in all the wrong places, the curse words replaced with awkward silences or blips.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him narrow his eyes at the speaker. His brow scrunches just slightly. He tilts his head just a bit. Doesn’t say anything, but his face is asking, What is this censored nonsense?

Oh no. It’s the clean version. I gave him the clean version. I, a fully grown adult with working ears who spent maybe 12 minutes throwing this playlist together just to impress him, put the family-friendly, Kidz Bop-adjacent version on a playlist for him.

The guy who listens to jazz for fun. Who once gave me a TED Talk on the percussion layering in a Tame Impala song. And I… handed him the version you play when your mom’s in the car. 

Great. Amazing. So mysterious. So sexy. Really makes me want to melt into the lawn chair and become one with the wood. And then after that, we can listen to Let It Go and officially destroy all sexual tension forever. Love that for me. Haha.

I clear my throat, like that’ll somehow reset the song. I can’t sit with this playlist shame any longer. “What about you?” I ask—way too fast, voice just a touch too loud.

He doesn’t blink. Just shrugs lightly, still twisting his beard.

“Yeah, I’ve thought about it… I hope it’s fun.”

There’s a small glint in his eye. It’s barely there, but it flickers like a spark. His voice lifts just enough, like he’s almost amused by the idea of throwing one last party. Like he’s imagining a new playlist, the drinks, the people laughing and remembering.

“But I’d be dead,” he adds with a low chuckle, shoulders rising just a little. “So I wouldn’t really know who would show up or not.”

 I blink and the red bird that had been perched on the railing takes off into the sky. The breeze follows, a slow, cool draft that brushes the back of my neck and makes me sit up a little straighter in the chair.

“...that’s a good point,” I whisper, mostly to myself. My stomach tightens a little. I wasn’t expecting that answer—so casual, like he’d already made peace with it.

I don’t like the idea of endings. They’re freaky. That’s something you shove into the back of your brain for another day.

He takes a sip of beer and adds, “Some people say you stick around after you die. Like… you don’t fully cross over until you’ve said your goodbyes.”

I look over at him. “So with that logic,” I say, trying to keep my tone casual, “would you be at your own funeral?”

He nods once, unfazed. “Yeah.”

I laugh, but it’s light and a little shaky. “That’s wild.”

And then, after a pause, like it’s just an extra footnote, he says, “Or maybe I’d just disappear. Let people forget about me. That wouldn’t be so bad either.”

I laugh, but it catches in my throat. “Okay, well I wouldn’t just disappear.” I tap the rim of my wine glass for dramatic effect. “I’d absolutely haunt my own funeral. Show up in a gust of wind when someone misquotes me. And the moment I see a slideshow photo where I look like a wrinkled pool noodle, I will make the lights flicker.”

He laughs—a low one I always liked. It softens his face for a moment. “Of course you would.” 

But he’s still again. Calm. Just keeps tracing the rim of his bottle with his thumb like we’re discussing the weather.  

And that’s when I start to feel this strange space between us. I look at him more closely now. He leans back slightly, the deck chair creaking under his weight. That beard is actually uneven in many places. His hair is longer than usual, flopping into his eyes a bit. He looks... softer. Less polished. His voice, earlier, when he said “I wouldn’t really know who would show up or not” is scratchier than I remember. Like there’s gravel in it. Worn in. 

Is he actually okay?

I take a slow sip of wine and stare at the fading red hue bleeding into the sky, the way the last light glints off the sliding glass door behind him. The air’s still warm, but it has a bite now. Maybe that’s why the bird left. 

No, no. He’s just always been like this. Deep thinker. Always asking big questions. He thinks about weird stuff sometimes. Philosophical stuff, I remind myself. It’s not new. So it’s fine, right?

I stare down at the wine glass again. It leaves a faint ring on the coaster he passed me earlier. A small, perfect circle. I watch it soak in slowly. 

He’s just maturing, I decide. That’s all. He’s gotten older, a little quieter. He’s just being reflective, I think. It’s probably the beer. Or the sunset. Or it’s that the Sky Walking song just ended.

Still, there’s something unsettling about how he got almost excited talking about his own funeral.

I want to ask him more. I also don’t though.

So I force myself to look back up. He’s watching the horizon now, completely still except for the slow rise and fall of his chest.

See? He’s fine. 

That’s what I tell myself.

Just a quiet night. Just a guy being curious.
I always think too hard anyway.