"And I said, 'What shall I do, Lord?' And the Lord said to me, 'Rise, and go into Damascus, and there you will be told all that is appointed for you to do.' And since I could not see because of the brightness of that light, I was led by the hand by those who were with me, and came into Damascus." –Acts 22:10-11

"WELCOME TO ART HISTORY 248," George Devereaux says in the small classroom. I'm surprised there aren't more people here, considering that most of the time, art history classes are the equivalent of a soccer match between a group of children and David Beckham–which is to say, an easy A. "This is going to be a lecture series on Christian art. I also have a special trip planned near the end, to Italy, if any of you are interested, to see the birthplace of several of these paintings."

An excited murmur rises up amongst the thirty-some students gathered in the classroom. I sit in the back row at the very top of the auditorium, looking down at my laptop to avoid meeting his gaze. Most of the students at NYU are wealthy, from well-to-do families who would think nothing of dropping a few grand to go to Italy. Myself included, of course.

I skim the class syllabus and the course outline as George pulls up a powerpoint. "Let's dive right in. Can anyone tell me who created this painting?"

The room is silent.

"Anyone?" He points the clicker, a red dot appearing on the surface of the painting. I know the answer, but I won't give him the satisfaction of hearing it.

Also, my temples are throbbing. I definitely had one too many glasses of champagne at Abigail's wedding.

"Here's a hint, it was an old, dead, white guy," he says, clearing his throat.

Someone's hand shoots up next to mine. Since when do know-it-alls sit in the back row? "Caravaggio, professor."

"That's correct. And, you can just call me George," he says. I will definitely be calling him professor, then. "This is Caravaggio's painting, Conversion on the Way to Damascus. It was painted in 1601, and depicts..."

My mind trails off into thought. I have a date tonight, if I remember correctly, and as I turn on my phone under the desk, my suspicions are confirmed. Let's meet at the Rose and Anchor by eight.

I groaned inwardly. I was not going back to that nightclub. It held far too many memories of watching Leana Lim get away with catfights and vomiting on the dance floor. I clicked on the text, about to banter back with a different venue and time. Why don't we meet at the Ivy instead?

"Miss Philips," George's voice booms, aided by the microphone clipped to his hunter-green henley. "Is there something more interesting than my class that you're currently focusing on? If so, I welcome you to leave."

A challenge sits in his hazel eyes. I rise to it. "Yes, I actually was just checking in with my date tonight."

"You can do that later, I presume?" He's walking up the stairs at a sedate pace as giggles erupt around me, students poking each other and whispering. My cheeks flush but I look him dead in the eye as he appears next to me.

I drop my phone on the floor. He actually has the audacity to bend down and pick it up, sliding it into the pocket of his jeans before he goes to continue his lecture. "Now, the conversion on the way to Damascus. Who knows what this painting is depicting? Who is the subject?"

"The horse," I joke, clearing my throat. A large horse does actually take up most of the frame, even if he's standing next to one man and has his hoof hovering above one lying on the floor.

"Incorrect," George says as he makes his way back down and stands next to the lectern. "The subject of the painting is Saul, or Paul, from the New Testament, and the horse, while prominently featured, is not actually the main subject of the painting."

I type a few notes into my laptop and keep my head down so I look like I'm doing something.

"Caravaggio is now well-known for his religious paintings, but much of his work was actually considered too vulgar for the Church back in the seventeenth century. Later on in his life, he was in a self-imposed exile for his explosive and violent temperament."

Sounds familiar, I thought to myself as I took more notes on Caravaggio. The class seemed to drag on as I stared at the painting of the horse, and the two men. How must Saul–or Paul–have felt as he lay on that Damascus road? Thinking he was doing the right thing, then being blinded as he fell off his horse? How would he feel as he landed there, lying in the dirt, the horse's hoof hovering over him, being as helpless as a newborn baby? For a man so used to power and authority, it couldn't have been easy.

His arms were outstretched; I wondered if it was to protect himself from the danger of the horse trampling him to death, or to completely surrender to the Lord.

I chewed my lower lip and tried to pay attention for the rest of the class. Yet, I couldn't stop the niggling voice in my head that wondered how it would feel for me to experience such a conversion, to be reborn by such a God.

+

IN MY ROOM AND safe haven at last–though not for long, since the guy whose name I'd already forgotten who had asked me on a date would be showing up at the Ivy soon–I fixed my face. My mascara was smeared, so I took it off and reapplied it. Music filled the room, a faint Christian pop tune that Katerina had played. My mother was currently fussing over her nephew, leaving Katerina free to talk to me as she pumped breast milk while sitting on my bed.

Having been a model for so long, I didn't mind and was in fact quite accustomed to being around people in various states of undress, since we were always changing in and out of clothes too fast to worry about modesty or decorum. Katerina, however, had a blanket draped over her as she pumped, the look on her face slightly worried as our eyes met in the mirror.

"You're awfully nonchalant about this date. Do you even care about this guy?" she said with a chuckle.

I raised an eyebrow in the mirror as I tweezed one final hair. Ouch! No matter how many times I did it, I would never get used to the pain of having to tweeze my eyebrows. "What do you mean, darling Kat? I'm perfectly calm, as I always am before my dates."

She and Abigail had both seen me date a handful of guys before over the past few years. None of those dates had ever panned out. My most nervous one had been when I'd been meeting Pastor Tony's son, but even that, as great as the guy had been, hadn't worked out. He'd gone on the date with me to try to get over his ex only to realize he was still irrevocably in love with her and had ran away at the end of the date to go buy a ring for her. It would've been a blow to my ego if I hadn't found the whole thing terribly amusing. Sure, it was a bit of a loss, but I hadn't minded too uch.

"You're usually so jittery you're bouncing off the walls. I'm wondering why you seem so calm," she said. "Unless you're actually going on a date with someone I already know? Say, my brother?"

I sighed. Katerina didn't know the full story of what had gone down between me and George. I suppose no one did. Maybe not even us. "Kat, I need to tell you something–"

"George!" I heard my mother cry as the door opened. I frowned. He hadn't been here in months. Now I knew why, since his professor job at NYU probably paid enough for him to get an apartment or a very nice hotel room, at least. "Why is he here?"

Katerina looked at me. "I assure you, I didn't invite him."I groped for my phone, only to remember–

He still had my phone. He'd probably seen my text messages. And he knew I was going on a date.

Why was he here, then? To sabotage my date?

My answers would arrive, hopefully, as my door swung open, my pulse pounding in my chest as I dropped my mascara wand and tweezers with a clatter on the dresser. "What are you doing here, Devereaux?"

"I didn't realize I needed permission to be in your apartment. Your mom was so kind to let me in." He was holding Mattias, which was unfair. How could I be mad at him when he was holding my delightfully cute, squirmy–well, technically, Mattias was my second cousin. But I liked to think of him as my nephew as much as he was Abigail's. I patted him on his head, which smelled like baby powder. "Now you're going to kick me out and go against her wishes?"

"Okay, that's seriously unjust." I planted my hands on my hips as Katerina adjusted her shirt and removed the breast pump, getting up from the bed to hold her son. "You walk in here... Holding a baby... Wielding my mother's love against me... And you expect to be forgiven for the stunt you pulled?"

The words left my lips and I realized they were far too harsh. The man did need to get a job. And I was glad he had one. It was good that my mom liked him. It really was.

"It may surprise you, Georgia, but not everything revolves around you."

Just then, Matty began to wail, causing Katerina to cuddle him against her shoulder and bring him into the bathroom, slinging her diaper bag over her other arm.

"Funny, that's not what my mom thinks." I smiled at him, that same fake smile I'd given him so many times, like a curse word written in honey. Or in his case, maple syrup.

"You..." George shook his head. "You are infuriating, and messy, and you make me want to jump off a cliff if you dove off first."

I folded my arms over my chest. "I have a date."

"I know." We stood there for a minute or a lifetime, staring at each other, waiting for the other to break and say what we really wanted, what we really felt.

It didn't happen. My phone buzzed in his pocket and before I knew what I was doing, I reached into the back pocket of his jeans, my hand brushing his hip as I retrieved my phone. "Thanks for keeping this safe for me."

I checked the message. I'm at the Ivy. Where are you?

Shoot. "I'm late for my date."

He smiled. Not the same saccharine expression I'd served him so many times before, but something real, something sad, something broken. "You should go, then."

I should've. But I didn't. I should've walked out of my room. But I didn't. I should have told him where he could stick his protectiveness and jealousy and random outbursts of affection. Instead, I stood there, half a foot away from him, one finger in his belt loop like that tenuous connection could hold us together, like anything could keep us together.

"Don't go," George said suddenly. "Don't go on the date."

"Why, so you can agree to another proposition that never happens?" I took a deep breath and unhooked my finger from his belt loop. Maybe this guy would be the one. Maybe I would like him. Maybe he wouldn't call me infuriating and messy and tell me that being around me made him want to risk his life if I did the same.

"No, because I..."

Say it.

Go on.

I dare you.

"Georgia, have you seen my–" Katerina emerged from the bathroom. "Never mind, I'm sure I left it at home."

George took the coward's way out. He held open my bedroom door for me to leave. "Don't worry, I'll keep your mom company."

I shouldn't have wanted him to keep me company. Given that I was going on a date, it would have been entirely inappropriate of a request.

So I said nothing at all as I grabbed my purse and left.