Page 32 of Shield and Savior

I give him the address of the church, and he pauses. “Is this a Catholic church?”

I shrug. “Of course. We’re all Catholic. What else would we be?”

Lance frowns. “Well, at least I’ll get some cardio in during this wedding.”

All the standing and sitting, the shaking of hands, the kneeling. It’s a workout.

“Truth is, except for funerals, I haven’t been to church since Drew was born, I mean, he was baptized and all—my family would completely disown me otherwise—but since then, I haven’t been.”

He clicks his tongue and gives me a sad, slow head shake. “Premarital sex and skipping church? Wow! There’s going to be a special place in hell for you.” He nudges my shoulder and gives me a little smirk.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one in my family with a reserved seat there.”

As soon as we pull into the church parking lot, multiple traumatic memories of my childhood smack me at once. I remember holding my mom’s hand as we walked down the aisle to sit in our place in the second pew. Squirming at all the other parishioners’ judging eyes and whispering mouths. Nothing escaped criticism. There were comments about what we wore, how we had the nerve to be there.

Still, there were hints of reverence for my family, with the respect that only comes from mob activity. We were bad people, but we had put a new roof on the mission building. We had always looked good in this civilized society, even while blood dripped from our knuckles.

As we enter the building, Lance seems uncomfortable for different reasons. He busies himself scoping out the exits and entrances, watches every movement people make in his vigilant threat assessment. His gaze lingers on a ninety-five-year-old woman, with her rosaries, like maybe she’s secretly a ninja.

There’s a new dread inside of me, ninety-five-year-old ninja aside. Maybe it’s not my life that’s in danger, maybe it’s something worse. So here I am, in church, with Lance checking for ninja assassins, the weight of the message my father sent me to deliver perching heavily in my soul.

The music starts, and the bride walks down the aisle draped in Vera Wang, with cottage core flowy ruffles and ivy and flowers embroidered into the train. It’s got a country-fairy-princess sort of vibe. Like the most popular Pinterest dream board.

Lance whispers to me, “Five bucks says we drink out of mason jars.”

I snort and whisper back, “With twine wrapped around them, and flowers in the center of the table with a tea candle floating in water.”

“You’re on. My bet is there’s not even going to be cake. There’s going to be pie.”

No cake? I will go anywhere and do anything for cake. To be at an event where the expectation is cake, and no cake appears? That’s blasphemy, and an insult of the highest order. I whisper back, “If there is no cake, I am leaving this wedding.”

“If there’s no cake, I’ll take you out for dessert afterward.”

“Do I get to pick?”

“I’ll get you anything you want.” His voice dips into a low growl, turning my insides to jelly. But he regroups like it never happened, and in a playful tone, he adds, “There’s an ice cream place nearby. We can go after the wedding.”

Somehow it does more for me than the sexy, growly voice from a few seconds ago. The comment seems so innocuous, but it means he has plans for us after the wedding. Just me and him. The thought makes my knee bounce.

But in all my inner chaos, I’m not nearly as stressed as Lance. He’s stiff, eyes darting from side to side. This is more than a basic threat assessment. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s a sin to lie in church,” I tease, but it doesn’t help.

“I hate sitting in crowds, too many blind spots. But we can’t move because it’ll draw too much attention. Plus, you know, God.” He motions toward the ceiling, “We’ve never been on a first name basis. And I’m pretty sure there’s gonna be singing.” There’s a panic in his eyes I’ve never seen before. Beads of sweat form at his brows. He cracks his knuckles in a steady beat.

Everything about this night is a mistake. We should leave. “Why did you agree to come?”

He turns to me and blinks away his fear. A sweet smile appears on his lips, and he leans in. “You asked me.”

His hot breath against my neck and my earlobe makes other regions of my body just as warm.

Calm down.

Keep it professional. I must ignore the growing dampness between my legs and the fact I can smell his aftershave, and he looks especially good in a suit. It doesn’t matter how he makes me feel. He’s doing his job.

The wedding ticks on. We stand, shake hands, and move aside so people can walk past us for communion—another neon sign that we don’t belong here. The whole event is a special sort of torture, socially awkward and physically painful. My toes want to escape Shoe Jail, and it’s making me extra squirmy.

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