Page 65 of The Friend Game

“What word?” He plays dumb. “Preaching? Think?” He lowers his voice. “Sexy?”

“Luke!” I cry, laughing again. He grins at me, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Just over six weeks till March, folks.

“Fine,” he relents, “I won’t hunt you down after service on Sunday if you really don’t think you can control yourself.”

I laugh again. He’s being entirely too flirty and funny, and it’s a good thing we’ve set up this boundary of having these conversations on the phone instead of in person because I would really like to kiss that smirk off my friend’s face.

Someone raps on my front door, and my laughter immediately cuts off. A second later I hear the door twist open and panic skitters through me. There’s only one person who occasionally gets overexcited and barges into my house rather than waiting for me to answer: Ellie.

“Aunt Hannah,” her little voice travels from the front door, followed by the sound of her feet scurrying across my floor.

“Ellie’s here,” I hiss. “I’d better go.” I reach over and try to hit the red button to end the call, but the cheese residue on my hands prevents the screen from registering my touch. I jab at it again, but still nothing. Luckily Luke catches on to my struggles and ends the call on his end. I let out a long breath of relief, turning around to wait for Ellie. But she’s already in my kitchen, beaming up at me.

“Why were you talking to Pastor Abbott, Aunt Hannah?” she asks with wide-eyes. Her questions guts me. Partly because now I know for sure that she saw Luke, which means I haveto come up with an excuse for why I was FaceTiming with him, but more so because the question forces me to confront the ugly truth: Luke and I have been excusing our relationship by calling it a friendship. But if it really is just a friendship and we’re not doing anything wrong– then why do I feel the need to hide it?

“Aunt Hannah,” Ellie prods, “you still with me?” She steps forward, reaching up to wave her hand in front of my face the way she’s probably seen her mom do to me before. Another hazard of having an overactive imagination: I often get lost in my own thoughts.

“Sorry, Ellie bean, I’m here,” I say quickly. “Pastor Abbott and I are friends,” I tell her. “That’s why we were talking.”

See. There you go. Not a total lie. Not everything about our relationship is a lie.

Ellie accepts this easily enough, and I swallow back the impulse to ask her not to tell anyone about what she saw. Luke and I are not doing anything wrong.

If I say that enough, maybe that will make it true.

Chapter 26

“OH, THANK YOU, dear. Yes, that cupboard to the left of the sink. Thank you.” Etta Dashwood settles back against her chair with a sigh as I do as she says and put the box of instant mashed potatoes in her cupboard. “Such a sweet girl, thank you, honey.”

“My pleasure,” I tell her as I continue taking items out of the grocery bags. Etta is about a hundred (her words, not mine), but has the fiery spirit of a much younger woman. I just so happened to sit next to her the first Sunday I went to Grace Canyon, and she asked me if anyone had ever told me I looked like a young blonde Rita Hayworth.

Naturally we became fast friends. You simply can’t have someone compare you to a woman famous for being beautiful without feeling endeared to them. Her usual home nurse is out sick today, so I volunteered to help her out after school. We just got back from the grocery store, where she rode aroundon a motorized scooter and pointed out items for me to get for her. I tried to tell her I could go myself, but she told me she likes to get fresh air. Plus, the butcher is a hunk. Again, her words, not mine.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you seem a bit subdued today, Hannah,” Etta says as I place bananas in her fruit bowl on the counter.

“Oh really?” I try to sound nonchalant, even though she’s absolutely right. It’s the Saturday of one of the longest weeks of my life. Lexie hasn’t found anyone to replace me as the art teacher, but the threat still looms large over my head. Plus, the deadline for submissions to the art show is coming up this Wednesday, so she’s been on me like white on rice trying to wheedle my decision out of me. I haven’t dared to tell her that I already submitted Caroline’s drawing piece. Yesterday she told me if I didn’t give her a decision by Monday, she’d be forced to take matters into her own hands, since, in her opinion, substitute art teachers really shouldn’t have jurisdiction over matters such as who gets their art pieces submitted to a prestigious art show. The board meeting is coming up this Thursday, so I’m hoping I won’t be a substitute teacher for long, but in the meantime I’m left worrying about what exactly Lexie is going to do when she finds out it’s too late for her to do anything–Caroline’s piece has already been submitted for the drawing categoryand Mia’s stunning clay vase has been submitted for the pottery category. No take backs.

On top of all that, I haven’t talked to Luke much at all since our FaceTime call last Tuesday night. We spoke briefly last Wednesday, and it turned out he’d had a similar reaction to Ellie walking in on our phone call. We’ve decided to step back from nightly phone calls for a while, well we both pray about next steps.

It’s the right decision.

But it really stinks.

I miss him like crazy.

“Man trouble?” Etta hits the nail on the head with her first guess. “Don’t tell me Pastor Abbott broke up with you.” I’m so shocked I almost drop the can of baked beans in my hand.

“W-what?” I sputter. “Broke up with me? No, of course not. You can’t break up with someone that you’re not even in a relationship with. Gosh. No. What even gave you that idea?” I’m blubbering on, the walking embodiment of Queen Gertrude’s famous “the lady doth protest too much,” line.

“My, my, my, this is much worse than I thought,” Etta says with delight. “You love the man.”

“What!” This time I do drop what I’m holding. Thankfully I’ve moved on from the can of beans to a loaf of bread–which hits my toe without causing injury. “I do not love Luke.” Etta gives mea knowing smile and I realize my error. “I mean, Pastor Abbott,” I correct hastily. “I do not love him.”

“No need to be coy with me,” Etta declares, grabbing her cane and getting to her feet. “I know love when I see it, and you my dear are in love.” She waggles a finger at me, then makes her way slowly out of the kitchen.

“Wait, Etta!” I exclaim, abandoning the groceries and hurrying after her. “You can’t just say something like that and thenleave!”

“Oh, I’m sorry to upset you, dear,” she says, not appearing the least bit sorry. “But when you’re as old as I am, it’s best to head straight for the bathroom at the first urge you have to go.”

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