Page 29 of The Preacher's Pet

I bite the inside of my cheek. “I don’t really drink.”

It’s a white lie because I don’t drink at all. Ever.

“We can get you something easy like a vodka and Coke.” She smiles again, holding my eye in the mirror.

I can’t help comparing our faces, how her brown eyes are naturally framed by thick, dark lashes, how her lips are full, how her cheeks are flushed pink. She seems so confident in herself and relaxed in her own body. I wish I was more like her.

“Okay.” Gathering my courage because it’s now or never, I say, “Let’s do it.”

She crooks her arm, offering me her elbow.

Anxiety bubbles up inside me. “Don’t leave me, will you?”

“I promise. I’m glued to your side this evening. Anyway, it’s a quiet night in the bar. It’s later in the week it gets busy.”

We walk to the bar, and when the cold air hits me, I really notice it on my legs. When we get inside the warm bar, I feelrelief for all of thirty seconds, then I see all the other students gathered. They sit around tables or stand in groups, laughing and talking. Camile said it wasn’t busy, but this is more than enough people for me. Thank God we haven’t come on a busier night.

Heads turn as Camile makes her way to the bar. I follow, sticking right by her side. Everyone is staring, and I swear I notice some of them elbowing their friends and nodding in my direction. I feel so self-conscious, I want to shrink into nothing. It takes all my strength not to turn and race out of there. Only the idea of making myself look even more ridiculous stops me from doing so.

Camile orders two drinks and passes me one. It’s a dark liquid in a glass with ice, and a small straw. I sip at it and almost spit it out.

She laughs. “That bad, huh? You’re not supposed to be able to taste vodka. What do you normally drink?”

I search my brain and can only think of what my parents have with dinner. “Wine, just a little.”

“Well, this is less likely to make you sick, I think. Wine always gives me an awful headache, especially if we’re not eating.” She glances around. “Do you want to go sit in that corner?”

She points to a quiet part of the bar, with a few empty tables, and I nod gratefully. Once we’re sitting, I feel braver, and I look around me with interest. For a while, I sip at my drink, gradually getting used to the taste, and watch people come and go. There’s music playing so it’s not that easy to talk, but the alcohol does a good job of relaxing me. When a man gets on stage, Camile turns to me.

“I think you’ll enjoy this. This is the night where people can come and sing. Like an open mic night for singers. Some of them can be really good.”

The host of the mic night tells a few jokes that go over my head, but I laugh anyway, and the first person comes up. It’s a girl, and she has a guy with her. He plays the guitar, and she sings. She’s good. Her voice is a little weak at times, but she’s got a pretty tone. She sings a few songs and during one of them, most of the bar joins in, but of course I don’t know it. I try not to cringe at myself, feeling, once again, like I have a giant sign above my head that says, ‘doesn’t fit in.’

When she’s done, we all clap, and Camile says she’s getting us another drink. I’m only halfway down the first one, so while she’s at the bar, I drink the rest. Wow, I feel kind of nice. Fizzy and bubbly inside.

She comes back with the second drink, and I take that and start sipping at it, enjoying it more as I get used to it. Soon, I’ve almost finished that glass too, and I’m feeling a bit giggly. As if things are suddenly amusing. The bar seems nicer now, warmer, and people look happy. There’s an excited sensation in my stomach, and I like it.

I’m reading the quotes on the beermats on the table when Camile claps, suddenly excited. “Ooh, you’re in for a treat,” she exclaims.

I look up and my heart jolts. It’s the Preacher. The one with dark hair, and the dark nails, and the intense gaze.

Oh, wow.

He sits on the stool at the front of the small stage area and picks up a guitar. What had Cain said his name was? Malachi, I’m sure.

“He’s really good,” Camile tells me.

He strums a few chords, adjusts the guitar, then starts to play. When he begins to sing, his lips close to the mic, I almost explode with excitement because I know this song. It’s by a band from way back that my parents listen to called Simon and Garfunkel. They both loved them because their parents lovedthem, and it was a sound I grew up with both at home, and at my grandparents’.

“I know this,” I say to Camile, a smile stretching my face so wide I can feel it.

She giggles. “You’re having a good time.”

I nod. For once in my life, I feel normal. I can’t even hearhim—the man from my past. The bar, the music, the magical drink in my glass are all drowning him out.

I start to sing along, and Camile turns to me, her jaw dropping open. Oh, no. Wasn’t I supposed to do that?

She shakes her head. “Don’t stop, Ophelia. Wow, you’re amazing.”

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