Page 20 of Hot Mess Express
“Nah, don’t go bullshitting a bullshitter. Something’s been off with you all morning.” I look at him. “Usually you’re all zenned out after your jog. But this morning, you seem … off.”
“I’m all on. Nothing’s off. Maybe your eyes are off.”
“Wait a sec.” Pete grabs my arm. “Are those their parents?”
I follow his line of sight through the archway leading into the chapel, where Trey is near one of the back pews, and standing in front of him are a man and woman. The man is obviously Trey’s father, practically looking like his older brother considering how handsome and youthful his face is with just a sprinkle of salt and pepper at his temples for any indication of his age. The woman is next to him, a smidge close, short and sweet-faced with a curvy body, big hair, and bigger glasses. And from where I’m standing, neither Trey’s dad nor Cody’s mom seem to indicate they’re a couple. Not holding hands. No sidelong lovebird glances. It is as casual and relaxed between them as can be. Despite that, I see Trey’s eyes flick back and forth suspiciously between the two as he appears to hold a calm dialogue with them, likely about the week, the weather, totally banal and inconsequential stuff, yet secretly playing the role of detective to sniff out the truth.
I think that’s a role he’s gonna be playing for a while.
My attention is pulled away when the church doors fly open. It’s a wonder why my eyes go straight to them at this particular moment, because people have been entering the whole past hour, one by one, sometimes groups, families, people and more people, none of whom I’ve bothered to glance at the doors for.But this time, maybe because I’m distracted by Trey and Cody’s parents, or the fates have gotten a hold of my head and twisted it around at this exact moment, my full attention is on the front doors as they swing open, and through the near-blinding veil of fiery morning sunlight someone stumbles in.
Honestly, I don’t recognize him at first.
Generic white dress shirt, baggy in places but fitting where it counts at the shoulders, blue tie with black diagonal stripes, and khaki pants. His hair is parted, surprisingly combed, with a few strands splitting from the rest and cutting down his forehead, the wind likely having gotten to them. His eyes are sunken like he didn’t sleep more than five minutes last night, dim raccoon circles around them, which I hate to admit deepen the whites of his eyes and make his blue irises shine like the mesmerizing heart of a sea-blue crystal geode.
It’s Anthony, yet nothing like the Anthony from yesterday.
That is, until the bastard looks my way.
He recognizes me at once. But other than a flicker of sourness, he doesn’t give me a second of his attention—I guess too tired for his usual antagonistic antics—as he looks away, marches straight through the wide archway leading into the chapel, and that’s the beginning, middle, and end of it.
I didn’t take the guy to be much of a churchgoer.
Also, he cleans up more than I expected. I mean, sure, he can tuck in his shirt better, particularly in the back where it sticks out like a duck tail. Maybe with a good night’s sleep, his face wouldn’t look so much like pretty-blue-eyed roadkill. But he still looks a lot better than I would have bet money on him looking so early in the morning, especially after how hard he went last night.
Not that I’m admiring him or anything.
He’s still a little shit.
And probably still drunk, too.
It’s not much longer before Cody, Pete, and myself are seated in the pews, Trey and Cody’s parents one row behind us. I’m at the end by the windows, second row, which I prefer. I hate aisles for a neurotic reason I can’t pinpoint, something to do with how open they are, feeling like my back and side are exposed. Front row is too close to the stage. Back row, I feel detached from everything. In the center, I’mtooattached, stuck in a crowd, too many noises and distractions to make my ears prick up every few seconds.
After a lively song from the Spruce choir, which seems to be entirely composed of young handsome men with just two lonely women sprinkled in there as if by accident, Trey comes up to the pulpit and begins his sermon.
Despite our late night, Trey looks perfectly calm and alert. His zinging remarks and clever commentary warm up the whole congregation, all his jokes landing. I already had the impression that Trey was a kind, patient man, but I didn’t realize how charismatic he could be in front of a room full of his fellow residents of this town. He has everyone in the palm of his hand as he delivers inspiring words, wishes for a stronger community, a more aware and empathetic world, regards for others less fortunate than ourselves, a personal sense of duty to goodness, and a purposefulness in our day-to-day encounters.
A personal sense of duty to goodness. Purposefulness.
In our day-to-day encounters.
I wonder if it’s that exact sentiment that makes me look over my shoulder, glancing into the rest of the crowd behind me during this beautiful sermon, as if to find the only person I’ve had such unfortunate chances to encounter on more than one occasion.
And my eyes find him immediately. Near the back, Anthony is leaning forward, his chin practically on the shoulder of the man sitting in front of him. His eyes are open, but only barely.He is struggling to stay awake. He doesn’t appear bored exactly, but it’s clear he’s absorbing less than one percent of the wisdom Trey is imparting on us.
So much for any sense of duty to goodness or purposefulness in that loser’s encounters. I can’t begin to describe how annoyed that makes me, watching him falling asleep in slow motion, like a brat sitting in class daydreaming of the school bell, bare minimum everything, skirting by in life, no care for any duty to anything.
Why is he even here? Why did he bother getting dressed?
Also, maybe unrelated, where’s his girlfriend?
I keep my eyes trained ahead, determined to stay focused on Trey and the sermon. Pete next to me is glued to every word like they’re nectar from the gods pouring from the reverend’s mouth into his ears. Cody, arms crossed tightly over his chest, watches his hubby with a proud, lopsided smile spilling off his face.
And beyond both of them, my eyes yank me right back to the sight of Anthony—just as he yawns. A big, breathy, boastful yawn. This guy. In the middle of church, of Trey’s soul-igniting sermon, having the audacity to yawn. Sure, it isn’t really an audible yawn, but it sure as hell’s a visible one, even if maybe I’m the only one who saw it or cares. He didn’t even cover his mouth.
He quickly wipes his eyes, blinks fast, and resumes listening.
It’s probably kind of me, to assume he’s listening at all. Or has the brain capacity to understand the depth of any of the words Trey is gifting him on this generous Sunday morning.
