At least he’s home.
I haven’t eaten breakfast, my stomach is too jumbled to handle the calories. Sarah is insisting on going to Sunday service.
Kill me.
She wants to see the church and get a feel for Preacher Sanger. I’m having a hard enough time pretending his name doesn’t send me into a blind rage. But I can’t tell her that without her prying into why I have such a strong dislike for the man, and that’s something I don’t talk about with anyone.
Talking makes it real. Talking makes me remember. And I’ve done a damn good job of trying to forget.
I knock on Pops’s bedroom door, but I doubt he’s awake. He has a tendency to sleep in, and when he does wake up, he’s a hungover asshole until he gets his coffee. I’m ashamed to say that yesterday was the first time I noticed the Jameson he pours at the bottom of every cup.
Still, I haven’t brought it up, because what the hell am I supposed to say? Every time I open my mouth, something crawls up my throat and clamps my tongue. It’s not easy talking to the man I’ve been raised to believe is beyond reproach.
“Pops.” I knock again. “We’re going to church, wanna go with?”
There’s not a whisper of sound from the other side, and I’m not planning to wait, so we leave without him.
The church itself is beautiful, and one of Sugarlake’s historical landmarks. Stained glass lines the white exterior, and the steeple stands tall, casting shadows instead of bathing me in its light.
“Eli, this. Is. Perfect!” Sarah squeals, gripping my arm.
I smile, wishing I felt the joy I’m trying to project. My eyes soar past her to the church’s cemetery a hundred yards away. I swear I can feel Ma’s spirit calling out to mine. Or maybe it’s just my guilt knowing I haven’t been to see her grave. My throat swells, pain radiating into my ears when I think about how I wouldn’t even know where to look.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah asks.
I clear my throat, bringing my attention back to the moment. To Sarah. To a future I never asked for, but one that Ma did.
Marry in the church. A nice girl. A stable future. Take care of that lonely heart.
“Nothing’s wrong. Being here just brings back a lot of memories.”
“I bet.”
I bring her into my side, and she presses kisses to my cheek, my insides humming from her warmth. It’s nice, and I’m reminded of why I started wanting her around me in the first place. She brings me comfort.
But the comfort doesn’t last.
A flash of red catches my eye and my heart gallops against my ribs, my body catching fire.
Becca’s standing in the arched entry, staring at me, and once again, I can’t fucking look away. Not even when another woman has her lips on my skin.
Why the hell can’t I look away?
I clench my jaw, forcing myself to close my eyes, sick of this twisted feeling she’s always given me. One that I’m ready to give back.
I don’t want it anymore.
When I open my eyes, she’s gone.
Sarah and I make our way inside, sitting in the back while Preacher Sanger drones on about spiritual growth through your service to God. Sarah’s enraptured by the fraud, but I’m bored, my eyes wandering until I find Becca, her aura a beacon that draws me in, even though my heart is blaring a warning to stay the hell away.
It makes fury simmer in my veins, hatred for everything she’s put me through filling me up until I’m choking on its filth.
The service ends, and I’m beyond ready to leave, but before we get to the exit, I see Becca standing next to her folks, saying goodbye to the congregation.
My rage boils hotter.
What a good little preacher’s girl.