Page 44 of Fabulous Filthy Friend

Her hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. “You’re not darting out of here again. We’re going to mingle and say hello to everyone before we leave. They were all asking about you last week when you disappeared after the service.”

Dammit.

I should’ve known it wouldn’t be so easy to sneak away. It means a lot to her to be friendly with the congregation, and on a normal week, it might take anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour to finally make it down the back steps and out to our cars.

Sneaking away last week wasn’t my best moment.

It was rude and selfish.

And it wasn’t fair to Mom.

I force a smile, trying to ready myself for the onslaught of her friends and their relentless questions. “Okay, Mom.”

She releases my wrist, and I remain in the pew for the recessional hymn. Voices of the congregation and the choir fill the air and settle over me like a heavy blanket of condemnation.

“And when I think of God, His Son not sparing

Sent Him to die, I scarce can take it in

That on the Cross, my burden gladly bearing

He bled and died to take away my sin.”

I shift under the pressure and look down at the hymnal as Father Lafayette and the processional leave the front of the church and make their way down the aisle toward the back.

Don’t make eye-contact.

If I don’t look at him, he can’t judge me.

Why is it so easy to shut this out when I’m on camera and so damn hard here?

Hundreds of eyes watch me on their screens every time I login, but I never question what I’m doing in those moments. Yet I take one step into this building, and it feels like I want to crawl out of my own skin.

Slowly, each row of parishioners files out, and I follow Mom down the aisle toward the back doors and the stairs leading outside. She pauses to greet friends and neighbors, and I shake the hands of faceless people and make pleasant conversation about the weather and families I don’t know and whatever other mindless things people chatter about.

A few ask the dreaded “why aren’t you married yet” questions, which I laugh off as visions of Rachel walking down the same aisle I just flick through my head, driving a knife into my chest again.

When we finally reach the rear of the church, Father Lafayette stands at the top of the steps, greeting parishioners as they move past him. His eyes light up, and he smiles as Mom approaches him. He takes her hand and clasps it between his. “Emily, it’s always so nice to see you.”

Mom smiles at him. “It was a lovely service, Father. Thank you.”

He nods and smiles at her, and she moves down the steps, waving to someone below. His head turns, and his old, pale-blue eyes connect with mine. Any humor drains from his face.

Shit. What do I do?

Instinctively, I extend my hand.

He looks down at it.

It hangs there awkwardly.

For five seconds…

Ten…

Twenty…

Sweat forms on my palms, and I wipe the one not sitting out unaccepted awkwardly on my pants. This man knows what that hand has done. What that hand did just last night on camera…again.

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