“I didn’t know you were going to be here this morning!” she says cheerfully. “I should have guessed, though. I see your aunt and grandpa every week. Hi, neighbors!” She twists around me to give them a friendly wave, and both Sheri and Popeye return the favor.
Savannah focuses back on me, looping her arm through mine. “Do you want to sit with us?”
I glance at Sheri, checking for permission, and she nods. “Sure,” I tell Savannah, glad of her easy friendship.
We head for the church doors and meet up with her parents and Myles, and I stick with Savannah and her brother while Sheri and Popeye chat with Patsy and her husband.
I follow behind Savannah as us Hardings and Bennetts head inside the church. The space is lined with rows and rows of pews and there’s a raised wooden platform at the front with a podium, and everyone is speaking in chirpy tones while they wait for the service to begin.
It doesn’t take long for the pews to fill up and I end up squished in between Savannah and Myles. Sheri is at the end of the row, with Popeye sitting by her side.
“So, this is what you guys do around here?” I whisper, in fear of raising my voice too loud. “Tailgate parties, then church in the morning?”
Myles wiggles his thick eyebrows at me, a dazzling grin taking up too much of his face. “Yeah, your life back in LA must seem pretty uninspiring in comparison. Sorry.”
I grin back at him and roll my eyes just as the chorus of voices dies out all at once. When I glance up at the stage, the preacher, or minister, or priest – or whatever the heck they call that guy – has taken up his role in front of the podium, adjusting the mic. And then what follows is the most mentally draining hour of mylifewhere I have no idea what is going on.
Half the words the preacher says I’ve never even heard of and the other words Idounderstand, I can’t comprehend the context in which he uses them. Bible verses are quoted, prayers are said, hymns are sung (which I lip-sync to). Everyone seems to be deeply invested in the proceedings and I appear to be the only one whose gaze continuously roams the church, staring at a clock on the wall, at the sunlight streaming in through a decorative window, at the wooden paneling on the ceiling.
And then, just as the service is showing signs of wrapping up, my eyes land on something I really didn’t expect to see.
Blake.
I haven’t spotted him until now, mostly because there’s been some tall guy’s head in my line of sight all this time, but said tall guy has shifted over slightly in the pew, and now I can see it as clear as day – Blake’s freaking head.
He’s on the other side of the aisle and toward the front, diagonal from where I’m sitting. I can tell he’s slouched back in the pew, with his head tilted to one side and his face resting flat against the palm of his hand. I can’t tell who he’s with – there’s women on either side of him. His mom? Grandma? Either way, it’s a relief to see there’s one other person here who seems as bored as I am.
The service ends and noise reverberates around the auditorium as voices rise and everyone stands, stretching their muscles and rubbing their lower backs. These wooden pews aren’t all that comfortable, and I can feel a knot forming between my shoulder blades. Amid the commotion of bodies weaving around, I lose sight of Blake, though I don’t know why I’m even bothering to look for him.
The throng of churchgoers – which includes me now, I guess – spills out of the front doors and into the sizzling hot air outside. I expect everyone to hop in their cars and head straight home, but I discover thereisone thing even more dull in this life than a Sunday service – and that’s the minglingand chit-chat that comes afterward.
An older gentleman with silver-like hair approaches us, shaking Popeye’s hand and discussing what a wonderful sermon the preacher just gave. I stand awkwardly behind Popeye, trying not to draw attention to myself, while Sheri is twenty feet away talking with some women that include Patsy Bennett. I hear her laugh, which is nice.
“And who’s this, Wesley?” the man asks, flashing me a smile.
Popeye looks sideways over his shoulder at me and I notice his movements seem a bit jerky this morning. “This is my granddaughter. Mila,” he says proudly. “She’s spending some time at the ranch with us over the summer.”
“How wonderful!”
I return the stranger’s smile and am saved by the sound of Sheri’s voice calling my name.
“Mila,” she beckons. “Come over here, please.”
I leave Popeye behind and weave through the congregation of people, but it’s only as I draw nearer and it’s too late to pretend I didn’t hear her call my name that I realizewhyshe’s called me over. The group she was talking to a second ago is gone now, replaced instead by a different woman who stands with Blake by her side.
I feel myself tense up. He’s wearing black slacks and a plain white shirt, long-sleeved and buttoned tight around his chest. His hair isn’t as wild as it was last night. It seems to actually have gel in it to tame the unruliness, so that it looks tousled on purpose rather than as if he’d just rolled out of bed.
“Mila, this is. . . LeAnne Avery,” Sheri says politely, gesturing to the woman by Blake’s side, but her words don’t flow as easily and warmly as they usually do. It’s as though she’s struggling to be genuine. “I was just thanking her again for calling me last night, otherwise who knows how long you’d have been stuck outside.”
So, this is Blake’s mom.Duh.She’s tall and slim, dressed smartly in a royal blue pencil skirt and a cream, ruffled blouse. I can see where Blake gets his features from. LeAnne Avery has brunette hair pin-straight against her shoulders and eyebrows so dark and prominent I wonder if they can possibly be natural. She smiles at me, and I see them – the dimples in her cheeks, exactly like Blake’s.
“Hi, Mila,” she says, clasping her hands together in front of her. She looks at me inquisitively for several long seconds while the corners of her mouth twitch as if she’s battling to keep that smile in place. “I’m glad you got home safe.”
“Hi. Thank you so much,” I force out, feeling Blake’s eyes locked on me.
“And how haveyoubeen doing, Wes?” LeAnne asks as Popeye approaches. I notice her accent isn’t as pronounced as Blake’s, or anyone’s for that matter. Less of a twang, more neutral. She gets Popeye wrapped up in a conversation, and Sheri joins in.
Which leaves Blake and me standing around like two spare parts.
