“No idea what you’re talking about, to be honest.” She sniffs the air. “Why do you smell so nice?”
I blush, thoughts of my hopelessly romantic lavender-oil bath rushing back to me. “I don’t smell nice.”
“Yes, you do. You should smell like sweat and morning breath, but you smell like a candle shop instead, and it’s weird.”
“I took a shower, Zara.”
“I take showers, and we use the same stuff. Why don’t I smell like you?”
I back away from her approaching nostrils. “Okay, enough!” I stand from my seat. “I have to go to practice now. See you in a few hours.”
She arches an eyebrow at me but lets me walk away from her. “I will find this secret perfume of yours and make it my own.”
“Whatever.”
“You can’t stop me,” she promises.
But I cut off her voice as I close the front door. Shaking my head, I bite back my smile. Of course she notices how I smell the one time I take a bath while she’s here. Still, I’m really going to miss her. Meadow Hills is a small town. Without her in it after she leaves for college in Portland, it’s bound to feel vast and empty.
I hug my coat against my body as I walk to my car. Late-September in Maine is comfortably cold, and the abundance of red and yellow trees surrounding the town can’t be beat. As I drive along the narrow stretch of road, I can’t help but admire the sleepy hush all around at this hour. The railings of the gazebo at the town center are covered with numerous cats. A fluffy white one is perched at the base, and it yawns just as I peek out the window. Not to mention, the lights are just turning on at Old Joe’s diner, and I spot Joe himself through the white marker illustrations on his windows of the maple lavender latte he serves every autumn. He’s unstacking chairs from atop his wooden tables as he readies his restaurant for the day. Seeing him awake at this early hour always makes me feel less alone, somehow.
The only church in town is only a couple miles down the road. As the familiar building approaches from the other side of the windshield, warmth enters me. It feels like another home.
I park and get out of the car. My old boots clop against the sidewalk as I near Harvest Valley Church. I open my purse and approach the back entrance to find my key, fishing around inside until the cool metal meets my fingertips.
“Can you spare some change?”
My gaze jumps to the old man sitting on the parking curb a few feet away. He’s not holding a cardboard sign, but his clothes are worn and tattered, his eyes crazed with a literal hunger that makes my heart feel like it’s clenched in a fist. Though I’ve seen him around town lately, this is the first time he’s ever interacted with me.
“Of course.” I find my wallet in my still-open bag and fish out my last ten dollars, a tip from a dog grooming job I did last week. “Here.” I hand the money to the man, and he takes it.
“Thank you.” He stands and stretches his shoulders. “Thank you so much. This will buy me breakfast.”
A gust of cold wind makes me shiver. “If you come back on Tuesday, I’ll serve you a nice, hot breakfast myself.”
His answering smile lights my insides. “I’ll hold you to that.” He stretches out his hand for me to shake. “The name’s Herman.”
“Romilly.” I shake his hand.
“See you Tuesday.” He nods at me and makes for the crosswalk.
I turn back to the rear entrance of the church and unlock the door. I flip on all the lights as I enter, ignoring the small twinge in my stomach. I’m the first one here again. I shouldn’t be surprised though, because I don’t know anyone else as crazy as me, willing to wake up at four in the morning to get here at five-thirty.
Still, the emptiness is all too familiar.
I flip on the lights to the backstage room. The only thing that stirs in the room is dust, but the rest of the music team will be here soon.
I get a cup of water from the dispenser in the corner, clap all the erasers resting on the whiteboard together to dust them, and review the list on this week’s worship songs, even though I have the order memorized.
Anything to fill the empty time.
Harnessing the power of distractions is all too familiar to me these days, and I’m starting to get creative.
I clear my throat and start my vocal warm-ups. I have to admit, singing into such prominent silence is always jarring at first, but after a few scales and arpeggios, my ears adjust to the sound.
“I’ll never get over your voice. It’s so unfair.”
I jump at the sound of Hadley’s compliment, placing a hand to my chest. “You scared me.”
