Chapter Two
Then
Ihatethis church.
I don’t mean I’m not partial to it, or that I dislike it, or that it’s not my preferred church.
When I say I hate this church, I mean that I loathe it with the heat of a thousand stars combined.
I never realized exactlyhowmuch I resented the flavor of Georgia-bred rabid Evangelical prosperity-gospel Christianity I was raised in until Olivia decided we’d start attending her family’s church.Which is, of course, the church where her parents and my father met.
My parents started attending this church after I left for college, so it wasn’t “my” church growing up.Although I hated that one, too.
She thinks the reason I’m “not fond” of this church is the forty-five-plus minute drive to get here from our house.That’s if there’s no traffic.If there’s traffic, or an accident, it can easily take us ninety minutes or longer.
No, the main reason I despise it is that I hate the homophobic, race-baiting, science-denying sonofabitch standing in the pulpit, and all the sheeple in the congregation who blithely nod their heads and agree with every word he says.
Including Olivia’s parents, siblings, and in-laws.
And I hate that it’s a massive megachurch, with a pastor who reminds me more of a slimy car salesman than a preacher interested in the lives of his parishioners.I looked up the dude’s house.
He lives in a fricking mansion.Aliteralmansion.I mean, no wonder he packs two thousand people into a service three times a day on Sunday, twice on Saturday, and once on Wednesday and Friday nights.He’s got bills to pay, and I bet he wouldn’t even know my name if I walked up to him despite Olivia dragging me here for the past couple of years.
I also hate that my father sometimes still attends this church, although he’s done less of that over recent years.He hates that he has to be driven here, and sometimes is too weak to walk on his own and is forced to use a wheelchair.
I’ve tried talking Olivia into attending a different church but she always whines, among other reasons, that they’re “too liberal.”
Yes, because feeding the poor and taking care of the sick is so controversial.Not like Jesus talked about that—
Oh, wait.
I still remember the first time I attended church with Liam in college.We went to a Methodist church where, for the first time, I felt peaceful during a religious service.We went to probably two dozen different churches of various faiths during college and law school, but that first time always stuck with me.
Olivia didn’t like that the minister of the Methodist church closest to our home is Hispanic, even though he was a very nice man and I loved the service.She claimed she couldn’t understand him.
I didn’t have any trouble understanding him.
Remind me again why I’m married to this woman?
Oh, yeah, right.
Because my father told me to.
I guess I deserve to be stuck in this hell of my own making by going along out of fear of my father.
During today’s sermon I zone out, deeply immersed as I usually am in these times within my memories of Liam.It’s the only thing that keeps me sane and keeps me from blowing up my life.It’s the only truly soothing pasttime I have available to me.
Today, I’ll also be forced to sit through lunch with Olivia’s large extended family at her parents’ house, including, I’m sure, “helpful” advice to hurry up and get her pregnant already.
She hasn’t told anyone besides me that she doesn’t actually want kids.I go along with her “fibs,” as she calls them, that we’re trying but “God just hasn’t blessed us yet.”
Meanwhile, she works, which is fine with me.I prefer she has a career.It means, according to our prenup, I won’t owe her spousal support when I eventually find the balls to divorce her.
If I ever do.
I know the only reason our fathers included that stipulation in the agreement is that her father never imagined divorce would ever be an option—or that I’dreallylet her work after college—and my father’s just a ruthless bastard who doesn’t like to take chances.
Thank God I never wanted kids.Especially with her.
