If Nick only knew how disgusting I really felt about myself, then he would use my weakness against me. Besides, being vulnerable made people fall in love, and I wasn’t trying to fall in love or have him fall in love with me. Love hurts.
“Go put a jacket on. I don’t have time to argue with you anymore.”
“Ya know, for being a fake husband who supposedly doesn’t give a shit, you’re pretty controlling, soldier boy.”
“I’m having the priest say a prayer for us.” He says as he walks past me
You can say all the prayers you want.
I’ve said many prayers at night, and that never stopped the big bad wolf from coming into my room when my mom was passed out drunk.
We walked up to the cathedral-looking church, I cringed when I saw how many old people were getting out of their cars. I could feel myself getting bored already. My only hope was there would be cookies afterward and I could put myself in a blood sugar coma, pass out and freak everyone out so they would feel sorry for me and not pressure me to come next time.
Nick kills the engine and turns to face me.
“Please be on your best behavior.”
“Who, me?” I say all sugary and sweet.
“Yes, no cursing or talking about dirty sex. You don’t need to lay it on too thick with these people. They are conservative. Nothing like the people you grew up around.”
“Excuse me, soldier, but I’m pretty sure God tells us not to judge, and right now, that statement feels a little culty.”
He shakes his head, and opens the door the same time he says, “C’mon”
When I walk up beside him, he grabs my hand, intertwining my fingers. I look down at the gesture, as if our hands are foreign objects. When I peer back up at him, he’s smiling from ear to ear, and a part of me wants to believe this is him being happy. Happy because I’m at church with him. Happy because I gave in.
Happy because he’s with me.
His smile is contagious, and I find myself smiling back, not even fighting back the urge this time..
“Nicoolo,” His mother says, and I look away. She is standing at the door. “And Melanie, good morning.” She cups my cheeks in both hands and kisses me on the cheeks, standing on her tippy toes. I’m not sure how Nick got to be so tall because his mom was probably five-four, and I’m no giant, but my five-nine frame made me feel like one around her.
“Good morning,” I tell her.
Niccolo leans down and kisses his mother on the cheek, andsomething shifts inside me. Nick really loves his mother, and it’s so sweet to witness such pure love between the two.
“Hey, G.” He says, ruffling his sister’s hair.
“Ugh, stop, it took me thirty minutes to curl it this morning.”
Warmth spread through my core as I witnessed their encounter. They reminded me of the type of brother and sister my stepdad would write about for a TV show he co-produced. Always teased one another, but they had nothing but unconditional love for one another.
“Hey sis. You look pretty. Love those jeans.” she leans in and says, “makes your butt look scrumptious.”
“Thank you,” I said through a laugh.
As soon as we stepped inside, the music hit me like a punch. Soft, slow, reverent—like it was trying too hard to be holy. My shoulders tightened. My skin crawled. The space was huge, way bigger than it looked from the outside, like it was trying to swallow me whole. The choir was already singing at the front, their voices too pure, too clean. I followed behind Nick in silence as he led us up the aisle, every step feeling heavier than the last. Empty pews stretched out on either side, the stained-glass windows casting fractured light across the floor. One window caught my eye—Mary kneeling by baby Jesus. Too sweet. Too perfect. Too fake.
Poinsettias lined the stage. Wreaths hung high, smug with Christmas cheer. My stomach turned. Holidays never felt like this for me. They were mostly just days I didn’t have to go to school—days stuck with Olga in a cold, quiet house. Mom didn’t start pretending to care about God or family until she got sober. Before that, Christmas meant she was either drunk, gone with my stepdad, or tagging along with my dad while he worked on whatever film waslife-changingthat year.
Bianca sat in the third row from the front. Of course she did. I cursed her in my head. I was a back row kind of girl—dark corners, easy exits. But the place was quiet enough to hear a pin drop, aside from the lifeless piano music, so I sucked it up and kept walking.
I fought the urge to check my phone every ten minutes.
“Your body is a temple,” the preacher said. “And that’s why out of all the sins, sex was the one that hurt you the most, because it came from within.”
Great. That kind of message. But weirdly, the preacher wasn’t awful. He didn’t look like the stereotype either—mid-fifties, not overweight, no toupee, no fake tan. He talked about love. About how our bodies aren’t ours, how they belong to God. About self-worth.
