“I can’t believeyou made fun of Jesus,” I say, and across the table Andi makes a face.
“I didn’tmake fun of Jesus. It was just a joke,” she says.
“About Jesus.”
“It was awater into winejoke! Come on, that’s not even blasphemy. People must make that joke all the time at church stuff, right?”
I don’t know anyone but Andi who could wind up at a women’s bible study by accident when she thought she was joining a book club. Apparently when the flyer on the library bulletin board said the book club wasinspirationalanduplifting, Andi thought they meantTuesdays with MorrieorMan’s Search for Meaning.
“Wasn’t my experience,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee. “Tell me you didn’t also make a ‘spent forty days in the desert because men don’t ask for directions’ joke.”
“Of course not. That’s a terrible joke,” Andi says, perfectly straight-faced, and I can’t help the grin that takes over my face.
Andi’s got her chin in one hand, her other wrapped around some confection that technically contains coffee but cannot, in any meaningful way, be calledcoffee. We’re sitting at a two-person table by the wall of The Mountain Grind, Sprucevale’s premier and only coffee shop, the other patrons buzzing around us. It’s late morning on a Sunday, so the church crowd is starting to filter in. Several of them are eyeing our table.
I lean back, take another sip of my own coffee, and remain comfortable.
“You going back next week?”
“I’m not sure I have anything useful to contribute.”
“You could always try a regular book club.”
Andi snorts and takes a sip of her confection. “I thought thiswasa regular book club,” she points out. “I kept waiting for someone to talk about a different book. I stayed for the whole hour.”
I start laughing, because I can’t help myself.
“Shutup,” she mutters, but she’s grinning. “I felt guilty just leaving!”
“That’s how they get you,” I say.
“I didn’t want to be an asshole atbible study,” she goes on. “I didn’t even have a bible, someone had to lend me their spare. Besides, they seemed really nice. Just confused about why I was there.”
Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Andi has been away long enough that she doesn’t immediately realizeinspirationalis usually code forChristian. I’m not sure why anyone around here ever uses a code for that, but it happens sometimes. Maybe it’s so unsuspecting women join their bible study groups.
“Also, I got the distinct feeling that they wanted to gossip but couldn’t because I was there,” she goes on. “So, really, I’m doing them a favor by not going back.”
“I’m sure there’s at least one secular book club in town,” I say. “Lucia’s not in one?”
“I don’t think Lucia wants me tagging along toeverythingshe does,” Andi says. “I’ve gotta give her space to vent about me sometimes. Anyway, I signed up for a bike path cleanup project next month, so that should be fun.”
I narrow my eyes at her and think for a moment, because I saw something about that project the other day, and—
“The one organized by Friends of the Chillacouth?” I ask.
Andi drinks her coffee and glances away.
“Chloe Barnes left you chained to a tree and had thenerveto ask for help again?” I ask, leaning forward, lowering my voice. I swallow downand you said yesbecause I don’t police what Andi does, it’s not my job, but—I want her to be okay and notchained to a tree.
“It’s a group thing, it’s right downtown,” Andi says. “I promise to use the buddy system.”
“When is it?”
“You hate these things, you don’t have to go.”
“I don’t hate them,” I grumble, and Andi reaches out to pat my arm. “These big group things are fine.”
Andi, it turns out, has been enthusiastically throwing herself into new groups of people since she came back about six months ago. I never realized because I’m not in any of those groups of people; I have my friends and I have my family, but I can’t say I go meet strangers for the sheer hell of it the way she does.
