Guilt has driven me to isolation and decimated my relationship with Andrea. She’s tried to reach me. The thing is, I don’t know how to explain myself without lying. And for some reason, I can’t lie to her about this. It’s not for lack of wanting to— I’d happily lie until the end of time. But with her, I’m stripped bare.
She might not recognize the person I’ve become.
I don’t.
A throat clears. I hastily shove the letter back in my pocket and look up.
“We meet again,” Pastor Sinclair chuckles. My cheeks burn. He’s caught me here every week but only given me a smile and a wave. He must think I’m pathetic, friendless, and lost.
He’d be right.
“Seems so.”
The second chuckle is less stiff. He knocks the pew twice. “I sense whatever cross you bear in this moment is weighing on you still.”
Once again, I feel exposed in his presence. My consciousness is an oil slick floating on the surface; a dark stain of humiliation. Deep brown eyes— so similar but so different than his daughter’s— scan to my pocket. I hold my breath. He’s the school principal. He knows my grades were shit senior year. He knows football is the only reason FMU accepted me. And he knows I’m broke.
I drop my gaze to the bench of the pew in front of me. “It sure is.”
A low hum of sympathy. It vibrates the atmosphere. The hairs on my arms stand on end.
“What if I had a proposition for you?” he asks. “One that would benefit both of us.”
My ears ring.
“What kind of proposition?”
His smile stretches. “You’re in need of funds for FMU… and I’m in need of someone to lead the Congregational Youth.”
What he’s offering doesn’t compute.
“But—” I sputter. “Why me?”
His hand rests on my shoulder and squeezes as he dips to eye-level. “Because you, Sebastian, are a child of God. No matter what challenges He throws your way, you remain unwavering in your faith. And our Lord rewards those who trust in him.”
I want to believe him, but I’m afraid. Afraid the rug will get ripped out from under me. That I’ll be agreeing to something I can’t come back from.
I’m too desperate to tell the difference.
Around the ache in my throat, I rasp, “What would I have to do?”
Thirty
ANDREA
The salty breezeisn’t cooling. It’s stifling. Sweltering. Fuckingsuffocating. Only idiots romanticize summer in Florida. There’s nothing appealing about sweating from every orifice, collecting sand in every crevice, while roasting like a rotisserie chicken under the universe’s megawatt heat lamp.
Old driftwood creaks as I sit up for the hundredth time to reapply sunscreen. (Fuck skin cancer). As soon as I press the aerosol cap, releasing a fine mist, Remy makes an exaggerated gagging sound.
“Spray that shit the other way,” he whines, fanning the air.
I spray him in the face.
He sputters a cough and spits into the water lapping at the sides of the pier. We’ve been here for hours— Remy fishing and me attempting to even out my cheer camp tan lines. They’re horrendous.
“Focus on catching dinner.”
He wrinkles his sunburnt nose. “Catch andrelease, Drea. Catch and release.”
