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Didn’t matter. I flinched. My entire body jerked backwards. Father and son both froze.
Fuck. Fuck him. Fuck me. Fuck muscle memory and nervous systems and every stupid little scar the body kept long after the mind decided it was over something.
His eyes changed. He knew. Worse. He looked satisfied. Like somewhere underneath the gray hair and expensive watch, he was pleased to discover that some portion of me still understood who was in charge.
I straightened. Slowly letting my height tower over him.
He shuffled back a step. “I wasn’t going to touch you.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you—”
A voice came from behind, interrupting us. “Pastor Carter?”
My father turned. Omar stood near the edge of the field without the boxes now. His gaze moved between us.
Whatever he saw dropped his smile a fraction. “Director Cooper is waiting at the meeting house. You should probably head over there now.”
My father sighed. “I’ll be there when I decide I’ll be there.”
Omar didn’t move and neither did I.
My father finally looked back at me. “This conversation is not finished, son.”
“Yes, it is.” I nodded once. “You stopped getting to summon me into rooms the day I stopped living in your damn house.”
Even if I did find myself close by during every college break, for no other reason than to get a peek at that boy in the window next door.
His lips pressed together. “You are still my son.”
“Then try acting like my father sometime.”
He huffed a breath. Turned and walked away. I didn’t breathe properly until he passed Omar. His assistant followed him, glancing back at me once.
He’d seen the flinch maybe. Exactly what I needed. A cute man witnessing my nervous system betray me while I was dressed like a slutty high school mascot. Beautiful. Fan-fucking-tastic. Very dignified and on par for a pastor’s unholy spawn.
I headed towards the equipment shed. I needed five minutes without anybody looking at me, but clearly that was too big of an ask.
“Alvin.”
I stopped walking. It was Omar again.
I turned slowly. “Aren’t you supposed to be carrying my father’s Bible or polishing his halo?”
Omar smiled. “No.”
“Fetching holy water then?”
“No.”
“Collecting donations to fund my conversion therapy or—oh! Sharpening the point to nail me to the crucifix, right?”
His smile vanished.
Shit. I’d gone too far with that one. I did that sometimes. Humor was easier when I controlled where the knife went.
“I’m sorry,” I said hastily.
