Page 30 of People Like Us

“Alright,” I agreed.

He stood, placing my feet gently on the couch behind him. He grabbed the remote from the TV stand, and a throw blanket from its place neatly folded at the foot of his bed. He held the blanket out for me to take. I did, sitting up so I could slide to the center of the couch and rest my feet on the coffee table.

When he sat beside me, as far into the corner of the couch as he could manage, I tossed one end of the blanket over him.

“Whats your favorite movie?” he asked, flicking the TV on.

“The book of life.” I said. He repeated the title into the speaker of the remote, and it popped up on the streaming service on his TV. He hit play, then adjusted himself against the arm of the couch.

My hands were under the blanket, and I was all too aware of the outline of his hand resting between us, his long fingers tapping against the couch cushion. I waited till he had completed his third tap to slide my hand over, my pinky hooking over his.

I could feel him looking at me, but I didn’t take my eyes off the ad playing on the screen.

“Does the tapping bother you?” he asked quietly.

“No,” I said firmly. He didn’t respond, but turned his hand a bit so that his little finger could loop around mine also.

“Are you comfortable?” I asked quietly as the movie started.

“Yeah, are you?”

“Yeah,” I echoed.

A few minutes went by before I heard August clear his throat, and I looked over at him.

“Did you have fun at church last night?” he asked softly. My body stiffened, and my expression must have changed because he added on, “You can tell me about it, if you want.”

“I fucking hate it there,” I said before I could stop myself. I had never said that out loud to anyone before, and it startled me that I’d said it here.

“Why?” he asked, and it didn’t sound like he was asking it because it was the natural question to ask. It sounded like he wanted to know the real answer, and that sent a painful pang through my chest.

“Everyone is so judgmental. I just don’t get how people could be so sure that they are right about something they have absolutely no way of knowing is true. Then feel so righteous in that belief that they are willing to make other people’s lives hell for it.”

“What else?” he asked, because somehow he knew there was more.

“I hate how they pick and choose what parts they want to shove down my throat, while the rest of it, the parts that don’t benefit them, get swept under the rug.”

After another beat I added, “And I hate when that old creep shoves bread in my mouth during communion.” August’s features twisted a bit at that.

“Your parents make you go?” he guessed.

“Yeah,” I said quietly.

“You hate that too?”

“Yes,” I agreed hesitantly.

“You can say it here, Lola. You can say whatever you want here.” His little finger squeezed mine under the blanket.

“I hate my dad for making me go.” Then, after a beat, “I hate him for everything.”

He gave me a sad smile, then asked, “Does Andy like it? Church, I mean.”

“Yeah,” I sighed.

“Does he actually, or did he just like going because you blow him after?” There was no malice or amusement in his voice when he asked.

“He really likes it. I suppose he likes both. I think I would too if I were a man,” I admitted.