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Twenty-Two
Camille
My appointmentwith the nail tech had been awkward to say the least. She’d kept peering at my palms, and I’d remembered why I’d stopped going to a nail salon before—questions. Even if they weren’t voiced, they were there. In someone’s mind.
With Inessa lurking on the opposite bench, the last thing I wanted was for her to see my hands so I’d been glad for the simple manicure, and had gone for a full out pedi instead.
Inessa elected to have both, but we’d still managed to chat over the treatment, and while it wasn’t, and probably never would be, as comfortable as it had been in the past, that wasn’t to say that we couldn’t start afresh and make something better.
I hoped so.
I hoped that my adolescent fears wouldn’t wreck ties that should be concrete.
If that meant making an effort, I would.
So when Inessa asked me, shyly, “Would you come with me to church on Saturday? For Vespers?”
What was I supposed to say?
Tell her that I’d prefer to stick pins down my nails than listen to a bunch of pious pricks spout nonsense at me?
That would go down like a lead balloon.
“Of course. That would be great. Does Victoria go?”
“She will if I tell her to,” Inessa said with a sniff, then, her lips curved. “Just wait for Sunday.”
“Why? What happens then?”
“They’re religious. The whole family. We have to go to church and everything. I only go to Vespers every month or so. For Mama, mostly. But with Aidan Sr., there’s trouble if you don’t go every week, and the menhaveto go to confession.”
For a second, I wanted to gag.
Church—twice? In the same week? Hell, in the same year was two times too many, never mind within the latter half of this already shitty week.
Maybe I had something to confess, but I wasn’t religious. Had stopped believing in that stuff when I found Mama bleeding out, covered in Italian cum...
My jaw clenched at the thought, but I just said, “That’s really going to be fun.” Poor Brennan... I couldn’t imagine him on his knees in a confessional. It just didn’t fit his personality.
“Yeah, Father Doyle is a real prick. He makes the new priest at the Orthodox Church look liberal.”
Rolling my eyes, I told her, “Can’t wait.”
She grinned at me. “I’ll bet.”
Which keyed me into the fact she knew I’d prefer to overdose on Swedish Fish rather than go to church but was making me go anyway...
Why did I want to be friends with her again?
Still, aside from the prospect of that particular torture, it had been quite nice to clear the air.
She knew I’d had something to do with Father’s death, even if she didn’t know what, but rather than cast stones at me, we both concurred we were going to have a better life without him.
Which was, all told, pretty horrendous. Talk about a testament to how shitty a parent he’d been.
After we parted ways, with a promise to meet tomorrow for the early service, I headed out and found Bagpipes moving around the vehicle so he could climb into the passenger seat.
Thankful he’d remembered, I rushed over to him because traffic was on the rise, jumped behind the wheel, then, when there was an opening, pulled out onto the road.
