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One could hope.
After shrugging off my jacket, I balled it up against the wall outside the room, not risking getting paint on it. “I should’ve brought headphones or something.” I stepped into the doorway of the room. “I could’ve listened to—”
Harry Russo.
I flew backward into the hallway, pressing my spine against the wall.
Even though I’d stepped out of the room, I could still see the image. Harry Russo. Ripped jeans and a white shirt. Auburn hair tucked behind his ears. Paint roller in hand. Did I imagine the whole thing? Did my brain conjure the image of him? Because there wasno flipping wayhe stood in the middle of my church’s basement.
Margot poked her head over the threshold, and her eyebrows raised. “Holy handsome.”
I’d never showed Margot a picture of Harry—I’d always been too afraid of what she’d think, what she’d say. I shouldn’t have worried, apparently.
This was worse than seeing him at Le Petit Bateau with my mom, worse than seeing him Saturday night at Crushed Beanz. Those instances, I hadn’t been trapped in a room with him. All afternoon.
How did this keep happening?
“Switch jobs with me,” I told her, desperate.
“What? Why?”
“Just—switch me, Margot.”
Margot leaned into the doorway, peering at him openly. “What, do you know him?”
“Margot,” I hissed, reaching to tug her back, but she lifted her hand.
“Hey,” she called, offering him a closed-lipped smile. “Haven’t seen you around here before. Trust me, I think I’d notice a face like yours on Sunday mornings.”
She was definitely flirting with him. I was going to pass out.
“Hey,” Harry greeted her, and oh, my gosh, he really stood in there. That was really his voice. Not my imagination. “I heard Pastor Liam needed help, and I thought I’d volunteer.”
Aw, thoughtful and sweet. I’d grumbled because I’d been forced into helping and he did it out of the goodness of his own heart. If I wasn’t on the verge of a freak-out, I might’ve swooned.
“What’d you say your name was again?” Margot asked him, and any thoughts of swooning disappeared.Poofed. Gone. Because he would say—
“Harry. Harry Russo.”
And she would look at me the way she looked at me now—eyes wide, expression almost a demented sort of amused. I could see the gears clicking in her mind, everything falling into place. Could see the exact moment an “aha” light went off. “Interesting,” she mused with a barely contained smile, and once more I fixed her with an intense stare.
Please, I tried to convey telepathically.Don’t say anything. Just don’t.
Margot enjoyed moments like this, these awkward, forced kinds of moments. That’s why she came to Mrs. Holland and me at the last fundraiser. And Margot, being my best friend, knew how much I struggled with the whole Destelle/Stella mindset, how much I struggled with wanting to tell Harry.
I could easily see her saying something now. Hopefully my silent, wide-eyed begging came across.
“Destelle,” Pastor Liam said from behind us, making me jump. He held a spray bottle and a rag in one hand and an ugly piece of fabric in the other. “Found a sheet you can throw over your clothes. I cut a spot at the top for your head.”
A sheet with a hole cut out for my head. Glamorous. This just kept getting better and better. Pastor Liam had zero clue I was self-destructing. Like, full-on melting down.
After passing me the sheet, he handed the cleaning supplies to my friend. “You ready, Margot?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be, Pastor Liam,” she returned happily, grabbing the items from his grip. To me, she said, “Face the music.” With a wink, she sauntered off with Pastor Liam, leaving me alone in the hallway.
Was that my heart beating that loud, or was someone banging on the floor upstairs?
I could turn around. Totally could’ve walked back outside. I could’ve even called a car to take me home. I didn’t have to go inside that room. But that meant I would’ve left Harry painting by himself.
