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She pinched him under the arm, the way she used to years ago in the second pew to the right of the pulpit.
"Ow." He twisted away.
"Don't forget I'm your mother. And that when you call on Jesus it better be for something important and not in vain, Jacob Edward."
"Yes, ma'am," he drawled with only 10 percent sarcasm. "But I'm pretty sure Jesus understands. He had a mother, too."
That made Fancy smile. His mother could be awfully bloodthirsty for a preacher's wife. "Even so, you know that your behavior-”
"Doesn't reflect on you or Dad. I'm my own person,” he said, knowing he probably sounded like a petulant child. What was it about mothers that did that to a guy?
He knew what people around town said about him- that rascal Jake's the family rebel. He drinks, whores, and avoids church. Real degenerate. He didn't mind that version of himself. No, because that version prevented people seeing through him to the pitiful coward beneath the bullshit.
He couldn't pretend to be the tortured hero, because he hadn't been a hero on that lonely stretch of highway, in the twisted wreckage beneath that huge harvest moon. He'd lain in his friends' blood, crying like a baby. He hadn't been able to help Clint… hadn't been able to save Angela. In fact, his weak attempts to tug Clint from where he lay had done more damage than good.
Jake Beauchamp... coward.
So he covered it up with being a degenerate. He knew he was the perfect head case for a shrink, but he didn't care enough to change. Because changing meant he'd have to remember, have to dig the knife beneath the skin to clear all the gunk. Change meant hurting again. And he didn’t want to exist in the hurt. So he avoided it.
"I know who you are, honey, and neither your father nor I have tried to change you. Your behavior, however, is never off the table. Don’t mistake our love for acceptance.”
He nodded because she was right. Neither of his parents rode his case like they could, but even so, he knew they didn’t approve of the way he lived his life.
His mother patted him. "Just remember you're in your father's house."
"God?"
"No, Dan's. Well, you know what I mean. Now, what's going on between you and Eva? Because I gotta tell you, Jake, I think she's really going to need some support in these upcoming months."
A thread of alarm cinched his heart. "Why? What's wrong with Eva? Is she sick?"
"Of course not. She's healthy as a horse, but that's exactly my point- you don't know what's going on in her life, and that's abnormal."
"Wait, what's going on in- " Jake left off the rest because the good town doctor, Jamison French, had stopped right in front of them.
"Morning, Jake. Mrs. Beauchamp," Jamison said, giving them both his best bedside smile.
"What's up, James?" Jake asked, extending a hand and giving the man a good firm Beauchamp hand shake.
"Good morning, Jamison, and it's just Fancy," his mother said.
"Of course. Well, looks like a good turnout,"
Jamison said, making polite conversation the way any decent human being would.
So it wasn't that Jake didn't like Jamison. He liked him fine. It was just that Jamison was the Cary Grant to Jake's James Dean. They were both single, good looking guys in their thirties with all their teeth. Both from good families with a decent income. And the target on their backs in Magnolia Bend had been fixed. The thing that made him twitch was the fact that Jamison was the better of the two, with his perfectly combed blond hair and artsy-fartsy hipster glasses framing sparkling blue eyes brimming with wit and goodness. In contrast, Jake crushed beer cans, peed in the woods, and wore old frat T-shirts.
"Itisa good turnout." Fancy nodded, a pleased smile curving her lips.
"By chance have either of you seen Eva?" Jamison asked.
"Eva? What the hell do you want with her?" Jake snarled, puffing up his chest, hands curling into fists. He spit at Jamison's feet and bared his teeth.
Okay, so he didn't actually do either of those things …but he thought about it. After all, Jamison Fancy Pants had no business asking after his Eva.
Correction. Just Eva.
"Shewasin the kitchen," Fancy said, pointing over her shoulder, her eyes holding a question.
