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The sex was more than I expected. For someone so out of practice, it was utterly spectacular. I felt cherished and loved, and emotion swells in my throat.
“You can’t cry about this,” I say out loud to myself as I drive away.
* * *
“Girlie, you look tired,” Papa says, sitting in my front seat. We usually leave at eight-fifty so he can get a blended coffee drink from the church-run snack bar and then a good seat for the service. I usually don’t go because I have to work, and my grandpa has church buddies. Most Sundays, he walks with his friend Joaquin to Moe’s Diner for after-church food.
Today, he insists I stay for the service. He glares at me like he knows.
“I didn’t sleep well.” A lie. Maybe I should go to church.
“You stayed up all night with the Finch boy, didn’t you?”
My cheeks must be bright red. I didn’t say anything.
“Church might be the best for you.”
“I said I would go with you!”
Thinking about where Jackson’s tongue was last night, probably not the worst idea. I so rarely have a Sunday off, so it might be nice to spend time with my grandfather.
He looks so happy that he’ll have company and that he can show me off. I run into my grandpa’s church friends all the time who shake my hand like I’m a celebrity. I know he brags about me, although there’s nothing to brag about. I’m twenty-six with no clear career path, but he talks about me like I’m his biggest accomplishment.
I help him out of the car and hold onto him as we walk to the side entrance, where the coffee bar is. The volunteer baristas greet him warmly.
“Is this the famous Shiloh?” a middle-aged man asks, pointing from Papa to me. He must be new. Most of the baristas know me.
“Yes, she is,” Papa says, his chest puffing as he puts his hand to the middle of my back. “Shiloh, this is Pastor Williams. He’s whipping up the drinks today.”
I wonder if he can tell how much I sinned last night. I try not to look guilty as I shake his hand.
“Are you staying for the service?” he asks.
“I think so,” I say.
“Wonderful, would love to have you. Mr. Abbott, the usual?”
“Please,” he says. The pastor walks to the back bar, grabbing a clean blender and pours milk and scoops powder into it. I order a coffee too. The pastor doesn’t look at me when he asks, “I’ve heard you’re friends with Jackson Finch?”
I nod, although it’s more complicated than that. “Yes, I am.”
“How is he doing?” the pastor asks, scooping ice into the blender and popping the top on.
“He’s great, actually,” I say.
”I’m glad to hear that.”
This town really cares about him. It’s so sweet.
“Marla, my wife, would love to talk to you about him. I’m not sure where she is.”
That’s strange. The pastor blends the drink, coating the cup with mocha sauce like Papa likes it. He pulls his phone out, shooting a quick message, and after pouring the drink, hands it to Papa, who takes a big slurp.
“Fantastic as always, Pastor,” Papa says, hoisting up the drink in a one-sided cheers.
“I put a little extra love in there for you,” Pastor Williams says. His gaze drifts to me. He looks at me like he’s trying to find answers in my face, and I fidget, shifting from one foot to another. He hands me my coffee.
“It’s on the house.”
