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I did my best to smooth it down and pin it up, but there are always a few stragglers that manage to escape.
“When did you get here?”
He looks down at his watch. “Now.”
I reel back at his confession. Pennsylvania is a full day’s drive away.
“I explained that it was a family emergency. So, I worked yesterday, slept a few hours, and then left Carlisle around three-thirty this morning to make it in time.” He glances at his watch again. “I’m yours for the next eight-ish hours and then I have to leave, I should make it back for the start of shift tomorrow.”
“You drove all this way, sacrificing work and sleep to sit next to me while I cry?”
“Jenna,” my dad’s voice calls again.
I peer over my shoulder, through the clear partition to see the pastor standing at the altar, an open book resting in his palms. His eyes are scanning the back row, most likely waiting for me to be seated so they can begin.
I turn back toward Emmett, wanting him to come sit in the front row with me and my dad, but I know that’s too much to ask of anyone. His eyes are scanning the crowd, looking for his parents.
“Left side, middle row.”
He smiles the moment he spots his mom’s perm, turning back to me and squeezing my hand. “You okay?”
I nod, squeezing his hand back as we walk in together. He breaks left to slide into the pew next to his mom, her surprised gasp is audible over the organ's steady sound. I continue to the front row and take a seat next to my dad.
The pastor begins, reciting prayers and scripture that promise a life after death. For the most part he scans the crowd, connecting with whoever will feed into his promises. Then his eyes land on me, and they stay on me. He pauses, letting the silence stretch out over the crowd before he reminds us that God is merciful, that we should forgive the sins of those who have passed.
I know it’s the childish part of me, the one that still holds grudges and anger as if they will feed me, but I don’t want to believe his words. I don’t want to believe that she chose to treat me this way for the better part of my life, to neglect me and not bat a perfectly curled lash when I left. Yet now that she’s gone, all will be forgiven.
The tears I thought I could hide come out, pricking the backs of my eyes. I’m unable to hide the trembling of my hands, so I tuck them between my thighs, focusing on the string fraying from the bottom of my brand-new dress. I curl my bottom lip between my teeth and bite down, willing myself to hold it together until this is over.
I should say fuck it and run.It would take less than twenty seconds to lean over, tell my dad that I’m sorry, and then I’d be out of here. I could go anywhere. I could take my dad’s car and drive, drive out to the lake. Hell, I could walk out into the middle of the lake and . . .
The wooden pew creaks under his weight as Emmett quietly slides in next to me, his arm already up and around my shoulder, pulling me tight to him before he’s settled. I curl into him, burying myself into his chest and I break. I let out every ugly, wretched sob that’s been bottled up so deep inside. All the anger I’ve held toward her, for her neglect, her mean words, for never coming after me.
For the years I’ve spent wishing for an apology that never came.
I grip the fabric of his shirt with both hands, and feel his other arm come up, hand covering my face, swiping my tears as they fall. He holds me up, never failing to keep me steady in his grip, letting me cry out every tear I didn’t know I had. And when I can regain my breath, when I open my eyes and see the church has cleared out, my dad already in the back shaking hands with other mourners, I finally look up at his face and see his eyes lined with red.
He doesn’t loosen his grip on me, his palm still splayed over my face though my tears have dried. And although it isn’t quite the romantic backdrop I imagined the first time he would kiss me, I look up at him, wishing so badly he would finally lean in and give us both what we’ve been craving.
“Jenna,” my dad calls from the other end of the church. “I trust you and Emmett will come downstairs for coffee?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Watkins,” Emmett answers immediately, nodding to pacify my dad before turning back to me. I watch my dad wrap an arm around his girlfriend—Ramona, maybe?—as he leads her downstairs.
The church is quiet, except for a few creaks in the floorboards as the mourners make their way to have coffee and sandwiches.
“You don’t have to call himsir,” I tease, elbowing Emmett in the side.
“He’s a First Sergeant in the Marine Corps,” he whispers. “He still scares me.”
I smile internally as Emmett stands, adjusting his now wrinkled shirt, damp in spots from where I cried out my frustration on him. He reaches out and grasps my hand in his, pulling me to stand.
“I don’t want to go downstairs.” I don’t want to spend one more second in this stuffy church, pretending.
He looks back to where my dad still stands at the landing of the staircase, and then he twists his head, scanning the rest of the church until he sees a door behind the altar where the pastor must come in and out of. He reaches into his pants pocket, and I hear the jingle of keys as he smiles. “Let’s get out of here.”
He tugs my hand and pulls me toward the back door before his words have sunk in.
We push through the door, the sunlight and cold air slapping me in the face at the same time and I squeal with delight. My dad will be pissed, but I don’t care. I came here; I showed up, and I did my part as the dutiful daughter. Emmett is only in town for another six and a half hours, and I want to soak up every second with him.
