 
# The Secret Keeper

### (The Secret Keeper series #1)

## Brea Brown

Copyright © 2019 by Wayzgoose Press. (Note: An earlier edition of this novel, with the same title, was originally published in 2011, ISBN 978-1983001031.)

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover design by Keri Knutson at alchemybookcovers.com

ISBN: 978-1-938757-61-7 (second edition)

### Contents

1. Keeping Secrets

2. Family Fireworks

3. What To Do?

4. Confessions and Lies

5. Sexy Drexy and Nice Brice

6. Panic in the Pew

7. Flirting with Trouble

8. Hot for Preacher

9. Denial

10. Child's Play

11. Conflict of Interest

12. Date Night

13. Hiding Out

14. Surprise!

15. Tea and Sympathy

16. Moving On

17. Day of Reckoning

18. The Tiniest Secret

19. Not Strictly

20. Portrait of a Mother

21. Holiday Plans

22. Walk in the Park

23. Rebound

24. Holiday Message

25. Front Porch Sermon

26. Dysfunction for Dinner

27. Run With It

28. Girl Talk

29. Wake-Up Call

30. Breaking the Ice

31. Bad News

32. Personal Assistant

33. Welcome Home

34. Vegas Valentine

35. Love Rules

36. Unlikely Chaperone

37. Locked In

38. Bracing for Disappointment

39. Authority Issues

40. Uncharted Territory

41. Reintegration

42. Brice's Secret

43. Converging Secrets

44. Daddy's Girl

45. Bright Future

Chapter 1 of The Secret Keeper Confined

About the Author

About the Publisher

Also by Brea Brown
_To my mother, who makes it no secret how proud she is of me. Love you, Mom!_

## 1

# Keeping Secrets

Just once, I'd like to be the last to know. Just once. It would be utterly refreshing to be the one to be surprised. Or indignant. Or disappointed. I'd like to be given the chance to have an opinion, an emotion, a _reaction_ to a revelation. But, no. I'm always the first to be told. Always begged, "Don't tell anyone else; it's going to be a surprise." Or, "I need to figure out the best way to tell everyone." Or, "I've never told anyone that before." Or, "I need time to fix this."

Rarely am I asked for advice or my opinion on the matter or if I even want to be told the secret before it's dropped onto my shoulders. I'm simply ordered to keep it, and it's assumed I will. Because I always do. Always have. Probably always will.

I'm safe. Reliable. Steady. And nonthreatening. The middle child, I learned early on that my role was the peacemaker. Keep everyone happy, even if it means that I'm not.

Gosh, I sound like such a martyr! In spite of my involuntary position in my family, I'm not an unhappy person. I have a life; I _like_ my life. Not that anyone in my family knows anything meaningful about me. They're too busy telling me about themselves.

And here's the irony: as of today, I'm keeping the most clichéd secret in the history of womankind... about myself.

Obviously, I didn't mean for it to happen. I'm a grown woman; I know how these things work. And it's not like it was my maiden voyage. But things _do_ happen, even to the most careful of us. And they never happen when it's convenient. I can't imagine a situation in which this would _ever_ be convenient.

_Well, this sucks,_ I think the understatement of my life as I stare down at the positive home pregnancy test, the fourth one I've taken in as many days. It's become my new early-morning ritual.

So. Here I am. This is happening. And yet, I'm perfectly calm.

Of course, this routine is commonplace by now. It shows in my aim, which has become quite excellent. This morning, I didn't get a drop of piss on my hands. Now that's skill.

The first morning was a different story. It wasn't so much that my aim was poor, but that my hands were shaking so badly that I had to hold one with the other to get the stick in the stream. And when that positive sign materialized in the little window, I thought I was going to puke. Oh, wait. I did. Then I got in the shower and sat down on the tile floor, my head against my knees as the water beat down on my head. Then I took my clothes off. Doing stuff backwards is my new thing, I've decided.

That day, I bought another test at a pharmacy close to work. And the next day, after work, I bought two tests at a different store. Like a guilty teenager.

If only I had that excuse.

Anyway, I suppose I'm convinced now. I've never heard of anyone getting four false positives. But now I'm really screwed. Because now I have to figure out what the hell I'm going to do.

## 2

# Family Fireworks

"Lonnie and I have been seeing a marriage counselor for the past six months, but I don't think it's working."

And we're off. I've been at my parents' Fourth of July barbecue for less than ten minutes, and already I've been cornered by my sister, Nicole, and forced to listen to yet another confidence.

It's not fair, either. Because I was on my way to the bathroom after getting a whiff of Mom's mac-n-cheese in the oven.

Nicole says, "Oh, honey. I didn't realize this would be so upsetting to you. You're as white as Dad's legs."

Also not an appetizing mental image.

"I, uh... hmm..." I clamp my lips together and breathe as steadily as possible. When I'm relatively sure I'm not going to barf over my older sister's shoulder when I open my mouth, I say, "I'm fine."

Not arguing with me, she continues with her whispered disclosure in the dim hallway. "Yeah. You know it's bad when the therapist starts talking you through your 'options,' and referring you to divorce attorneys."

Nicole and Lonnie. Married at eighteen. Had babies at twenty, twenty-two, and twenty-four. Now all of their kids are school-aged, and Nicole's bored. Nicole plus bored equals trouble. That's what attracted her to Lonnie in the first place; he was everything my parents didn't want for their oldest daughter's boyfriend: outspoken, unapologetic, and Republican. Not just any Republican, though. The son of a state senator. But instead of simply using him to needle our parents and moving on, she had to go and marry the douche. In a big, gaudy wedding that was more of an election year campaign stunt than a family event.

And now she wonders, _What went wrong?_

Inwardly, I sigh. Outwardly, I gag.

I point to the bathroom door behind her. "I really..." Not able to finish or wait for her to move, I push her aside and slam the door in her face. In an economy of motion I didn't know I could pull off, I switch on the light and the fan and spin toward the toilet. I doubt the fan drowns out what sounds like the loudest belching retch I've ever produced. But I already have my excuse ready, so I'm not concerned about keeping it quiet. Just on-target.

"Are you okay in there?" she calls from the other side of the door.

When I open my mouth to answer, the only thing that comes out is more vomit.

Then I hear my mom's voice. "What's going on? Peyton? Honey? Are you all right? What did you say to her?" She asks this last question of my sister.

"Nothing! Sheesh!"

Shit. Wonderful. I can't even puke my guts out in peace. I'm actually surprised someone isn't in here, holding back my hair and confessing something.

Eventually there's nothing left in my stomach. I flush, stand, and cross to the sink, where I rinse my mouth and splash cold water on my face. When I open the door, I give them both a shaky smile.

"Whew!" I say. "Got carried away last night out with the girls." Of course, the only "girls" I was with were the two increasingly-tender ones hanging from the front of my body, but nobody needs to know that.

Mom rolls her eyes. "Honestly, Peyton. Really?" But before I can defend myself, she leads the way down the hall to the living room and asks, "How are they, anyway? I haven't seen them in forever."

Used to her erratic conversational style (and knowing she's talking about my friends, not my breasts), I go with it. It's better than facing her disapproval for something I didn't do. Anyway, she should probably save her disappointment for something bigger... much bigger.

"They're fine. They ask about you all the time."

This is true. My friends think my mom is cool. Most likely because they don't know her very well. They know her from stories I tell about her, stories that are designed to get them to sympathize with me for having a mom like her but that usually only serve to make them admire her more. I made the mistake of telling her once about their admiration, so now she never fails to ask about them, no doubt fishing for more second-hand compliments. Most of the time, I indulge her because I'm a people-pleaser. Today, I do so to reroute the attention from my physical condition.

Nicole shoots me a grateful look, probably thinking I'm distracting Mom for her benefit. Behind Mom's back, she puts a finger to her lips and widens her eyes at me. As if I didn't know.

"Duh," I say out loud, making Mom glance at me over her shoulder.

"What?"

I quickly attempt to cover. "I mean, _obviously_ , they ask about you all the time. They want to adopt you."

She laughs and waves her hand. "Oh! That's so sweet!" Almost in the same breath, she says, "I hope neither of _them_ was silly enough to overdo it with the drinking last night."

And... back to me. Unfortunately, I'm too preoccupied with growing a life inside of me to continue this conversation, so I follow her through the French doors onto the deck without another word. I seek out and flop into an empty chair as far from the meat-laden grill as possible. Grillside, Dad and Lonnie wave to me.

Nicole's youngest child, Sadie, immediately wedges her little body between my two legs, puts her hands on my belly, and blinks up at me through her tiny glasses. "Are you going to have a baby?" she asks.

Now, before you think the kid is psychic, I have to tell you that she asks me this question every time I see her lately. She's six and obsessed with babies and pregnant women. Also, many of her friends' moms have recently had babies. And she probably legitimately thinks I _am_ pregnant, because I'm the size of a real woman, not a stick-bug like her mom.

"Sadie!" Nicole admonishes. "What have I told you about asking people that? It's not polite!"

Sadie whirls around, leaning against me as she faces her mother. "What? Ashleigh's dad put his pee-pee in Ashleigh's mom and made a baby, and now Ashleigh has to share a room with her little sister—"

"Oh, for God's sake," my sister mutters. Louder, she says, "Aunt Peyton doesn't even have a boyfriend to put his... _anyway_! No, your Aunt Peyton isn't pregnant." Now she directs her attention to me. "Some help here?"

Normally, I'd laugh, but right now I have to concentrate on trying to keep the most neutral expression on my face that I can muster. Must not protest too much. Must not break down and confess.

"It's okay," I say. I rub Sadie's narrow back. "Babies are cool, right, Sadie?" To my own ears, it sounds like I'm asking the first grader to convince me of this fact.

She nods and shivers at my backrub. "Yeah," she agrees, staring off into space, looking lost in thought. After a few seconds, she becomes animated again. "Ashleigh's mom keeps saying that their new baby is a big surprise. But everyone knows she's going to have it. And that it's a boy. What's such a big surprise about that?"

"Go play," Nicole demands. When Sadie leaves, she gripes, "That kid... I'll be so glad when she grows out of this phase." She holds out a beer to me. "Hair of the dog?"

I feel a lot better when the rest of the crowd (and I mean "crowd" when I'm talking about my family and my parents' friends) shows up. Maybe not physically better, but less conspicuous. And once I've turned down a drink from what seems like every last person, I can finally relax.

I rest my elbow on the table and pinch the bridge of my nose. It was a mistake to come here today. But I knew my absence would have been more conspicuous than any inability to hide my strange mood or keep down nourishment. The hangover excuse is working well. Hopefully, it'll get me out of here early. I need solitude and silence.

My younger brother, Jason, takes the seat next to me.

After a long pull from his beer, he says, "So, what's up? You're quiet over here. You sure you don't want me to get you a drink?"

My family is made up of a bunch of alcoholics, I decide. "No, thank you. Like I said earlier, my liver is taking the night off. Plus, I have to work tomorrow."

"And?"

I look at him warily. "And... nothing. I don't want to feel like ass at work tomorrow."

He smirks. "Since when?" When I fake-laugh at his comment, he lets it drop. "Yeah, I'm not looking forward to going to work either," he commiserates, referring to his job in the IT department of a large insurance company. "Big software push starts this week. New platforms. It's going to be a nightmare."

I don't understand half of what he says most of the time when he's talking about his job, but I try to keep up and pretend that I do. "Oh? Lots of questions from people?"

"Complaints, mostly. 'I liked the old system; why'd we have to switch?' Blah, blah, blah. Oh, and don't tell Dad this, but... I won't be getting any tickets to football games from work this year—budget cuts—so that sucks ass. Anyway, what's new in your world?"

Ha! If he only knew.

I shake my head. "Absolutely nothing," I lie. "Things have been slow at the art gallery." _Business-wise_ , I add silently.

"Oh, hey. Later, I'll show you the new tattoo I got. It's bad-ass," he says under his breath, leaning closer to me. "Don't tell Mom, though. She's been all up in my business about desecrating my body, yada, yada. You know, the same shit as usual." After draining the last of his beer, he stands up and pats my shoulder. "Good talk, Sis. Let's do this again at Labor Day."

And he's not kidding. Unless I have a computer problem, that'll probably be the next time we see each other. I'm not proud of it, but that's just the way we are. I love him, but we don't have much in common. He's still a geeky kid to me.

Dad announces that the meat's ready, so Mom and Nicole bring out the other food from inside, lining the dishes on a long table against the back of the house. As I'm slinking toward the back door, Mom says, "Peyton, can you grab the potato salad from the fridge?"

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and turn around. "Actually, I think I'm going to..." My heart palpitates at the scene I'm about to make, but I tell myself that it's time I started getting used to scenes. And standing up for myself. I finish weakly, "...head home."

All conversation and movement ceases. "What?" Mom asks, laughing at what she assumes is a joke. "Come on! Go get the potato salad."

"I... I really am leaving," I say a tad more assertively.

Now there's some whispering among the older folks like Aunt Midge, Uncle Paul, and some of Mom and Dad's friends. I swallow while my cousins, siblings, niece, and nephews stare and Mom glares at me.

"But we're playing badminton after dinner," she says, as if that's going to sway me.

"I feel horrible," I state truthfully.

"Mentally, for ruining everyone's fun? Or physically?"

Dad intervenes. "Peg, the girl doesn't feel well. Leave her alone." He steps forward and gives me a hug. "Feel better, sweetie." The kiss he plants on my forehead makes me want to cry. To the rest of the group, he says, "Come on, everyone. Let's eat!"

As the people buzz around us, Mom rolls her eyes and gives me a double-handed wave. "I'd feel worse for you if you didn't bring it on yourself. The rest of us are supposed to feel sorry for you, because you still act like a college kid, getting wasted on the weekends with your trendy co-workers and friends?" When she looks up at me and sees my flushed, hurt face, she softens. "Oh, honey. I'm sorry. I just wish you'd—I don't know— _grow up_. But if you're that miserable, you should go home and go to bed."

I nod.

"You're my baby girl. I worry, that's all."

"I know," I manage to choke out. Then I duck into the house before I start crying.

## 3

# What To Do?

"Shut up!"

"This isn't a funny joke."

"I'm not joking." I sip my water and nibble a piece of bread at the picnic table in the park where Mitzi, Jen, and I often meet on our lunch breaks. Gesturing to my meager meal on the picnic table in front of us, I say, "Does it look like I'm joking?"

Mitzi stares openmouthed at me. Jen narrows her eyes.

"I'm serious!" I insist. "This is for real! And I'm freaking out!" My profuse sweating has little to do with the blazing July heat.

"Whose is it?" Mitzi asks. "Stefan's?"

"Of course it is!" Jen answers for me. "Who else?"

I'm not sure if I'm insulted more by Mitzi's implication that I sleep around or by Jen's certainty that there couldn't possibly be anyone else who wanted to have sex with me in the past two months. "Well, I... I... yes. It's Stefan's. Unfortunately."

"Whoa," Mitzi breathes. "That's a bummer."

"No kidding," Jen agrees, slurping her soup. "He's a first-class d-bag."

As if I needed a reminder.

It was a moment of weakness. He was nice to me at first. And it was flattering that someone like him, one of the gallery's contributing artists, looked twice at me. So when he was in town one weekend and asked me out after work, I gladly accepted. Then I got a little drunk at dinner (well, a lot) when I realized he wasn't the kind of guy I thought he was (kind, funny, charming) but was instead the kind of guy I loathed (arrogant, smoking, and condescending) and that I was stuck with him for the evening.

But the drunker I got, the more I noticed how physically attractive he was, and the other things didn't seem to matter as much. So I brought him back to my place, and we did what people do when they've had too much to drink. And I didn't pay much attention to details like contraception, because I was distracted by this highly inventive thing that he was doing, and I didn't want him to stop. But we used contraception the other times (yes, there was more than one time; I'm a skank).

The next morning we were in complete agreement about one thing: we were both disgusted with me. I tried to be discreet about it, because I didn't want to hurt his feelings by showing him how much I regretted what we'd done. Then I realized he didn't have any feelings when he sneered at me and said, "I thought chubby girls were supposed to be good in bed."

" _Excuse me_?" I fired back, offended more by the "chubby" label than by the skills assessment.

He took my question as clarification-seeking. "You know... more accommodating."

Getting dressed as quickly as possible, I snapped, "Maybe I just look big in comparison to your tiny dick."

"We both know that's not true." He smirked at me as he buttoned his shirt. "But if it makes you feel better..."

"Why are you still here?" I demanded, glaring at him across the bed, which I felt a strong urge to burn in the middle of my apartment. While wearing war paint and banging a drum.

Infuriatingly calm, he answered, "Chill. I'm going. By the way, I didn't mean to imply that I didn't enjoy myself."

"This never happened."

He shook his head at me and slipped into his wing-tips, not bothering to tie them. Without another word, he left. I haven't spoken to him since.

Three weeks ago, I got an email from a guy named Drex, who introduced himself as Stefan's new personal assistant. I feel sorry for the guy, but I'm glad for myself. It means I may never have to speak to Stefan again. Well, maybe.

Now I say to Jen and Mitzi, "I don't know what to do."

Jen says, "There's only one decision. Okay, maybe two decisions. But surely you're not thinking of keeping it?"

"That's not what I'm confused about. I mean, I don't know if I should tell Stefan."

Mitzi, picking all the grape tomatoes from her salad, says, "Nobody can make that decision but you. It also depends on what you're deciding to do with the baby. Are you going to... have it?"

I nod, my eyes filling with terrified tears.

"What?!" Jen sputters, drawing the attention of some nearby lunchers. She wipes at the water dribbling down her chin and cries, "Are you crazy?! You're crazy. You're not thinking clearly. Seriously. I'll take you to a clinic. I'll hold your hand. I'll help you fill out the paperwork. I'll take care of you afterwards. Just... _don't_ have this thing. It's a mistake. A fluke. An aberration."

"Shut up, Jen," Mitzi tells her, throwing a tomato across the table and hitting her in the face. "You're being a bitch."

I have to admit, though, that I'd probably give the same advice to my friends if they had told me what I just told them. Maybe more diplomatically than Jen did. And not as loudly, within earshot of children and disapproving stay-at-home moms, but... essentially the same.

Maybe I _am_ crazy for thinking I can do this by myself. Maybe I _am_ under the influence of hormones. But something's telling me it's the right thing to do. You know, facing the consequences of my actions. Plus... I can't seem to think my way out of this with statistics and factoids and all the reasons that make me pro-choice for _other_ women. For myself, it's not really a choice.

I guess I could go the adoption route, but I figure if I'm going to go through with being pregnant and everyone knowing what I've done, then I'm going to reap the rewards. And challenges. And joys.

Jen snorts. "It'd be one thing if it was the child of someone you love or could tolerate. But it's _Stefan's._ A guy who called you 'chubby'... to your face. A man who thinks he's God's gift to women and art. Ick. This kid's bound to be flawed simply because its father is _Stefan_."

Mitzi, the calming voice of reason, steps in. "Okay, okay. Enough!" To Jen, she says, "Peyton doesn't need our help with the decision about going through with the pregnancy; she needs our help deciding whether to tell Stefan." To me, she directs, "Yes, I think you should. He has a right to know. As much as I despise him."

"No, he doesn't. He's a slime ball. Telling him will only make things more complicated than you're already making them. If you're really going to do this, leave him out of it." Jen sits back. "That's all I'm going to say about it."

We all know that's a lie, but I don't call her on it. I don't comment on either viewpoint, as a matter of fact. Because they're just echoing what I've already thought as I've flip-flopped back and forth between decisions. Instead, I put my elbows on the table, my face in my hands, and start to bawl. After a few seconds, I feel a hand on each of my shoulders. Mitzi has come around the table and is sitting on the very edge of the bench next to me. I scoot over so she has more room.

Jen sighs.

Mitzi coos, "It's gonna be okay. No matter what you decide. It'll all work out."

Now I say what's bothering me the most: "What the hell am I going to tell my parents?"

This makes Jen laugh. "What are you, sixteen?"

"I'm serious!"

"I know. That's what makes it even more ridiculous. You're a grownup now. It doesn't matter what they think."

"It matters to _me_ , okay? A lot. I'm always a disappointment."

"Whatever."

Again, Mitzi soothes, "They love you. They'll support whatever decision you make."

"I know," I agree. "But they'll be embarrassed by me."

"That's why you should abandon this insane idea. One outpatient procedure, and nobody has to know anything," Jen persuades.

I pull my hands away from my eyes and glare at her. "Yeah. Just me and God. No biggie. If I didn't have a conscience, you're right; this would be an easy decision. But I do." I look at my phone. "Shit. I have to get back to work." I toss my bread crust and empty water bottle into the trash can next to our table, squeegee the tears from under my eyes, and take a deep breath. "I'm sorry for unloading all this on you two."

They're in agreement this time as they protest my apology. I promise to keep them updated before walking alone back to the gallery. Only I'm not alone and won't be again for a very long time, if ever.

Some people may find that realization comforting. I find it haunting.

## 4

# Confessions and Lies

This is not going to be easy. Of course, no part of this entire experience is going to be easy. But this is going to be especially difficult.

I smile at Marilyn, the church secretary, when I catch her staring at me... again. She's no doubt wondering why the heck I'm here to speak to Pastor Northam. I'd imagine that anyone under the age of sixty who goes out of his or her way to meet with him is in a sticky situation. I mean, isn't prayer typically a last resort? Yes. For most people. Myself included. But I need divine help.

After returning my smile, Marilyn checks over her shoulder, nods, and informs me, "Pastor's ready to see you now."

I stand on wobbly legs, feeling like someone who's wearing high heels for the first time in her life. After walking through his open office door, I stop abruptly, not sure what to do next or what to say.

He rises from behind his desk and offers me his hand. Young and fairly new to the church, he replaced the minister who passed away two years ago after more than twenty years with our congregation. I haven't had much one-on-one contact with him, because, honestly, I'm not very involved at church, other than attending most Sundays (and that's only because I go to the same church as my parents, and I'd rather not be lectured about one more thing).

Based on some of the things he's said in his sermons, I like him well enough, and I appreciate the forward-thinking direction in which he's trying to take the church, despite some members' best efforts to thwart him. I'm not in the habit, however, of just dropping by to have chats with him, so I'm nervous, complete with jittery tummy, dry mouth, and shaking hands.

He notices right away and acknowledges my unusual visit. "So! This is a nice surprise. What brings you here?" He gestures for me to take a seat on the sofa and sits next to me, instead of keeping the desk between us.

"I don't have anyone else to talk to about this." As soon as the words are out, I hear how terrible they sound and blush. "I mean, my friends haven't been much help, and I _really_ need help."

He chuckles at me. "Okay... Um... I get what you mean, I think. So relax."

Relieved, I nod. "Sorry. I'm just... My parents always taught me that when I needed help, I could talk to my pastor, but I've never had to..." I trail off, not sure how to finish and also mortified that I sound half my age.

"...use this lifeline before?" he finishes for me, his eyes sparkling.

"Yes."

"I take it you're not here to complain about the type being too small in the bulletin or the music becoming too contemporary, then."

His joke actually makes me laugh. "No," I confirm his assumption. "I don't care about any of that." Quickly, I correct, "It's not that I don't _care_ , it's just—"

Patting my arm, he consoles, "Shh. It's okay. Take a deep breath for me."

I do. Because you do what your pastor says. At least, you do when he's sitting right there.

After I've settled down somewhat, he remarks, "You know, times like this, I think the Catholics may have the right idea with the confessional booth. I mean, logically, the confessor knows, 'That's Father So-and-So in there,' and the priest knows, 'That's Suzie So-and-So out there,' but it's psychologically easier to talk to a screen. Don't you think?"

When I nod into my lap, he urges, "Why don't you just tell me what's on your mind?"

Suddenly, I don't think I can do it. And I'm afraid I'm going to chicken out and lie to my _pastor_ about the reason for my visit. Only the knowledge of how truly terrible that would be keeps me honest. Or silent, more like.

I gulp. He waits. And waits. And waits.

Eventually, he rises and returns to his desk. "Tell you what. I'm going to do some stuff over here. And if you feel like telling me, go ahead. I don't have any other appointments this afternoon. But I do have to work on this sermon that I've procrastinated on all week."

When my head snaps up, he asks, "Is that okay? I mean, I don't want you to think I don't care, but I feel like it's too much pressure, or something, with me sitting there waiting for you to talk."

"It's fine," I answer automatically, too shocked to say anything else. Anyway, I'm not offended. Just surprised.

After a few minutes of neither of us saying anything and the only sound in the room being his typing and mouse-clicking, he queries, "What's another word for 'hopeless'?"

"'Despondent'?" I supply, feeling the picture of it.

He thinks about it before nodding. "Yeah. That works. Thanks." He goes back to typing furiously.

"I'm nearly ten weeks pregnant."

His fingers slow on the keys, but he doesn't say anything right away. Then he looks up at me. I have no idea what his opinion of my revelation—or me—is, based on his expression. "Oh. Hmm."

"And I'm not married," I prod, helping him to see part of the problem (the smallest part, in my book, but probably not in his).

"Yeah, I know that," he says dismissively, tapping his cheekbone.

Now I feel an odd impulse to try to get a stronger reaction from him. " _And_ I don't have a boyfriend."

He sits up straighter, but his expression remains passive. "Do you know who the father is?" he asks, as if he's inquiring if I know who invented the cotton gin.

"Of course!" I snap. "I'm not _that_ horrible."

Unruffled, he states, "Well, there are no degrees of sin. It's not a matter of better or worse. Simply... sin."

"So I should have gotten my money's worth, huh?"

He laughs. "Uh... I guess you _could_ look at it that way."

"I'm just kidding," I make sure he knows. I definitely don't want him to think any money changed hands, on top of everything else. "Anyway, yes, I know who the father is. No, we're not in a relationship. No, he's not the kind of person I _want_ to be in a relationship with. No, he doesn't know I'm... you know."

"Was this... act... consensual?"

I nod, feeling more ashamed than ever. If only I could say otherwise. You know you're in a bad way when you wish that. That's just sick.

"If you don't particularly care for this person, why'd you have sex with him, then?" he asks bluntly, making me blush.

"Well... I... Uh..." I stammer.

He shakes his head. "Never mind. That's not important."

_What?!_

My face must have that question written all over it, because he qualifies, "I mean, it _is_ , and it's something that you should probably pray about, but it's not anything I need to know to help you." Taking a deep breath and shooting me a shaky smile, he asks, "How _can_ I help you, by the way? I feel like I'm being anything but helpful with all my stupid interjections."

Now I find myself reassuring him. "You're okay. I'm the one who's being weird. I schedule an appointment to talk to you; then I get here, and you have to drag it out of me."

He shrugs. "It happens."

"Anyway, I guess I just needed to tell an authority figure."

Looking over his shoulder then back at me, he points to himself and says, "Who, me?"

"Yes, you!" I answer, laughing.

"If you say so. And why is it important for you to tell on yourself?"

"Practice?" I suggest. "For when I tell my parents?"

"Ohhhhh." He leans back in his desk chair and tousles his hair, then leaves his hands on top of his head. "You haven't told _them_ yet?"

I rub my temples and shake my head.

"Wow. That's tough." Rocking slightly in his chair, he asks, "How do you think they'll react?"

My dad's a church elder, and my mom's active with the Women's Missionary League. They've had him to dinner at least twice since he was installed as pastor. They talk to him every Sunday, sometimes about official church business but other times more casually.

"You know them," I reply. "How do _you_ think they'll react?"

He flaps his lips. "Nice try. I'm not going there. Plus, I asked you first."

After I take a deep breath, I tell him, "Dad will take it in stride; Mom won't say anything, but it'll be obvious that she's disappointed. Then after the shock wears off, Mom'll ask me a bunch of questions, but they'll basically boil down to one thing: 'How could you be so stupid?'"

"Do you feel stupid?"

"Uh... yeah!"

"Can you forgive yourself?"

"Not yet," I admit. "It's going to take a while. It's pretty unforgivable."

"God forgives you. He forgave you before you even knew you were going to do it."

The sincerity with which he says it instantly makes me want to cry. I know he truly believes that. I wish I could.

"Yeah. Well..." I see the clock over his shoulder, and my stomach lurches. "I have to go."

Friday night is the only night we're open late at the gallery, and it's my turn to work the extra shift. I stand up and loop my purse over my shoulder.

He meets me in front of the desk. "Peyton," he says while I'm fishing in my purse for my car keys.

His earnest tone makes me stop what I'm doing and look up at him.

"Do you believe what I've just told you?"

"I want to," I answer. "But..." I can't finish for the tears choking me.

Placing a hand on my shoulder, he asks, "Would you be willing to come back to continue this talk tomorrow? I understand you have to leave, but I feel like... this conversation isn't really over."

"I don't know..." I whisper.

What if he subjects me to some marathon prayer session or interminable Bible study about the evils of premarital sex? Or what if he launches into some huge, uncomfortable speech to try to make me promise I'll forgive myself and to convince me that Jesus loves me no matter what?

Or worse, what if I _never_ believe it?

"Please," he implores. "It doesn't have to be a big deal. Just coffee. Or something. Can you drink coffee?"

"No. I mean, yes. But I don't drink coffee." I sigh. "Okay. I can come back here tomorrow."

He grins, which makes him look even younger. "Great. Only... not here. I mean, I like to take long walks on Saturday mornings. Usually, I practice my sermon in my head. But it would be nice to have some company for a change."

Reluctantly, I agree to meet him tomorrow morning at ten at the park across the street from the church. I have to admit, it was nice to tell someone and not be bombarded with tough love or heavy-handed advice.

"It's a date," he says, opening the door and ushering me to the outer office.

Umm... What?!

I sit behind the wheel of my car, the knowledge that I'm late getting back to work competing with (and losing to) the memory of the word "date" escaping my pastor's mouth in reference to any meeting between the two of us. Surely, he didn't mean it _that_ way. He just meant, "It's on my schedule," or "Don't forget," or _anything_ but the conventional meaning of the word. Because pastors don't go on _dates_. Right? No. None that I've ever known. Of course, all the pastors I've known before Pastor Northam were married. Or old. Or both.

My cell phone rings. Snatching it from my purse, I look at the display on it and debate ignoring it before resigning myself to taking the call. "Hey."

"So, at today's session, Lonnie drops this bomb: 'We can't afford to get a divorce, Nicole. I invested my 401K and took out a second mortgage on our house on an investment that went belly up, so stop being such a bitch and help me make this work.' Uh, as if! All the more reason for me to leave his ass. Of course, I don't know how I'm going to afford to divorce him. I _was_ planning to take out a second mortgage to do that, so now what?"

I drop my head to my steering wheel, inadvertently tapping the horn in the process.

"Where are you?" Nicole demands.

Why not add to my web of lies? "At work. Where else would I be on a Friday afternoon?"

"Oh. I thought I heard a car horn."

"Well, I do work downtown, so it's possible."

"Are you busy?"

"That would be the assumption when someone's at work. Can I call you back later?"

She sighs as if I'm being unsupportive and unreasonable. "I guess. But I really need to talk to you now. Real quick, do you think you'd be in a position to loan me some money so I can divorce Lonnie?"

"How much? Wait! What?!"

"A few thousand, I guess. As much as it takes."

"No! I don't have an unlimited supply of cash to lend you so you can end your marriage. Ask Mom and Dad. They'll be thrilled to hear you're finally ditching Lonnie."

"No! I can't tell them about this! And you can't, either, by the way. This is between you and me."

"Of course it is."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Never mind. Listen, I have to go," I tell her.

"But you'll call me later?"

"Hmm... okay," I'm slow to reply. "But I really don't have any money for you to borrow."

She says sadly, "I know. I just need someone to talk to."

That breaks my heart, but I can only concentrate on so many things at once, and right now, her problems are at the bottom of the list.

"I'll call you later," I promise.

"And remember, not a word of this to anyone!" she stresses.

As if I have to be reminded.

## 5

# Sexy Drexy and Nice Brice

At work, an email from Stefan's assistant, Drex, awaits.

> _Peyton, I shipped two paintings to you via FedEx today. Stefan wants to know a) when they arrive; b) when they go on display; c) when they sell. ASAP. He's tracking how long it takes to sell his paintings, from conception to sale. I appreciate your help with this. Drex._

I flinch at the word _conception_ , but promptly reply:

> _Drex, Stefan can screw himself._

No... that's not actually what I write back. I roll my eyes, mutter that under my breath, and type this:

> _Drex, Will do. Peyton._

A lot less satisfying. But I still have a job.

Minutes later, the following message lands in my inbox:

> _Thanks. You make my job much easier. And that means a lot. Drex._

I can only imagine what it's like to work for someone like Stefan. It was bad enough working _under_ him for a night. Oh... why do I torture myself with thoughts like that? I haven't puked all day today. But now I'm going to have to.

When I return from the bathroom, I have another message from Drex waiting for me.

> _Stefan wants to know if 'Medieval Dentistry' has sold yet. And if not, he'd like you to move it closer to the front of the gallery. Drex (sighing)_

I have to laugh. Then, looking around to make sure the gallery owner, Marshall, isn't around, I write back,

> _Not much demand for paintings depicting bloody oral surgery during the Dark Ages. Takes a special room to do it justice. I'll discuss moving it with Marshall, though. Peyton (laughing)_

Minutes later, the phone rings.

"Smart Art, Peyton speaking."

"Hey. It's Drex. Stefan's assistant."

"Oh. Hey! Uh, I mean, hello. What can I do for you?" His call has caught me off-guard. So has his unexpectedly-sexy voice, which I've never heard before now.

"Other than finding me another job—any other job will do—or killing me and putting me out of my misery?" he replies.

I laugh nervously. "Well..."

"Anyway," he continues, not waiting for me to respond. "The real reason for my call is that I'm sick of emailing you these endless inane requests, so I'm going to save us both some time and give you the list of His Majesty's demands."

I grab a pad of paper. "I'm ready, pen in hand," I assure him.

"Great. Number one: move the fucking ugliest painting ever created, as if that's going to help it sell."

"Check."

"Number two: reschedule the October show to the previous Friday night. Tout de suite."

"Uh... That's the same date as the downtown Chicago art walk. I'll have to check the schedule to see if that's possible, but okay."

"I hope it's not; would serve him right. Number three: reprint promotional literature vis à vis the now- _September_ show."

"Obviously. _If_ we can reschedule."

"Right? Der. Number four: give Marshall a message to call Lord Stefan ASAP."

"Consider it done."

"Don't hurry, though. I'm sure it's not _that_ important. If you have other things to do—such as filing your fingernails—do that first."

I grin and ask, "Is Stefan anywhere around there?"

"Does it sound like he's anywhere around here? If he were, I'd be injecting far less commentary. Are you still taking notes?"

"Yes."

"Good. Continuing... Number five: post some anonymous disparaging comments on Stefan's website using a fake email address. His ego needs to be knocked down a notch. Or seventeen notches."

I set my pen down. "Okay. While I find this amusing, I do have real work to do."

He pauses, then says, "Oh. Of course. Sorry. I forget that other people have more meaningful jobs than running around picking up the dry cleaning of the biggest jerk in the history of artists."

"That's a big distinction," I say. "I mean, artists are well-known for being difficult."

"This guy takes the cake."

"Quit."

"Can't. Need the money. And the experience. And his reference on my résumé at some point." He sighs. "I'm trapped."

"Is there anything else on the to-do list?" I ask. "For real?"

Sullen, he answers, "No. I guess not. I guess I'll just get back to being unappreciated."

"Aw... If it makes you feel better, _I_ appreciate dealing with you rather than Stefan," I flirt.

[Time out! I'm fully aware that I have a problem and that this is completely inappropriate, especially considering... everything! But... it slipped out. And it's too late to take it back now. Plus, it's true. And what's the harm in having some fun? Time in!]

I can hear the smile in his voice. "It _does_ make me feel better, actually," he says. "It doesn't take much to please me, though. I'm low maintenance."

"Good. That's job requirement Number One when working for your boss. Now, get back to work. Or not. Isn't it past quitting time there on the East Coast?"

"For normal people, yes," he sulks. "For me, no. I think tonight I'm driving him and a date to something at the Guggenheim."

Why does this information bother me? I don't know. I'm certainly not _jealous_ of Stefan's date. Yeesh. But I'm a tad resentful that he gets to go on with his life while I'm stuck here in an incubation holding pattern. Not that he'd have any way of knowing that, since I haven't told him. But... I don't think my telling him would change things.

"Hello? Did you hang up on me?"

"No! I'm here," I quickly respond. Then I pretend my indignation is on his behalf. "He makes you drive him around?!"

"I know. It's ludicrous. But jobs like this aren't easy to come by. After he sells a few more paintings, he'll be able to hire a real driver. So... do all the stuff he's asking for my sake, if not for his, okay?"

"You got it," I promise, swallowing back tears and bile. "Um... I really have to go now. I'll talk to Marshall about everything first thing Monday and let you know."

"Thanks, Peyton. You're the best."

A tiny part of me wishes he'd tell his boss that.

"I'm worried about your sister."

Oh. My. Gosh.

"Mom, it's Saturday morning."

"So? I'm not allowed to be worried about my kids on a Saturday morning?"

I sigh and lick my sleep-dried lips. "Worry all you want, but don't call me about it before 9:30."

Testy, she replies, "Shows how much you know; it's nearly 10:00."

"What?!" I sit up so fast, the room spins. "Ohhhhh, shit."

"What?"

I'm supposed to meet Pastor Northam this morning. And it's time for my mid-morning ralph-fest. Of course, I can't tell my mom either of those things.

I simply say, "I'm late," and breathe the nausea away.

"For what?" she asks. "It's Saturday."

_Now_ she knows.

"Breakfast with Mitzi and Jen."

_Eggs, bacon, sausage,_ my brain taunts me, as if in punishment for lying.

"Oh. Well, they'll understand. I need to talk to you about Nicole."

"Mom..."

"This is serious!"

"It always is," I mutter, pressing the speakerphone button so I can at least get dressed and make a run for the bathroom if I need to.

"If I didn't know better, young lady, I'd say you didn't care."

"That's not it!" I protest, pulling down a pair of shorts and a t-shirt from my messy closet shelf. "I care. I just..."

_...already know. And can't tell you anything._

"Then give me five minutes," Mom insists. "I know she tells you things. Things she'd never tell me. She's protecting me, I guess. But I..." She chokes up.

Oh, hell.

"...I just need to know if she's okay. Unless you _want_ to tell me what's going on. I won't tell her you told me."

This is miserable. Dressed, I carry the phone into the bathroom with me, use the toilet (sitting _on_ it, not kneeling in front of it, fortunately), and brush my teeth, being very careful not to trigger my ultra-sensitive gag reflex, while she continues to try to persuade me to spill it.

When I say nothing in response, she says, "Hello! Are you there?"

I spit. "Yes. I'm here."

"Well?"

"Mom, I'm not comfortable having this conversation."

"You _do_ know something! I knew it!"

I thought we'd already established that. Crap. This... this... embryo... is sucking my brain cells dry. I'm sooo late for my meeting with Pastor. Phone in hand, I rush from the bathroom back to my bedroom and toss it on the bed.

"Is she sick? She looks so awful lately. And don't you dare tell her I said that."

I say nothing, but more because I'm too busy looking for my sneakers in the bottom of my closet than that I'm refusing to answer. I can't multi-task.

"Oh, gosh! That's it! She's sick and doesn't want to tell me. Breast cancer runs in our family, you know."

Actually, I didn't know that. Might have been good to know before now. I dig my tennis shoes from under a pile of sweaters and pull them on my feet without untying them. "Mom, if you're really concerned, you should call her and ask her what's going on. Just tell her you've noticed she's not herself and that you want to know if there's anything you can do to help."

"Oh, no! I don't want her to worry about me worrying about her. You can't tell her I asked you anything! Promise?"

"Sure. Now, I really have to go!"

"Yeah, yeah. Your friends are more important than your family. I get it." Before I can defend myself, she chirps, as if this has been a relaxing, aimless conversation, "Well, tell Mitzi and Jen I said hi! I'll see you in church tomorrow!"

And just like that, the call's over. If I had more time, I'd stare at the phone and wonder, but I don't. In less than five minutes, I'm supposed to be at a park that's twenty minutes away. Simple math tells me I'm not going to make it. And the only number I have for Pastor is the church office number. But it's worth a try.

Of course, no one's there on a Saturday morning, but the message tells me to "Push 1 for Pastor Brice Northam," so I do. It rings three times, and just when I think it's going to go to voicemail, he answers, "Hello?"

"Pastor!" I gasp as I lock my apartment door.

"Yes?"

"I'm on my way. But I overslept. Then my mom called—"

"Who is this?" he asks, his tone wary.

"Oh. Sorry. It's Peyton Stratford."

He laughs. "Oh! No, _I'm_ sorry. It didn't sound like you."

"I'm panicking," I admit, running down the stairs and rushing to my car in the parking lot.

"Don't do that. I'm not in any hurry. I'll just leave here later than planned."

"Okay." I unlock my car and get in.

"Please, don't rush. I'd feel awful if you got in a car accident."

His calm demeanor is contagious. I find myself slowing down, breathing more deeply, and relaxing. "All right. I'll be there in about twenty minutes, then."

"Great. I'll do a few more things around the office, then. See you there."

"Yeah. Okay." I hang up and start the car, but I remain in the parking spot for a few more seconds, catching my breath. When I don't feel shaky anymore, I put the car in gear and head toward the park.

Almost twenty minutes to-the-second later, I arrive at my destination. Pastor's already there, sitting casually on a bench near the gravel parking lot, waiting for me, his elbows on his knees. As I get out of my car, he stands and approaches me.

[Time out! The way he's dressed is disconcerting. I mean, I didn't expect him to be wearing his robes and vestments, or even the black shirt and pants and white clerical collar he was wearing yesterday when I met him at the church, but... I don't know what I was expecting. I only know it wasn't cargo shorts and a t-shirt that hangs nicely from his broad shoulders and clings to his defined chest. Dressed like that, he looks like... a normal person. An attractive normal person, even, if I were to let myself get carried away. These hormones are making me act and feel totally ridiculous! Time in!]

Flustered and suddenly nervous, I mutter something about the weather and avert my eyes, which land on his hairy legs. Muscular hairy legs. Runner's legs. I drop my keys.

"Shit. I mean... darn it!"

"Is everything okay?" he asks, seeming to be genuinely concerned.

Except for the fact that I just cussed in front of my pastor? "Yeah. Sorry." I smile.

"Your face is all red. Do you need to sit down for a minute? I hope you didn't hurry here. I told you not to worry about it."

"No! I'm fine!" I pocket my car keys and jab a thumb in the direction of the walking trail. "Are you ready?"

He follows my gesture with his eyes. "Uh...yeah. If you are."

My stomach is more upset than ever (noticing your pastor as a man will do that for you, trust me), but I'm getting used to ignoring the nausea. To be fair, I tell him, "I didn't rush here, but I'm still not feeling 100 percent. So, if I veer off the path, don't be alarmed. I just have to... you know."

Confused, he shakes his head, but then his eyes widen with comprehension. "Oh! Really? Gosh. Well, we don't have to walk. We can sit somewhere."

After I've told him that it doesn't matter if I'm standing, sitting, walking, lying down, or standing on my head, that I'm still going to feel like barfing, he seems convinced, so we begin our stroll.

When we've been walking for a couple of minutes, adjusting to each other's paces, he says, "So. How are you feeling today? Other than... that?"

I shrug. "It's hard to concentrate on anything but that. And I've only been awake for about thirty minutes, so it's hard to tell."

"Have you given any thought to what we talked about yesterday?"

My stomach wobbles for a new reason. "Yeah. About that..." He looks over at me, but I purposely keep my eyes on my shoes. "I appreciate your saying that. It was nice."

"I didn't say it to be nice. It's true," he maintains.

Only when I'm sure he's not looking at me anymore do I raise my head. "Okay. Whatever."

He laughs. "I could provide you with a list of Bible verses that prove it, if that would make you feel better. Then it wouldn't just be my word. But you've been going to church your whole life, so you've heard them all. Obviously, you don't think they apply to _you_."

"This is bad, Pastor."

"Call me Brice." At my sharp look, he amends, "I mean, if you want. You don't have to. It's just... kind of strange to be called 'Pastor' outside of church."

I feel rebuked more than invited. Like he thinks I'm stupid for calling him Pastor. Now I can't think of anything to say. What were we talking about?

Fortunately, he doesn't miss a beat. "You think this is bad, huh? Worse than anything else you've ever done?"

I nod. "Definitely."

"Why? Because you got caught?"

Again, his bluntness takes me by surprise. "What? I mean, no! I mean..."

He puts up a hand. "Sorry. I shouldn't assume or presume anything, but believe it or not, I know what it's like to date and be... tempted... by things." He clears his throat.

It's the first time he's seemed uncomfortable, and it fills me with despair. I mean, it's bad enough that one of us is squirmy and embarrassed. But as long as he keeps his composure, I can pretend it's okay to say anything. If he thinks this is awkward, then I know it's bad.

Before I can reply, he recovers. "Anyway, that's not where I meant to go with this. What I wanted to convey is—again—that there are no degrees of sin. Remember? So... when you dropped your keys back there and cursed?"

"Oh, geez, you heard that?"

He smiles but doesn't answer. Instead, he continues, "It's the same thing as having sex outside of marriage. Or lying to your parents. They're all just sins. And everybody sins. Even me." He nudges me with his elbow to underscore his joke.

"I'm sure you do," I reply, snorting. "I bet you roll your eyes behind Mrs. Hanson's back when she tells the same stories 700 times. Or sometimes you don't feel like getting up on Sunday mornings for church. Big whoop." I take a deep breath. "And sex outside of marriage is one thing, but a one-night stand is something else altogether."

He sings in a baritone, "They're all equal," which makes me laugh out loud. Then he says, "Anyway, it's flattering that you have me so high on a pedestal, but I'm a lot less saintly than you obviously think I am."

"Prove it," I challenge.

While he thinks about it, we walk in silence. Then he says, "Some of the things I'm most ashamed of I can't tell you about, because... well, I'd be betraying the confidences of others. And that's kind of a big no-no in my line of work."

"There has to be something not related to your job," I push. Then I feel like a bully, trying to get him to confess something big so that I won't feel as bad about myself. "Never mind. I know you're human just like the rest of us. It's just hard to remember that sometimes. And hard to imagine you don't always follow the rules."

"I have you all fooled, then, huh?"

"Pretty much."

Without warning, my stomach flips over, and my cheeks tingle as my salivary glands kick into overdrive. _Oh, fuck._

"Hang on," I manage to croak before crashing through the brush next to the trail. Through vision magnified by adrenaline, I find a tree to hide behind as I hurl. _At least I don't have to make up some kind of lame excuse for this,_ I think as I wipe my mouth and lean against the tree while making sure I'm really finished. There'll be no manufactured stomach bugs or hangovers or bouts with food poisoning.

When I re-emerge, he hands me a small bottle of water. Before I can check it, I think, _He conjured water out of thin air, like Jesus,_ and I start laughing. He won't leave me alone until I reveal what I think is so funny, so I do, despite being embarrassed by the rogue thought.

He smiles mildly. "Yeah. No. Pocket." He pats the large, zippered pocket on the side of his shorts.

"Well, thanks," I say, swishing the water in my mouth and spitting it as discreetly as possible into the grass behind us. "Sorry for the show."

"You warned me," he says. "Besides, I didn't see or hear anything. Good thing, too. I'm a sympathetic puker. Sometimes just hearing it will set off my gag reflex. I covered my ears while you were..." He waves his hand in the direction of the trees and shivers.

I avert my eyes. "Sorry."

"Do you want to turn back?" he asks.

I nod. "Probably a good idea. I should think about trying to eat something, ironically enough."

Back at my car, he holds the door open for me after I unlock it. _Why, Pastor, how chivalrous!_ The giggles threaten again, but the thought of having to explain myself if he calls me on that one helps me contain them.

"See you at church tomorrow?"

I like how he doesn't assume it. And his question doesn't sound pushy. It's just a question.

"Sure," I answer cheerfully. And I realize for the first time in a long time that I'm looking forward to it.

## 6

# Panic in the Pew

I sit in the pew next to Mom and Dad, feeling like someone on a first date. It's bizarre. And unsettling. I actually ironed my clothes this morning. After trying on several things first. Of course, some things didn't fit. For obvious reasons. But other things fit just fine, and I tossed them aside because I didn't think I looked good enough in them.

I keep telling myself that I don't have anyone to impress, but then I get a flash of Pastor... I mean, Brice... in his street clothes, and my chest gets that tight feeling that you get when you think about someone you have a crush on. When you're fourteen. And life is uncomplicated. Because the only thing you know about sex and pregnancy comes from the disgusting video in health class that they make you watch, as if to say, "Don't say we never warned you."

Now I straighten my skirt and uncross and re-cross my legs. Which requires me to re-straighten my skirt. Mom scoots a few inches further down the pew from me after I nudge her one too many times and shoots me a dirty look as Pastor (he's still Pastor in this building, I remind myself) walks out from the vestry, and the organist stops playing the pre-service music.

He's in the middle of giving us some announcements before beginning the service when he catches my eye. "Uh... yeah. So... that's what... that's... all... about," he stammers and looks down at the notes in his hands. After clearing his throat, he continues, "That's, uh... the third Tuesday of every month through the end of the year, starting this month. Uh... budget planning. We'd love your... uh... input. Now, let's rise and sing our opening hymn."

Quickly, he walks to his chair and takes a sip of the water on the table next to it.

That's when I stop watching him, because I suddenly realize it's creepy for me to be staring. And I'm supposed to be singing.

The rest of the service continues without incident, but I can't stop thinking about his becoming flustered after seeing me in the congregation. What was that about? A quick reassuring check of my dress confirms that nothing's peeking—or busting—out inappropriately from my bustline. After this heart-stopping worry is allayed, I think less superficially and higher than the gutter, but my stomach sinks at the next logical explanation: maybe he's uncomfortable knowing what he knows about me. Have I put him in an awkward position, and he's figuring it out now that he sees me sitting with my parents? Now _I'm_ uncomfortable. What if he decides it's in my best interest to tell them? And he forces some kind of truth-telling intervention between the three (four, including him) of us?

By the end of the service, I've worked myself into a near-panic with my speculations. So I try to slip past him unnoticed while he's greeting my parents.

"Peyton!" he calls out, interrupting Dad's inquiry about his golf game.

Mom and Dad both whirl around to look at me. I freeze. They look back to Pastor.

"Do you have a minute to hang around after..." he motions with his eyes to the rest of the line waiting to greet him.

My parents focus their wide-eyed stares at me once more.

"Uh..." I answer, "I'm, uh, kind of in a hurry."

"You _are?_ " Mom questions. Turning back to him, she says, "I'm sure she has time, Pastor. We'll wait with her." As if I'm a toddler.

Thankfully, he looks just as dismayed at her offer as I feel. "It's okay, Peg," he assures her. To me, he says, "I'll catch up with you later. No biggie." Then, effectively dismissing us, he turns to the next person.

Mom pulls me aside in the fellowship hall. "What's so important that you don't have time to talk to Pastor?"

"He probably wants me to... volunteer... to help with the youth group or something," I improvise. "I'm not interested." That is the absolute truth.

"Well, if he needs your help, it's your duty to step up," she lectures. "Be nice. He's new."

I roll my eyes at her, but to get her to shut up, I say, "Fine. I'll wait for him."

"Are you coming over to watch baseball this afternoon?" Dad asks. "Cubs play the Cards, I think."

Grabbing his out (even though I prefer football to baseball), I say, "Yes. I'll meet you there later." Then I hastily kiss them both on their cheeks when I notice that Pastor's almost to the end of the line. "One o'clock?"

"I'll make lunch," Mom offers.

"Great." Pastor's turning off the lights in the sanctuary and turning our way. "Awesome. Sounds... great. See you later!" I practically push them out the door, but not before Mom shouts over her shoulder, "Be nice! Say yes!"

That raises Pastor's eyebrows, but he merely smiles when he reaches me. "Hey. I'm glad you made it today."

"You, too," I reply automatically. "I mean..." I laugh at myself. "Duh. You know what I mean."

He smiles. "Yeah. Uh..." He looks around at the few people still lingering and says, "Do you mind stepping into my office for a second? I wante to talk to you about... you know... privately."

I try not to blush, but the funny thing about blushing is that the more you try not to do it, the deeper the shade of red. Head lowered, I follow him down the hall. Once inside his office, he closes the door behind us, crosses to the front of his desk, and perches on the corner of it.

"I've been thinking..." he begins, staring down at his legs.

_Here it comes_ , I think, bracing myself. The judgment or advice or whatever. I knew it.

"I feel kind of bad."

Exactly! He regrets promising to keep my secret from my parents.

"Well, don't," I say firmly. "This is my problem, not yours."

He looks up at my wary tone. "Yeah. I know. But I want to help. That's what you do in a family, which is what the church is. A family."

I cock an eyebrow at him. "In my family, we keep secrets."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

Smiling tightly, he says, "But that's not healthy."

I don't return the smile. "Listen, if you're uncomfortable keeping something like this from my parents, I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have told you. But I want to be the one to tell them. On my own time."

Now he looks hurt. "Oh. Okay." Straightening to his full height, he stands and folds his hands in front of himself. "I mean, I have experience with this, you know. And it works out well, for the most part. The girls are usually a lot younger, but... the concept's the same."

"Mmm. Well, I'm a big girl, so I think I can handle it by myself. And I'd appreciate if you'd respect your vows of silence or whatever and keep your mouth shut around my parents."

Shaking his head, he assures me, "Of course! I'm just offering to be present. You know, as a supportive, neutral person."

"What?"

"When you finally decide to tell them, whenever that is," he clarifies. "Whenever _you_ choose."

After I merely stare at him for a while, he takes a step closer to me and eagerly explains, "I'm saying you can call me when you're ready to tell your parents, and I'll be there with you. You know, in case you're worried about how they're going to react. I find that people tend to moderate their reactions when there's a clergyman in the room."

My new favorite response to everything is crying, so it's no surprise to me when my eyes fill with tears at his offer.

"That's so nice," I choke out. My shoulders slump. "I thought you were saying you wanted to tell them _for_ me, before I was ready to tell them." Almost completely unintelligibly, I sob, "You probably think I'm such a jerk!"

Without hesitation, he walks over to me and folds me in a hug. "Of course not. It's okay. You're scared. I get it."

I blubber against his chest, "But I should have known you wouldn't rat me out to my parents. Oh, my gosh! I sound like an idiotic kid! I need to grow the hell up! I mean... sorry," I immediately apologize for the profanity. "Bad habit."

He rubs my back. "Relax. I'm not even keeping count—although that's twice now."

When he steps away, I'm kind of sorry, but I blot at my eyes with my fingers and try to compose myself.

"Very funny."

"I know. It's one of my best qualities." Swiftly turning away from me, he straightens some papers on his cluttered desk. "There are tissues on the table over there."

It takes me a second to find the table to which he's referring, but when I do, I help myself to one of the tissues. While I mop up my face, he keeps his back to me.

"I, uh, mean it, though. Call me anytime. Day or night. It doesn't have to be a planned thing."

"Okay..." Still, he doesn't look my way, so I take the hint that I'm being dismissed. "Well, you're probably busy, and I told my dad I'd be over to watch some baseball..."

"Oh, that's nice. Yeah, I was invited to the Pluckers' house tonight for dinner. And before that I have to make my rounds at the hospitals to give our members there Holy Communion." He glances at me over his shoulder. "So..."

I give my nose one more honk and crumple the tissue in my hand. "Well. Have a nice day." I reach behind me for the door handle and fumble with it. "See you next week."

Now he spins around. He's holding a folder in front of himself at waist height. "Or sooner," he says quickly. "I mean, if you want to. Uh... if you need me. You know... for... you know."

I smile sadly. "Yeah. Thanks. But probably not for a while. Telling my parents, I mean. I still have some time. To figure out everything."

"Sure. Of course. Well, feel free to call me for whatever. Even if you just want to talk."

That's when he definitely, without a doubt, blushes.

Oh.

I know something strange is happening, but I can't put my finger on it. I just know something has shifted between the two of us. And I need to get out of here. So I blurt, "Thanks. Bye!" and run from the office, nearly knocking down Mrs. Hanson as I round the corner. "Sorry!" I call over my shoulder as I push through the doors to the parking lot. But I don't stop.

## 7

# Flirting with Trouble

Thankfully, I'm getting to the point where I'm not sick in the afternoons. But I'm ravenous, and I crave the strangest things, which then cause me to spend a lot of quality time with my toilet in the evenings. And mornings are still Hell.

Today, though, a visit with my parents actually coincides with the "normal" part of my day, so I'm not as uptight about them noticing that something's going on. It's nice to be able to enjoy the game with my dad and eat every single scrap of food Mom puts in front of me. All's right with the world. Until the conversation turns away from sports.

"So, why does Pastor want you?" Mom asks out of nowhere during a commercial break.

The nacho I'm holding slips from my hand, landing on my shirt, where it splats salsa between my breasts.

"What? He doesn't _want_ me!" I protest, snorting at the absurdity of her statement.

Befuddled by my reaction, she looks up from her needlepoint. "You know, after church? When he asked to talk to you?"

Cleaning myself up serves as a good distraction and a way to hide the relief on my face. "Oh. That." I chuckle nervously as I pick onions and tomato bits from my shirt and lick my fingers. "You know, just, uh, taking the pulse of the, uh... younger people in the congregation."

"What's that mean?" she persists.

Now that I'm confident I can look her in the eyes without her being able to see straight to the bottom of my soul, I hold her gaze for my next lie. "He was asking how I liked the new order of worship and if I'd be interested in joining the choir."

Mom pulls her head back and laughs. "He's obviously never heard you sing. No offense, honey."

I laugh with her. "Yeah, right? That's what I told him. But I said I liked the new format of the service. Makes it more interesting."

Dad pipes up. "Well, I'm glad it's only once a month. I like the traditional format better. I don't go to church to be entertained; I go to worship."

Mom nods her agreement and goes back to her needlepoint. "True. But I agree with Peyton that it's a nice change every once in a while. I really like Pastor Northam, too. His sermons are excellent."

Why am I so pleased by her approval? I don't know, but it makes me say, "Yeah. He has a great sense of humor. And I like how he focuses on how God's love should make us feel uplifted, not judged." Is it hot in here all of a sudden?

"Huh. Well, he's a little too 'I'm-okay-you're-okay' for my taste," Dad grouses.

Without looking up, Mom adds, "He's not too hard on the eyes, either. I know several ladies are trying to match him up with their daughters. Joanna Plucker is convinced that Tracy would be a perfect pastor's wife. But I don't know. I think you have to be more outgoing than she is."

Suddenly, I'm incensed. "Tracy Plucker? She has the sense of humor of... of tree bark!" And still has acne at the age of 27. But that seems too petty to say out loud.

Mom shrugs, fortunately oblivious to my pounding heart and horror at the thought that _Brice_ is going to be having dinner with the Pluckers tonight, and it might as well be called a date, chaperoned by the Mother Plucker herself. "I don't think a sense of humor is a job requirement. Patience sure is, though. Honestly, I can't imagine being married to a pastor." She shudders at the thought. "Although I think it's probably better nowadays than it used to be. Our congregation is pretty understanding when it comes to respecting his free time. There are always the vocal few who make life miserable, though..."

Dad shushes us and turns up the volume on the TV now that the commercial break has ended. Sitting back on the couch, I feed my face and seethe at the thought of Tracy Plucker making a move on Brice. As if he'd find _her_ attractive. Sure, she's thin and blonde and—in all fairness—doesn't have _that_ bad of a complexion. But she's so... dull. I've been going to church with her since we were in grade school, but I don't think I've heard her say more than five words.

She does have one thing going for her, though: as far as I know, she's not knocked up.

_Why do I even care?_ I ask myself for the thousandth time at work the next day. Why do I waste my time caring about women that Brice and Stefan are dating? It's none of my concern. _I_ don't want to be dating either one of them. Even if they asked me. I might as well get upset every time I hear about the latest model Leonardo DiCaprio is dating. Just for example.

And I shouldn't be thinking about men at all. I'm sidelined. On the IR. At least for the next seven months. And, realistically, much longer. Possibly forever. So... bah! I need to stop letting my hormone-infested brain dwell on irrelevant matters.

"Smart Art, this is Peyton."

"What a coincidence! I'm calling from Dumb Junk Posing as Art."

Ah, Sexy Drexy. Wheee! Hormones!

"Hey! Did you get my email about the re-scheduled show next month?"

He sighs dramatically. "Yes. And I was soooo looking forward to telling Stefan 'no.' Never mind. I'll find some other way to disappoint him. I'll shrink his underwear in the wash, or something. So, how was your weekend?"

I look back on it. "Okay. I got a head start on picking my players for my fantasy football team, so I guess I can't complain."

"You play fantasy football?" He laughs. "Wow. That's kind of a turn-on."

"Why, because I'm a girl?" I challenge.

"Yeah," he replies. "If you were a dude, I wouldn't be turned on. Just so you know. I don't swing that way."

"Good to know."

"I hope you're not offended. Sorry. This is kind of inappropriate. I actually called for a reason other than to sexually harass you."

Unfortunately, I don't mind.

I straighten one of the paintings on the wall and say, "Darn."

"Oooh, she's feisty!" he approves. "See? That's why I hate email sometimes. I had no idea you even had a personality until I called you last week. You're always so businesslike in your emails. And Stefan said... Well, never mind. He's a jack-off."

My stomach takes the elevator to my shoes. "What? What did he say about me?"

Drex seems completely at ease. "Forget it. Like I said, he's a moron. Why I really called is—"

"No! I want to know." Then I tone down the intensity in my voice and try to channel that feisty flirt from earlier in the call. "Seriously. It's not like it's going to hurt my feelings. I know he's an idiot. But I'm curious what someone like him thinks of me."

There's silence on the line as he considers it. Eventually, he says lightly, "Oh, what the hell? It's stupid, anyway. And I'm sure it's completely untrue. I don't even know how it came up."

If he doesn't spit it out, I'm going to scream.

"Oh, yeah! When I first started working for him, he was giving me a rundown of all the people I'd have to deal with at the various galleries and so on, and when he got to you, he said, 'Good luck with that one. She has a... what was it? Oh, yeah. 'misguided sense of importance and a superiority complex,' which I thought was rich, coming from him."

Relieved, I take a deep breath.

"Then he said the funniest thing: 'She's crap in the sack, too.' I think I laughed out loud on that one, because I'm almost positive he hasn't been laid since college, much less by someone who lives hundreds of miles away. That's one helluva booty call."

Somehow I manage to laugh with him before I say a quick goodbye, hang up the phone, and vomit into an urn with a $3,000 price tag.

I washed out the urn the best I could in the restroom, but I know I have to take it home to wash it well enough that I won't get fired. Of course, if Marshall finds out I took it out of the gallery, I'll be fired, anyway, so I'm in a no-win sitch.

To make things worse, I hung up on Drex before he could tell me the real purpose of his call, so I'm sure he thinks I'm upset by what he told me. It doesn't matter that I _am_ upset. I don't want Drex to know that. Only someone pathetic enough to sleep with old-man-shoe-wearing Stefan would care what he said about said sexual encounter.

As soon as I had the urn stashed in a safe place where I wouldn't forget it at the end of the day, I emailed Drex:

> _Sorry about that earlier. Boss walked in. Had to go. Forgot to ask why you called. Peyton_

I sit at my computer, tapping the desk as I stare at my inbox, willing a response to come through. He's mercifully quick with this reply:

> _Figured as much. Stuffing wanted to make sure the check was in the mail on the painting that sold over the weekend. D_

Well, even if he thinks I'm lying, he's nice enough to pretend to believe me. That means a lot.

A few minutes later, though, he follows up with:

> _Plus, if you really did sleep with him, we can't be friends. ;-)_

I don't respond to either email. What can I say that isn't just one more lie?

## 8

# Hot for Preacher

Tally of secrets rattling around in my brain and who I have to keep them from:

  1. I slept with Stefan (secret from Drex and my boss)
  2. I'm pregnant (secret from everyone except Mitzi, Jen, and Brice)
  3. I've started thinking of Pastor as "Brice" more often (secret from everyone!)
  4. I hurled in a very expensive urn at work (secret from Marshall)
  5. Nicole's on the verge of divorce with Lonnie (secret from Mom, Dad, and Jason)
  6. Nicole and Lonnie are in financial trouble (ditto)
  7. Mom's worried about Nicole (secret from Nicole)
  8. I have a crush on my pastor (secret from everyone, even me some days)
  9. I have a crush on Drex (secret from Drex... and definitely from Stefan)
  10. I'm insane and over-sexed
  11. Jason has a new tattoo (secret from Mom and Dad, but really, who cares?)

Wonderful. Not stressful _at all._ I don't know why at least eight people a day tell me I look tired. Or sick. Or stressed. I want to scream at all of them, "I am! All of those things!" before blurting out everyone's secrets. But I'm afraid I'll scare away what scant business we have lately.

Mitzi and Jen take pity on me at the end of a very long week and decide to forego bar-hopping (and husband hunting) to stay in with me and watch a chick-flick. I've just watched each of them drink an entire bottle of wine, my mouth watering for a sip. I'm craving alcohol like crazy. I think I know now how most of my family members feel on a daily basis. Anyway, I know it's only because I can't have it. And I also know it wouldn't kill me—or the baby—to have a sip or two, but I have enough on my conscience. I don't want to fudge this pregnancy thing.

That's why I'm religiously (okay, different word, please)—nay, fanatically—taking my prenatal vitamins, even though they make me want to puke even more than I already do. That's why I've signed up for every class the hospital offers on pregnancy and childbirth and post-natal care. That's why I'm going to take a parenting class (at a civic center in a suburb forty minutes away from my apartment). That's why I'm telling more and more and more lies to cover up the throwing up and my trips to the doctor. That's why I'm even more stressed out. I just know I'm going to be a horrible parent. And I'm going to have to do it alone.

After I've voiced this concern to my two friends and swiftly pointed to Jen to tell her to "save the abortion argument," Mitzi says, "Oh, don't worry about that. You'll be fine. And who says you're always going to be alone?"

"Me! Who wants to be saddled with some other guy's kid? Shut up, Jen!"

"Lots of guys don't mind taking on stepchildren," optimistic Mitzi insists.

"Yeah, old farts with no other options." I refuse to be cheered.

Jen says, "May I speak now?"

"Depends on what you're going to say," I answer.

"It's not too late," she states.

"Wrong answer!" But, oddly enough, it makes me laugh. I throw an olive at her head. "And anyway, yes, it technically is."

She dodges it (barely, with her slow, drunken reflexes). "Hey! Why are you two always throwing food at me? Stop it! And stop whining! Since when do you want a boyfriend or husband, anyway? Every time you date a guy, you complain about how annoying he is. Or unintelligent. Or insensitive. Or any other trait of his that he can't help because he has a penis."

I tick them off on my fingers. "That's because I've dated guys like Damien and Ben and Chris, who were annoying, unintelligent, and insensitive, respectively and sometimes concurrently. But there are guys out there who aren't. And when I meet one of them," _or two,_ I add silently, "I won't even be a contender."

"Why not? You have such a winsome, charming, positive attitude," Jen teases.

"Let's just watch the movie," I say glumly, even though I'm pretty sure anything starring Kate Hudson is just going to make me feel worse about myself.

This was so stupid. I don't know why I thought this was a good idea.

Actually, yes I do. It was that horrible movie last night from a million years ago. Kate Hudson falls in love with a—you're not going to believe this coincidence, because I sure didn't—Lutheran pastor. While Mitzi and Jen poo-poohed the whole concept, I sat, riveted, on the couch. And I was totally jealous of Kate Hudson's character. Well, first of all, because John Corbett played the pastor (so cute, but not as cute as Pastor Northam, I remember thinking pathetically), but mostly because she had a really complicated life that he was willing to take on, because he loved her.

I blamed my emotional reaction to the film on my hormones, but after they both left, I was more honest with myself. I really like Pastor... Brice. A lot.

So I decided while I was bent over the toilet this morning that I'd meet him here at the park for his Saturday morning walk (note to self: brain doesn't function very well during vomiting sessions).

Didn't he say he takes a long walk every Saturday? Well, I thought he did, so I showed up here at the same time as last week, but I don't see him. A normal person would get up from this bench, get in her car right now, and go home. Actually, a normal person would have never shown up unannounced somewhere she expects to find someone she has a crush on. That's called "stalking." I mean, what would I even say to him if he showed up right—

Oh, hell, is that him jogging toward me on the path? Oh, shit. It is. I wish I had a book or something to hide behind.

"Peyton?" he questions breathlessly from twenty feet away before drawing up in front of me.

Sheepish, I wave. "Hey."

"Hey! What're you doing here?" He wipes the sweat from his face with the front of his shirt.

[Time out! What's up with those abs? Hello! No, wait! Don't put your shirt down yet! I'm not finished admiring God's handiwork. Aww... Time in!]

When I stand up, he steps back. "Gosh, don't get too close to me. Sorry if I smell."

I'm glad he doesn't seem as weirded out that I'm here as he probably should be. As casually as I possibly can, I say, "I thought I'd meet you here for your Saturday walk, but I see I'm too late."

He actually looks sorry when he says, "Oh! You should have called."

"I know!" I acknowledge. "I wasn't thinking. It was kind of a stupid impulse."

"No! Not at all! It's just that sometimes—like today—I jog instead of walk, and I like to do that first thing after I wake up. You know, before I even shower."

My brain is about to fritz out from all the mental images trying to get through my furiously-functioning filters, so all I can say is, "Mm-hm," and look down at my sneakers.

Still panting, he braces his hands on his hips and asks, "So, how's it going? I was just thinking about you."

"Praying for unwed mothers?" I joke a lot more bitterly than I intended as I squint up at him.

He smiles and says, "No," but doesn't elaborate. "Hey, uh, I'm über-self-conscious about"—he pinches his nose closed and makes a face—"but do you want to grab something to eat? Or are you still...?" He sticks his tongue out and makes a gagging noise.

I laugh at his quasi-charades. "I could eat," I admit.

His smile broadens into a grin. "Great! I mean, okay. Why don't we meet at the church in about twenty minutes? The building's unlocked; I think some of the trustees are milling around, inspecting the roof. I guess they don't believe me when I tell them it's leaking and need to see for themselves. You can wait for me in my office, if you want."

"All right," I agree, standing up. The church is literally right across the street, and his house is directly behind the church, but as he starts to jog away, I call out an offer for a ride.

He pinches his nose again as he runs backwards. "I'll spare you!" he yells back. "See you in a few!"

I command myself to get in my car without watching the muscles in his legs or thinking about that belly. I systematically disobey myself on both counts.

At the church, a handful of people are, indeed, walking around on the roof, standing on ladders, and generally "milling around." Without thinking, I wave to one of my dad's friends on my way into the church, then cringe. Shit. How am I going to explain my presence here if he mentions to Dad that he saw me today? Oh, well. Too late now. I guess I'll think of something if it comes up. Lying is my newest art medium.

As instructed, I go into Brice's office and wait in there, but I keep the door open. After a few minutes, I get bored just sitting, so I start to wander around, looking at the things on his shelves and out in the open. He has several hand-drawn pictures from Sunday school students stuck to the side of his filing cabinet with magnets. One of them makes me laugh out loud: a depiction of him standing next to (towering over, more like) Jesus, both of them grinning from ear-to-ear, literally. Jesus is holding what appears to be a basketball. I had no idea Jesus liked the occasional pick-up game, but it makes sense. Sort of.

On a shelf are several framed photos. There's one of Brice standing between an older couple. (Parents? Grandparents?) He's wearing the standard-issue black shirt with the white clerical collar. It actually looks like he's dressed as a pastor for Halloween, because he looks so young. Even younger than he looks now.

A photo just to the left of that one intrigues me. He's sitting on the bench of a cafeteria-style table with his arm around a man with a shaved head. The man is wearing an orange jumpsuit and is covered in tattoos. What the...? Random. Yet, the picture obviously means a lot to him, or he wouldn't display it. I wonder who that guy is. I'm leaning in closer to try to see the rest of the background in the photo when I hear Brice in the hallway.

"Lookin' good, Bert! Whoa! Sorry. Didn't mean to distract you. Watch that ladder!" He laughs. His voice is in the reception area now, still pointed toward the open front door. "What's that? Yep, that makes sense, based on the waterfall I saw the other day in the gym.... Huh? No, I believe you. You guys have it under control; I'd just be in the way. Got some other things to do, anyway..."

Finally extricating himself from the conversation with the trustee, he enters his office, comes to a stop in the middle of the room, puts his hands on his hips, and grins at me. "Ready?"

I jab my thumb at the picture. Curiosity is beating out my impulse not to pry. "Who's this?"

Joining me by the shelf, he says, "Ah. My buddy Greg."

"Your buddy? It looks like he's in prison." I laugh nervously.

"He was," he states simply.

"Oh." I don't know what to say to that. I want to know why, but it doesn't seem nice to ask, for some reason.

Thankfully, he volunteers the information. "That picture was taken about a week before his execution. Being the prison chaplain, I spent a lot of time with him leading up to that day."

I gulp. "Execution?"

He nods and continues staring at the photo. "Yep. Was convicted—and subsequently admitted to—raping and killing two women."

"What?!"

He looks at me now. "Oh." Wincing, he says, "Sorry. I forget that not everyone can take something like that in stride."

"You can?"

"No. Not really. But I mean, I was surrounded by that every day for two years. You kind of have to think of it differently so you can get through the day." He puts a hand on my shoulder. "Greg and I had a lot of good talks. He was truly sorry for what he did and was a different person at the time of his death than he was when he committed those crimes."

Awe in my voice, I say, "You were like Susan Sarandon in _Dead Man Walking._ "

"Uh... maybe? There are a few differences... _big_ differences...but..." When I can't tear my eyes from the photo, he pulls on my arm. "Come on. I'm hungry. And if we stay around here much longer, Bert and the rest of the guys are going to recruit us."

"I probably shouldn't climb ladders."

"Yeah, but how're you going to explain that?" he asks.

He has a point.

Out in the parking lot, he unlocks the red Jeep SUV parked next to my car. "Where to?" he asks as we get in.

I shrug. "I'll eat anything."

"Really?"

Nodding, I answer, "Yeah. I just have to think about what I want to taste again later." When he blanches, I purposely echo what he said to me about Greg. "Sorry. I forget that not everyone can take something like that in stride." Then I encourage, "Pick whatever you're in the mood for."

"Nothing, now," he mutters, but then he smiles over at me. "Just kidding. Okay. Let's go."

We wind up at one of those diners that has about a thousand items on the menu and will cook to order just about anything you want, even if it's not specifically listed on the novel-length menu (which makes one wonder why they even bother with the menu). Brice orders a full breakfast, including orange juice, coffee, chocolate milk, and water.

"I'm not sure you're going to be hydrated enough when we leave here," I tease him.

He laughs at the array of beverages in front of him. "I like a variety," he explains.

I sip my water and set down my glass. "I can see that."

"Plus, you're never too old for chocolate milk, right?" To demonstrate, he downs nearly the entire glass in one gulp. "Ah!"

That reminds me: "How old are you, anyway? I can't figure it out. Are you younger than me?"

"I doubt it," he half-answers. "How old do you think I am?"

As I study his face, he turns it from side to side, wiggling his eyebrows, sticking out his tongue, and crossing his eyes.

Finally, I guess wildly, "Twenty-five."

He stops making faces. "Oh, come on. Is that honestly your best guess?"

Embarrassed that he obviously thinks it's a dumb one, I lift one shoulder in a half-shrug. "Yes? I think you look about twenty-five."

"Well, thanks, but you have to take into consideration other factors besides looks, right? Like math. I've been to college. And seminary. And I was a prison chaplain for two years. That would make me at least...?"

I don't know how long seminary is, but college and the chaplain stint already put him past twenty-five, so I say, "Twenty-seven?"

"Bonk!"

"Twenty-nine?"

"Closer... but remember, this isn't my first church. One more hint: I was the Associate Pastor at the church before this one for two years, so..."

"Thirty-one!"

"Ding-ding-ding! I turned thirty-one last month. Whew! I need a drink after that." He chugs his orange juice.

Thirty-one. Wow. Four years older than I am. Even older than Nicole.

Slowly setting down his glass, he asks, "Why are you looking at me like you're waiting for gray hairs to sprout from my ears?"

I blush. "I'm not! I'm just... surprised. You don't look that... mature."

He laughs at my attempt to avoid the word "old."

"I try to take good care of myself. Not that thirty-one is old, anyway. Just ask some of the church members. They think I'm way too young."

"That's only because they're ancient," I dismiss that opinion. "It's all relative. It's like... next to my sister, Nicole, I'm chubby, but I'm thinner than my friend, Mitzi."

He cocks his head. "Have I met this sister of yours?"

"I don't think so," I answer, quickly returning to talking about him. "And to all the little kids in Sunday school, you probably seem _really_ old."

"Absolutely, considering I seem 'really old' to _you_."

I stop trying to talk my way out of it. That's not what I think at all, but there's no way I'm going to convince him of it. "Anyway..."

Our food arrives. Simply looking at his omelet makes my stomach heave as he murmurs a short prayer over our food. Shit. I thought I was going to be okay with this. But there's something about eggs... The look, the smell, the texture... ugh. The whole package is revolting. But he tucks right in. I focus on the "Exit" sign over the door.

After a few minutes, he looks up from his plate and notices I haven't touched my food. My silverware, as a matter of fact, is still wrapped in my napkin.

He swallows the bite in his mouth. "What's wrong? You're not gonna—"

I shake my head tersely. "Don't say anything," I instruct him.

Setting down his fork, he reaches for his coffee like I'm a rattlesnake that's going to bite him if he makes any sudden moves.

"Maybe if you eat a small bite," he suggests. "Sometimes if my stomach's too empty—"

"Please," I beg him. "I don't want to tell a man of the cloth to shut up, but I will." The sign blurs as my eyes tear up with the effort not to gag. Part of me thinks I should run for the bathroom. The other part of me knows I won't make it if I have to walk past the other tables loaded with food. The thought of ruining all these people's meals makes my heart sink.

From the corner of my eye, I see him signal to our server, who comes over. "Can you please take these plates away?" he murmurs to her. "She's not feeling well."

"Is she gonna be sick in here?" The woman's voice is preposterously loud.

Several of the tables around us fall silent.

Brice answers, "I hope not. There's less of a chance of that happening, too, if you clear our table."

"Was it somethin' she et?" the waitress asks, adding, "It looks like she didn't et a lick of food."

Her word choice is very unfortunate. I gag with my mouth closed. Brice gags in response to my gag.

"Well, don't jest set there!" she scolds both of us, while the people around us hold their breath and visibly shrink away from us. She starts piling the plates on her arms and backing away.

"I'm fine," I assure the other diners close by. The embarrassment seems to have had an anti-nausea effect.

Brice still looks green, but he uses his hands to fan my face from across the table. "Are you sure?" he asks. "I'll carry you to the bathroom, as long as you don't make that noise again."

I can't help but laugh at the desperation in his eyes. "I'm sure." I take a deep breath and a sip of water. "I'm sorry. Sorry," I repeat about ten times to the people around us as they go back to their meals.

Continuing to fan me with one hand, Brice digs his wallet from his back pocket with the other hand and tosses enough money on the table to cover the bill and the tip.

"I've got mine," I tell him, moving to grab my purse from the chair next to me.

"Nope. You're going to sit there and concentrate on nothing but standing up and walking through those doors over there without losing it. Right now, you're keeping your head up, and we're both going to thank Jesus for averting that potentially-disastrous situation. M'kay?"

I feel completely fine now, so I bat his fanning hand away. "Stop. You're making people stare at us."

He obeys but whispers, "They started staring a long time ago."

The fresh air in the parking lot eases any last pangs of nausea, and when I buckle my seatbelt, I realize with a laugh, "Now I really _am_ hungry."

When that statement gets no response from the person on my left, I turn my head to look at him. And I laugh when I see his hands folded in his lap and his head bowed in prayer.

## 9

# Denial

The air is so crisp and clean, it almost hurts to breathe it. But it hurts so good. And the sun has its own little personality as it filters down through the red and golden leaves. Fall. Love it. Want to marry it. Wish I could freeze this day forever. I'd stay young, healthy, happy, and worry-free, because none of the things I'm worried about would ever come to fruition.

The only thing I would change about this glorious day is the person sitting next to me on my apartment balcony. If I could have the hand of God reach down, pluck Nicole from her chair, and replace her with Mitzi, Jen, Brice, or Drex, that would be great. I mean, he has four people to choose from. I'm not being picky. Just not Nicole. Or Stefan. Or my mother.

"What did you tell her?" My sister's harassing me now as I hide behind my sunglasses, looking out over the green courtyard between buildings in my apartment complex. "She's all over me, fishing for answers. The other day, she started crying and blubbering about motherless children. What the fuck, Peyton?"

I answer calmly, "I've told her nothing, which is probably the problem." Reaching down, I grab my giant cup of Sprite and ice from the balcony floor and sip it through the crazy straw poking from it. "Why don't you just confide in her? Tell her what's going on. It would take care of everything. She'd stop assuming you're dying of cancer, and you'd get the money you need to get out of your marriage."

"Did you just meet our mother? That's not how it works."

"For you, it does."

She snorts. "Oh, that's right. Poor, pitiful Peyton. Mommy loves me more, is that how it is?"

That's about right, but when she says it like that, I sound like a spoiled, petulant brat.

Instead of agreeing, I switch tracks. "If you went to our church, you could go to Bri—Pastor Northam for advice. He's very understanding." Sip, sip.

"What's a Bri-Pastor? Is that something new? Like a vicar?"

I could probably get away with making something up to cover my blunder since she hasn't stepped foot in a Lutheran church since she married Lonnie and became a Baptist. But I'm so sick of lying, omitting, and covering up shit that I can't do it. "No. Brice is his first name. But I realized you wouldn't know who I was talking about if I called him his first name."

There it is. The stare-down. I refuse to participate. I watch a bird peck at the damp grass below us and come up with a worm.

After what feels like an eternity, she says, "Hmm. Interesting. I've never heard Mom or Dad call your pastor by his first name."

I shrug. "It's a younger person thing."

"Well, back to me..."

Thank you, Jesus, for my sister's self-centered personality. How silly of me to doubt You had a plan with even that detail. I've waited twenty-seven years to understand, but now that I do, I thank You.

"No pastor is going to be able to help me out of this situation. Only one thing is: money. And I have none. I thought I was so special, being a stay-at-home mom and having a husband who was capable of providing for all of us so that I didn't have to work. Shit! He was trapping me. I have no money, no skills, and no options."

Enough.

I stretch out and pull (with a lot more effort than I'd like) my BlackBerry from my pants pocket. Not even bothering to try to hide what I'm doing, I check my email and my Facebook account, responding to some of the posts on there from Mitzi and Jen. After I've been on there a while, a chat window pops up.

**Drex:** Boo

**Me:** Hey.

**Drex:** Whatcha doin?

**Me:** Listening to my sister bitch about her perfect life

**Drex** : LOL

Sorry

Too bad you're not in NYC. We could be having a lot more fun.

**Me** : I'm sure.

Such as... hanging upside down by our toes from the Brooklyn Bridge?

Much better than this.

**Drex:** Tell her to get lost.

**Me:** If only.

So what are you doing that's so fun?

**Drex** : Working, of course

**Me** : On a Saturday? Oh, wait... I forgot who you work for.

**Drex** : Stuffing's on a creative tear.

That means I have to stand by to hold his cigarettes for him and fetch his food when he gets hungry.

**Me** : More masterpieces coming my way?

**Drex** : Nah... I think he's sending this one to a place here in the City. You're small potatoes.

**Me** : Ha.

**Drex** : Thanks for accepting my FB friend request. Nice profile picture. Is that really you?

**Me** : Why? Trying to see what I look like? Shallow...

**Drex** : Maybe. My profile pic is really me.

**Me** : Good for you.

**Drex** : So... yours isn't really you, then?

**Me** : It is.

**Drex** : You're cute.

"Hello! Have you been listening to a word I've said?" Nicole cranes her neck to try to see what I'm doing. "What's up with the dopey grin?"

"Nothing!" I pull my BlackBerry away from her nosy view, but I guess I'm not fast enough.

"Who's Drex?"

"Don't worry about it," I hedge. "You have enough of your own problems without snooping into my private life."

"First 'Brice,' now Drex? What's going on with you, little sister?" The teasing tone of her voice is almost as annoying as her incessant whining. I'm suddenly fourteen again. She doesn't wait for my answer, either. "Drex. What kind of name is that? Short for something? Drex...el? Ew. That's horrible. Let me see his picture again."

"No!" I slide the device into the front pouch of my hooded sweatshirt, out of sight. "He's nobody. Just a guy I know from work. We're friends." I loudly slurp the last of my Sprite as a sort of punctuation mark to the conversation. A period.

"Sounds promising," she persists, speaking above the noise. "When're you going to introduce him to Mom and Dad?"

I shake my head hopelessly before caving and giving her this information: "He lives in New York and is a personal assistant to one of the artists who sells his crap at the gallery. He's _not_ my boyfriend."

"Yet."

"Ever."

"That grin on your face was _not_ the grin of someone who wants to be 'just friends' with the person she's chatting with. You're smitten. Look! Your cheeks are glowing and everything! Drex and Peyton; Peyton and Drex. Edgy sounding. Urban and modern."

"Would you shut the fuck up?!?!" My voice echoes between the buildings.

One of my neighbors across the way comes out onto his balcony and looks around, searching for the source of the outburst. Nicole helpfully points at me. The guy shakes his head and goes back inside.

I follow suit, storming into my apartment with Nicole right behind me.

"What's wrong with you, anyway?" she demands. "Since when don't you tell me about the guys you're interested in or dating or whatever?"

Refilling my cup with ice, I say with my head in the freezer, "Since I'm _not_ interested in or dating or _whatever_ Drex—or anybody—there's nothing to tell you. And I don't appreciate being hounded about it. Okay?"

"Okay," she reluctantly agrees. "I was just having fun."

"Well, it's not fun to me. So lay off."

"Fine."

"Good."

She watches me closely as I fill my cup to the top with Sprite, sit down on one of the barstools, and morosely sip my drink.

"But you're so shifty lately!" she complains. "I call to talk to you, and you brush me off; I ask you about your life, and you blow up. What's the deal?"

"I'm busy. And stressed out. And not in the mood to deal with everyone's secrets all the time, which is the only thing anyone seems to ever want to talk to me about anymore."

She perks up. "What? What secrets? Other people have told you things that are supposed to be secrets? Like who? Lonnie? Is he talking about me behind my back?"

I roll my eyes and look at the clock. "Hey. Aren't you supposed to pick up Sadie from ballet in five minutes?"

She flinches and whirls around to see the time for herself. "Oh, shit. Yes. I'm so glad you said something!" She collects her purse and sunglasses from the counter and digs for her keys on her way to the door. Just like the clone of our mother that she is, she changes conversational tracks like someone with multiple personalities. "Have a great afternoon, hon!"

I sigh. "Yeah. You, too."

Drex thinks I'm cute. Never mind that my Facebook profile picture is a snapshot Jen took of me five years ago at our college graduation party. He'll never see the current me, anyway. At least, I'm kind of counting on that. In a few weeks, it's going to be difficult to explain my appearance.

Why I'm concerned about explaining my appearance to a virtual stranger as opposed to the principle players in my life, though, is a whole other issue. I can't believe neither my mother nor my sister has commented on my weight, considering I can't button the majority of my pants and have started wearing only skirts with elastic waists or dresses. I'm going to have to break down and buy some maternity clothes soon. That's a shopping trip I'm not looking forward to. At all. It'll drive home that this is actually happening and that there's no turning back.

Because a small part of me is still in denial. Well, a big part of me, truthfully. Especially now that I'm not in constant fear of tossing my cookies in public. Or around my family. Or anyone else that doesn't know yet, because I'm a big, fat liar, and it's easier to lie than to tell them all the ugly, hairy truth. I mean, it's obvious by the way I act with Drex that I'm in denial. Yeah, pregnant girl, let's flirt with the personal assistant to your baby daddy. Smart move. Not to mention classy. And morally wrong on about nine different levels.

My feelings for Brice are inappropriate, too. I know this. But they're feelings. And right now, I'm not good at controlling things like feelings and emotions and food cravings. I just kind of go with whatever hits me. "I want to eat an entire tray of pizza rolls." Done. "I feel like crying in the middle of the store because they stopped carrying the kind of ladies' razors I like, and all I can fit into right now are skirts and dresses, and I can't have hairy legs, because that would make me even more disgusting than I already am, so I'm going to blubber like a baby right here." That happened. "I feel like talking to Brice, not because I need spiritual guidance—and boy, do I—but because I like the sound of his voice, and he makes me laugh and feel all warm inside, so I'm going to call him." Several times a week.

I haven't actually seen him outside of church, however. Not that I blame him after the last time we were together. Who wants to hang out with someone who makes you want to barf? He was a good sport about it to my face, but I bet he made a promise to himself after we said goodbye in the church parking lot never to go out in public with me again. Poor guy. The next day in church, he was friendly, but not any different than before I ever told him about my predicament. And each Sunday since then, he's been the same.

On the phone, though, he's been a lot more animated. And although I always call him with a particular issue in mind, we never seem to talk about it. Which is not good. Because I really do need his advice on a few things, but I always forget to ask about those things; then we hang up, and I think, "Oh, well. I'll ask him next time." Next time. Because I know I'll call him again. I may make myself wait two or three days (long, torturous days), but I always call. And he always seems glad to hear my voice.

As a matter of fact, it's been a few days since we've talked. I could use his opinion on what to do about my family driving me up the wall with their secrets. Another one landed in front of me yesterday: Mom's throwing a surprise birthday party for Dad, and—you guessed it—I'm the one who gets to distract Dad and keep him busy while everyone gathers at his favorite restaurant for the surprise. I was told, "It's perfect, because you and your dad always eat there together on his birthday. Only this year, we're all going to be there!" Yay. Ruin a perfectly lovely tradition _and_ make me lie to my father, all at the same time.

After Nicole leaves, I return to the balcony with my drink and my phone, settle in one of the chairs, and stare at Brice's entry in my phonebook. He's a good friend. And a good influence. I need to surround myself with people like him right now. There's nothing wrong with being friends with your pastor. It's probably a good thing, actually. And maybe it feels wrong because I'm so unused to doing the right thing. And, yeah, I think he's cute. Big deal. Sue me. It's not like I'm going to make a move on him. He's my pastor.

I hit the green button to dial his cell phone number.

It goes to voicemail. Darn. I don't leave a message.

Before I even have time to dwell on my disappointment, though, the phone buzzes in my hand. I don't recognize the number, but that never stops me from answering.

"Hello?"

"So this _is_ the right number!"

"Maybe... who's this?"

"Uh, it's Drex! I can't believe you don't recognize my voice."

My spirits immediately lift. "Oh! Hey! I wasn't expecting it to be you."

"Who were you expecting? One of your boyfriends?"

I laugh. "Oh, yes. One of the many. I have so many that I don't recognize all their phone numbers."

"I believe it." Before I can say anything else, he rushes, "Hey, I hope it's okay that I'm calling you. And I hope no one's in trouble at your work. I called there and told them that I needed to get in touch with you on an urgent matter regarding Stuffing, and they gave me your cell number." I can hear the wince in his voice. "Now that I tell you that, it seems kind of creepy. If you hang up right now, I'll understand."

"I'm not going to hang up. What's the urgent matter?"

He laughs. "There _isn't_ one. That's what's creepy about me calling the gallery for your cell phone number. Well, I guess it's kind of urgent that I'm bored out of my fucking mind waiting for Stuffing to need me for something that he could easily do himself. But that's it."

"Oh." The depth of my density is downright depressing sometimes. "Don't you have any friends closer to you that could entertain you?"

"Of course! But they're not as fun to talk to."

Fun. Nobody's described me as that in a long time. I haven't been very fun lately.

The "fun" girl says, "Oh. Okay."

"So, what happened to you earlier on Facebook? We were chatting and suddenly, you were gone. I'm not ashamed to admit that I waited a pathetically-long time for you to respond to my last message."

I try to think back to what we were talking about. Profile pics. When I don't say anything as I try to remember what his last message was, he jogs my memory for me. "You called me shallow for caring what you looked like? And I said you were... cute? Then you disappeared. Good way to make a guy feel super-confident."

I pick up my drink and play with my crazy straw. "Yeah. That's right. Sorry. I was about to type, 'thanks,' but my sister caught me not listening to her, and I had to put my BlackBerry away before she read the entire conversation over my shoulder."

"I wouldn't have minded."

"I would have."

"Are you ashamed of me?"

"What?! No!"

He laughs again. "Just kidding. Trying to see how high I can up the creepy quotient before you hang up on me."

"You're getting close to the limit," I warn with a smile.

"Okay, okay. I'm done with that. So... Stuffing's show is there this week. Are you ready for the invasion?"

Mock-regretfully, I reply, "Ooh... I accidentally scheduled a vacation day that day, so I won't be around. Bummer."

"Really?" he asks eagerly. "That's awesome."

" _I_ think so."

"No, really. Because I'm going to be tagging along, of course, and it's great that you don't have to work, because maybe we can meet up for drinks or something after Stuffing cuts me loose."

The blood drains from my face. "You're coming, too?"

"Of course. I've made myself indispensable. Stuffing can't go anywhere without me. So, what do you say? Will you take me out on the town? I'd show you a good time in my hometown, if the tables were turned..."

A sane, rational, responsible, smart person would make an iron-clad excuse such as, _"I'll be out of town...darn!"_ So what do I say?

"That sounds like a lot of fun!"

## 10

# Child's Play

He's surrounded by kids, and things are slightly out of control.

"Hey, Brody. You lost a shoe. Okay, everyone, let's settle down... come on, now. Sit down there on the steps and listen to Pastor, okay?"

"No!" one particularly rambunctious little girl calls out. That earns her a swift visit from her mother, who, red-faced, bustles to the front and escorts her daughter back to their pew and eventually from the sanctuary altogether when the girl throws an enormous fit.

Brice looks over his shoulder at the fading screams and winces. "Oops. Didn't mean to get anyone in trouble there. Anyway... Boys and girls, how is everyone today?"

"FINE!!!"

"Good! Glad to hear it. I'm not sure Rachel agrees with us right now, but we'll sort it out with her later."

I laugh at his fumbling around up there with the children's message. He doesn't have one every week, but on the weeks he does, it's always entertaining. And terrifying, when I think that one of those kids will soon be mine. I'm in the middle of imagining having to remove my little darling from the fray during a temper tantrum when I hear my name.

"Peyton!" Brice is motioning to me to come up there.

What?!

I shake my head and blink at him while Mom pushes on my arm. I don't even know what he's been talking about! And I sure as heck don't want to get up in front of the whole church in this tent dress.

Now he's walking up the aisle toward me, smiling patiently. "Come on. I need a helper." To the kids he says, "Peyton's kind of shy, so you all need to be really nice to her." He holds out his hand to me. What am I supposed to do? Refuse? Hold up the entire service because I'm petrified of making an idiot of myself? It's tempting, but I take his hand and allow him to lead me to the front.

He walks me to a spot in the middle of the kids and says, "Okay. You stand here." He strides to a spot about ten feet away. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he says loudly, "Can you hear me over there?"

In spite of my nerves, I chuckle and respond, "Yes." When he puts his hand to his ear, I say louder, "YES!"

"Okay, good! I knew you could talk louder than that." The congregation laughs. "Now, boys and girls, how does it make you feel when someone is mean to you?"

"SAD!" they chorus.

"That's right," he agrees. "Peyton, show us what it looks like when we're sad." He shoots me a huge frowny-face as an example.

He has to be kidding me. He's not kidding me. He widens his eyes at me expectantly and nods. I've never wanted to do such bodily harm to a man of God before.

After taking a deep breath, I put my hands to my face and cover my eyes, pretending to cry.

"Oh, no! Xander, Peyton is sad. How can we fix this?"

"Hug her?" Xander replies unsurely.

"Yes! Do it!" Brice encourages him.

I receive my hug from Xander, whose hand, incidentally, slides up the back of my dress and extremely high on the back of my thigh.

"Aghh!" I mutter, pulling down on the material and removing his hand. A few worshipers close by get a real kick out of this. Then Xander sits down.

"And how does it make you feel when someone tells you that you can't have something you _really_ want?"

"MAD!"

"ANGRY!"

"SAD!" comes the gamut of responses.

"Yeah," he agrees. "And frustrated, too, huh? Peyton, show us what that looks like, in case someone didn't see how Rachel looked when her mommy took her out."

Fists at my sides, I stamp my feet and scrunch my eyes closed. But that's all I'm doing. If he thinks I'm going to act any harder than that, he's crazy.

He laughs. "Okay. Yeah." Again, of the kids, he asks, "What do your parents or teachers do when you act like that?"

One boy calls out, "I have to go in time out. All the time!"

My eyes still squeezed shut, I start laughing at his revelation but try to quickly get back into character.

The rest of the congregation titters, too, but Brice manages to remain sympathetic and straight-faced. "Wow. That's tough. How do you think God treats us when we act like that?" Nobody says anything. "Anybody? What does God do when we throw a temper tantrum because He doesn't give us our way?"

After the silence drags for a while, I notice a shift in the air around me. And I smell a clean man. I crack an eyelid to see that Brice is standing in front of me. I close that eye again as he says, "Doesn't He wrap His arms around us"—he demonstrates—"and tell us it's okay? It's okay, Peyton," he tells me softly.

I nod against his chest.

"Boys and girls, help me give Peyton a great big group hug, okay?"

I hold the back of my dress down to avoid any other incidents as about forty arms snake around me. One tiny hand actually pats mine.

With everyone still holding onto me, Pastor explains, "This is exactly what God does when we're hurting the most. Or scared. Or mad. He just gives us a big hug. No time outs. Only love." He steps away, so the little ones release me. "All right. Quick prayer, then you have to go sit quietly again with your parents."

We all bow our heads and fold our hands.

"Lord, help us to remember that we're never alone in life when things aren't going our way. Amen. Okay, back to your seats."

The organist strikes up the opening notes to the next hymn as we disperse, but Brice murmurs near my ear as I'm passing him to return to my seat, "Thanks for your help."

Our eyes meet for a beat, but there's no time for me to say anything except, "You're welcome," before it would look odd for me to be standing there for too long. I duck my head and hurry back to my pew.

"I'm not an idiot; I know what you were doing with those kids." My phone to my ear, I trudge down the street. I'm running late getting back to work from my lunch break, but I had several errands to run, including picking up my dad's birthday gift from my mom: a set of golf clubs that I'm lugging seven city blocks.

He plays dumb. "What are you talking about?"

I smile into my phone and barely glance both ways before crossing the street. A cab almost mows me over (which would solve all of my problems, come to think of it), but stops in time and honks. I scoot out of its way and flip the driver the bird.

Without missing a beat in the conversation, I say, "Whatever. That's dirty pool. You have something to say to me, you just say it. No need to call me out in front of the entire church."

I can tell he's smiling, too. "I _have_ told you those things. I was talking to the kids, not you. Someone is paranoid."

"Lying's a sin."

He hesitates but eventually says, "Okay. To be completely honest, I didn't devise the children's message with you in mind, but I _was_ inspired in the middle of it to involve you, because it suddenly struck me how fitting it was. God likes to work that way."

"You're blaming divine inspiration? Are you sure you want to go there? Involve God in your lie?" I pass a couple having a loud argument.

Between chuckles, he insists, "I'm _not_ lying," before swiftly changing the subject. "Where are you? It sounds like absolute chaos."

"Downtown during lunch hour. So yes." I switch my phone from one hand to the other and stand on the corner with a bunch of other pedestrians as we wait for the crossing signal. "Anyway, I'm returning your call. I was at the pro shop when you called, picking up a new set of golf clubs for my dad. But I thought I'd let you know I'm onto you, preacher man."

"Fine. Believe what you want to believe. I called not to be lectured, but because I wanted to know if you had any plans for this Friday." He sounds like someone who's trying to be casual.

[Time out! _Is he asking me out on a date?_ Oh, crap. I mean, I know what my answer has to be in this instance, since I already have a "date" that night with Drex (not that I'm going to tell Brice that), but what if he suggests an alternate night after I tell him I'm busy? What do I say? What's my answer? I hate to admit it, but... I kind of want to say, "Yes," which is totally wrong. Right? Time in!]

I move with the crowd. "Uh... Let me think," I stall.

"You can call me back if you don't know or it's not a good time to talk," he offers.

"No, I can tell you now. I'm going out with a friend from work." I figure that's sufficient information. More than enough, really.

He says brightly, "Oh. Okay. Just thought maybe you'd like to go with us to the barn swings."

My heart drops. "Us?"

"Yeah, the youth group—and me. And Justine."

He wants to know if I want to hang out with a bunch of teenagers and the church's obnoxiously perky youth director. How romantic. Now I feel like an idiot for thinking for even a second that a pastor— _my_ pastor—would be asking _me_ out on a date.

I'm disgusted with myself, but I think I recover well when I say with regret, "Oh. Well, it's probably just as well I already have plans. I mean, I'm sure barns swings are on my list of 'no-no's,' like horseback riding and skiing."

"Gosh. Right. Yeah," he says, sounding embarrassed. "I didn't even think of that." He laughs at himself, then quickly adds, "Well, I'll let you go. I just wanted to check."

I arrive at the gallery and push through the doors. Great. We have customers waiting.

"Okay. Well, I'll see you Sunday, if nothing else, right?" I check, transferring my phone from one hand to the other and jamming it between my ear and shoulder.

"Sure. You know I'll be there."

Hearing me enter, one of the customers turns around.

Before I can censor myself, I blurt right into the phone, "Fuck."

## 11

# Conflict of Interest

Stefan looks imperiously at me as I struggle to make my way through the gallery without knocking anything over with the clubs.

The other "customer" is Drex, who's even sexier in real life than in his Facebook picture. And short. I mean, not shorter than me (that's a dealbreaker), but... shorter than... Well, what's the point in comparing? It's stupid. Suffice it to say, he's shorter than I expected him to be. Enough said.

"Golfing on your lunch break?" Drex cracks.

I shift the cumbersome golf bag from my shoulder and set it behind my desk, propped against the wall.

"My dad's birthday present," I explain, silently cursing my mother for contributing to this embarrassing situation. A touch testy, I ask, "What are you guys doing here? The show's not until Friday."

Stefan looks down his nose at me. He's totally sizing me up. I definitely fit the "chubby" label now. Asshole.

Finally, he deigns to answer, "We wanted to make double-sure everything was being set up to our specifications."

Drex, standing slightly behind his boss, jabs a finger at him and mouths, _"His specifications."_

I'd smile if I wasn't freaking out. Freaking. Out. Like on the verge of a panic attack. The full extent of what's happening has just hit me. I'm standing at work with the father of the child growing inside me (and he's still clueless about that, by the way) and a guy who's made it pretty clear that he's romantically interested in me (because he's also clueless about the situation).

Plus, I just said the f-word into my pastor's ear before hanging up on him.

I try to concentrate on one crisis at a time and what my end of this exchange should be. "Uh... yes. Well, if you'll follow me, I'll show you where everything will be set up, but we won't be able to get everything ready until Friday afternoon. It'll be just like last time, though."

As he follows, I clearly hear Stefan mutter to Drex, "I told you about her. Was I right or was I right?"

Drex's response is either silent or non-existent.

When we get to the front of the gallery, I whirl around. "Right here. Like last time."

Stefan puts his fist to his chin. "I told Marshall I didn't want it to be like last time. That's something I don't want to... repeat." He looks meaningfully at me, making me blush.

I lift my chin and address the business side of that statement. "Marshall didn't make me aware of that. Let me go get him, and we'll figure this out."

As proudly as possible, I stride away. What a bastard. And thanks a lot, Marshall, for keeping me informed. Although, in all fairness, I wasn't supposed to be involved in this at all, since I'm not going to be here Friday or at the show that night.

I poke my head into my boss's office. "Stuffing—I mean, _Stefan—_ is here already to scout the location," I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "He says he's discussed with you how he wants everything laid out."

Marshall stands and tosses his half-glasses on his desk. "What the hell?" he mutters. "How long has he been here?"

I shrug. "He was here when I got back from lunch. I'm sure if he had been waiting more than two seconds, he would have come to get you himself." Hopefully, I ask, "Do you have this covered, or do you need my help?"

He waves me away. "I've got it. I hope to God he's not underfoot for the next two days."

"You and me both," I agree, heading back to my desk, relieved not to have to deal with the temperamental artist anymore... for the moment.

At my desk, I palm my cell phone. With Marshall busy with the only other two people in the store, I feel relatively safe calling Brice back. At the very least, I feel I owe him an apology for hanging up on him so abruptly. Oh, and for the profanity. Again.

I tap my finger against my lip as I wait through the rings. When it goes to voicemail, I'm sort of relieved. It'll be easier to explain without hearing any disapproving pauses or—conversely—any good-natured forgiveness.

At the beep, I say, keeping my voice light, "Hey. Soooo sorry about earlier. I, uh, had an unpleasant shock when I got back to work. _He_ was here. _Is_ here. And I reacted badly. I panicked. Did I ever tell you it was someone I work with—sort of a long-distance colleague, but still... Anyway, you can imagine how disconcerting it was to bump into him. I mean, I was expecting him to be in town this week, but not until Friday. And I would have been prepared by then. Gosh, this message is long. Sorry. Again."

Drex comes around the corner, a sexy half-smile on his face, so I wrap it up as quickly as possible. "Okay. Well. I just thought you deserved an explanation. See you later. Bye."

I disconnect the call at the same time Drex stops in front of my desk.

"Calls to your boyfriends on work time? Naughty, naughty."

"My pastor," I needlessly explain and instantly regret.

He cocks an eyebrow—the pierced one—at me. "Oh? You have a minister on speed dial? Impressive."

I resist the urge to defend myself.

At my silence, he states, "Well, something tells me you're going to need someone to be praying for you for the next couple of days, with Stuffing around."

"Why?" I ask abruptly. "He doesn't bother me. I don't give a damn what he thinks or says." I know I doth protest too much.

"Okay, then." He puts his hands in his back pockets and rocks on his heels. "So... this is Smart Art, huh?" He turns and takes a look around. "Cool place. What do you do here?"

"Everything," I answer shortly, checking my email inbox, which is uncooperatively empty. I look up at him and smile. "You know how it is."

"Do you iron Marshall's undies?"

I wrinkle my nose and laugh. "No."

"Well, then, you _don't_ know how it is for me. _That's_ how much of everything _I_ do for Stuffing. It's disturbing. I think he'd make me chew his food for him if it were socially acceptable."

"That's gross," I tell him, laughing, glad that I'm no longer throwing up at the slightest provocation.

"The underwear thing or the food chewing?"

"Both."

He smiles. "But it made you laugh. That's all that matters. I thought maybe you were Peyton's serious twin sister, because you haven't seemed like yourself since you walked through the door."

"I'm late getting back from lunch. And busy. And when I found you two waiting, I thought I'd be in trouble," I explain. "But I think Marshall's more annoyed at your boss than he is at me. So, it's all good."

Nodding, he replies, "Yep. All good."

I take a deep breath. "I heard what he said to you, by the way, when I was leading you guys to the front of the gallery."

Drex smirks. "I think that was his intention."

"Thanks for standing up for me," I half-joke, getting some satisfaction when he fidgets and stutters. "Never mind. That's okay. I understand. You have to work for him, blah, blah, blah."

"He's a nightmare," he confides, looking over his shoulder to make sure Stefan and Marshall are still well out of earshot.

As if I didn't know. "Yeah. I can see why you'd want to keep a low profile and his wrath directed at someone else."

His chin juts out and his eyes narrow. "Uh... I'm sorry, but did I miss something?"

"What?"

"Why are you being so bitchy?"

Still no emails, but I fake like I'm flooded with work suddenly. I click my mouse and pretend to type.

He sighs and throws his hands up. "Well, excuse the fuck out of me. I know seeing that dickweed when you got back from lunch probably wasn't the highlight of your day, but I was kind of hoping you'd be glad to see me. But maybe I'm a complete moron and have misinterpreted every exchange we've had for the past two and a half months."

I look up guiltily. It's not his fault. And I _am_ taking it out on him, anyway. But what can I say to make him understand? _"Your boss impregnated me, and now I'm a miserable bitch. Sorry. Oh, hey, are we still on for Friday night?"_

I settle for, "Sorry. I _am_ glad to see you. Even if you dragged some riff-raff into town with you."

He seems somewhat mollified, but his easy smile is nowhere to be seen. "Yeah. Well, without him, I wouldn't even be here. That's what I keep telling myself, anyway."

"Good attitude." On impulse, I ask, "Do you think he'll keep you busy tonight or can you slip away for a while? I promise I'm a lot less... stressed out... when I'm away from here." And __ him. "I'll take you to dinner."

"I guess," he allows. "He mentioned something about wanting to turn in early. I'll tuck him in and give you a call."

I smile. "Sounds good. Well, not the tucking him in part, but calling me."

Gesturing to my bare desk like a Gothic male Vanna White, he says, "I'll let you get back to all your work, then."

As if on cue, Stefan bellows from the front of the store, "Drex! Here! Now!"

True to my word, I'm much better company at dinner, when we finally get a chance to meet up. I'm sure it's because Drex told Stefan he was meeting me that Stefan suddenly got even higher maintenance than usual. And I'm sure there was more trash-talking, but Drex is too nice to report it to me, and I'm too proud to ask. Actually, I find that I'm becoming blessedly indifferent.

Since I'm sure we'll be going somewhere obnoxiously trendy after the show on Friday, I decide to take him to an unassuming place away from the art district. It's a tiny authentic Italian joint that my family used to frequent after church when I was growing up. There are a few tables, but the restaurant does most of its business in carry-out orders. On a Wednesday night, just before closing, it's particularly quiet. Drex and I are the only two people in the dining room, and there's very little traffic at the pick-up counter.

"You won't believe how many bedtime stories I had to tell Stuffing tonight. And the endless glasses of water... He's sure to piss the bed... again."

I laugh as I nibble a breadstick. "I don't know how you do it."

"Rent is expensive in New York City. I don't have rich parents. I'm too short and pale to grab the attention of a woman who'd like to be my sugar-mama. So... I work for a tool. It's not the worst thing, I guess. I get to hang out with a lot of cool people, when it's not just me and Stuffing." He takes a swig of his beer.

"But what's the goal?" I ask, tracing patterns in the condensation on my water glass. "I mean, how does working for Stefan benefit you?"

"Technically, my work with Stuffing is an apprenticeship. I use his studio and his materials and earn a stipend in exchange for my 'helping' him with things. Unfortunately, tending to his needs doesn't leave much time for me to work on my own stuff." He sighs. "Like I said, it'll get better soon. He's really taking off, for whatever reason. And when he starts making enough money, he can hire other people to do the stuff that I do because he can't afford to pay other people to do them right now. Like driving him around on dates. And trimming his nose hairs."

I nod. "I see. I'd like to see some of your work. Maybe Marshall would like to see it, too. You might be able to sell it, become more successful than your boss, and get out from under his thumb."

He leans across the table, his eyes sparkling. "That's probably why he keeps me so busy with things like ironing his boxers, so I don't have time to produce anything worthwhile. Don't you think?"

I have to admit, it sounds like something he'd do. "Too bad you can't find a different artist to train with."

He laughs. "I was damn lucky to get this job with Stuffing. I was up against some stiff competition." Suddenly, he practically shouts, "Enough about fucking work, though. God!" I flinch and laugh at my jumpiness when he stipulates, "We're not allowed to utter his name for the rest of the night."

Sounds good to me.

Our food arrives, and we're admiring each other's choices, our heads close together over the table, when the front door opens, letting in a rush of cold, autumn air and a tall guy in a hooded sweatshirt. I barely glance over Drex's shoulder as I'm laughing at something he's said about meatballs the size of bull testicles, but when the customer pushes his hood back as he waits at the take-out counter, I do a double-take.

I swallow and immediately look down at the table.

Drex turns and looks. "What? Do you know that guy?"

"It's nobody," I insist, waving him off. "Here. Try one of these ravioli." I stab the pasta pocket with my fork and offer it to him, but he's still half-turned, looking at Brice.

Brice must sense he's being watched, because he swivels from the counter and looks over at us. His eyes light up when he sees me, but then he takes in my dinner companion. When he gives us a half-hearted wave, Drex waves back.

"Hey, man," Drex says, forcing an introduction.

"Hello," he says politely and nods at me. "Peyton."

"Pastor," I reply stiffly. I can tell immediately that I've hurt his feelings by addressing him so formally. To cover the awkwardness, I rush on, "This is Drex. Drex, Brice." My correction comes too little too late, though.

"Is this the pastor you were talking to on the phone earlier?" Drex asks, amusement in his voice and eyes.

Brice answers for me. "Yes. The same. You work with Peyton?"

"Sort of," Drex answers, smiling over at me knowingly. "Ours is a fairly technology-driven collaboration. I'm normally in New York but in town for an art show."

"Hmm," is all Brice says in response before turning his attention to me. "How're you feeling?"

"Me? Fine. I mean, great!" I chuckle nervously at Drex's befuddled look. "Yep. Wonderful. You?"

He shakes his head and makes a face. "Never mind. I just thought... but I guess not."

Now it's Drex's turn to laugh nervously. "What'd I miss?"

"Nothing!" I insist, still pretending to laugh at the situation, even though I really just want to cry.

The cashier sets a paper bag on the counter with "Northam" written boldly in thick, black marker on the ticket stapled to it. Brice turns around and grabs it. "I'll leave you guys to your dinner now, before it gets cold." He tosses a twenty on the counter and waves away the cashier's offer to make change. Without saying a proper goodbye to either one of us, he flips his hood up and leaves the restaurant.

"WWJD, man?" Drex jokes after he leaves. "Real friendly spiritual leader you have there." He returns his attention to his spaghetti and meatballs, smiling down into his plate as he eats.

I pick at my ravioli and move them around on my plate so it looks like I'm eating, but my appetite's gone. I botched that good. And why? What was the big deal? A simple introduction of one friend to another turned into yet another clusterfuck, courtesy of yours truly.

After he's finished eating, when I haven't spoken since Brice's departure, he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. "All right. What's the deal with the pastor dude?"

I shake my head. "I don't want to talk about it." More accurately, I don't want to lie about it, and that's what I'll have to do to explain the exchange without giving up my secret to Drex. Honestly, I don't know how to explain Brice's behavior to myself, much less to someone else who's not allowed to know the whole story.

"You got some kind of _Thornbirds_ thing going on there? I'm not gonna judge you. Or him. I mean, I don't blame him..."

How can someone flatter, offend, and amuse in one statement? Somehow he's managed it.

To wiggle out of the situation, I decide to focus on the flattery and amusement. "Oh, you don't, huh?"

He pushes our plates out of the way and leans toward me. "No. I mean, if you're turned on by robes and shit, I'll rent one from a costume shop."

I throw my head back and laugh. "That's so wrong."

"Or—if you two really are just friends—I'll ask Pastor Brice if I can borrow one of his for the rest of the week. I'd have to hem the bottom by about three feet, but..."

"Stop it." I toss my straw paper at him. It sticks in his messy black hair but falls onto the table when he hastily brushes it out.

Smiling wickedly, he says, "I'm serious."

That's exactly what I'm afraid of.

## 12

# Date Night

There's absolutely no mistaking it now. When I'm naked, as I am right now, standing in front of my bathroom mirror, I'm undeniably pregnant. My belly's more than just the belly of someone who indulges in too much beer on the weekends. I can't believe no one has exposed my secret yet. Or even asked me about it. I mean, I've never been rail thin, but come on! My face is fuller, and all I ever wear are high-waisted dresses that make every woman who wears them look pregnant. It's kind of insulting that no one in my immediate family thinks it could be possible for me to be knocked up.

You know, if someone would just come out and ask me or accuse me of it, I'd readily admit to it. The secret would be out, but I wouldn't have to be the one to utter the shocking words. Every time I'm with my mother, I practically beg her with my eyes, _Ask me!_ _Ask me why I've gained so much weight. Please! I can't say it without a prompt. But the secret is killing me. The suspense of wondering what you're going to do and say when I tell you is unbearable._ Nobody's hearing my eyes, though.

I'm very nervous as I get ready for my date with Drex. After the past two days, there's no doubt that's what tonight is. And it's obvious that he expects it to end a certain way. And he's going to be disappointed. Even if I had been entertaining the possibility in my wildest fits of denial, I now know there's no way. Once the clothes are off, the jig is up. Damn it. It would have been kind of nice to have one last hurrah before becoming a stretched-out mom. Oh, yeah. I wasted that opportunity on that windbag Stefan.

Somehow, though, in the right clothes, it's more understandable why no one's uncovered my secret. The bump magically disappears. I simply look Rubenesque. And fairly sexy, too. I don't ever think that about myself, either, so there must be something to it. Maybe it's the nerves. Whatever. Time to stop admiring, analyzing, and examining. Time to pick up my date.

He greets me at his door wearing the hotel-issue bathrobe (with all of his clothes on underneath, I'm both relieved and disappointed to see). "Does this robe do it for you, or does it have to be clerical?"

Shameless hussy that I am, I flirt. "That robe would do it just fine if there was nothing on underneath it."

"It can be arranged. Very easily," he promises, pretending to unbutton his jeans.

"Are you going to be like this all night?" I hope/dread.

He shrugs the robe from his shoulders and tosses it on the foot of his bed. "Do you want me to be like that?"

Since I honestly don't know, I can't answer him right away. I like that he's putting forth the effort and obviously wants it to be a possibility, but it's not a possibility, so what's the point? It'll only end with both of us frustrated. I shouldn't lead him on.

Finally, decidedly regretful, I sigh and lie, "No."

He doesn't seem to mind. "Okay. You're one of those, huh?"

"'Those'?" I question as he joins me in the hall.

He pulls his hotel door closed and tests the handle to make sure it locked behind him. "Yeah. You like to pretend you don't want sex; don't think about sex; don't need it. You're above it. But you exude it. And it's in everything you say and do, whether you realize it or not."

I seriously consider his assessment as we wait for the elevator. "I've never given it much thought," I admit. "Are you saying I'm a tease?"

He closes one eye and pulls his mouth to the side. "Eh... not exactly. You might get the reputation of being one, though, if you're not careful."

I don't appreciate the underlying threat, but I recognize that he's only trying to be honest. And I think it's interesting. "Thanks for the warning," I tell him as we get into the elevator for the ride down to the lobby.

"In other news," he says, obviously sensing we're in need of a subject change, "the show went well tonight. I think Stuffing managed to sell every single item on display. And got a few commissions, too. I have a feeling I'm about to hang up my driver's cap and my iron. Banner night for me."

The mental image of him ironing Stefan's underwear in a driver's cap cracks me up. "That's great news," I concur. "We need to celebrate."

"Yes. I could definitely get my drink on after this week."

"You're in luck; you have a designated driver right here." I point to myself.

His face falls. "Oh. Really? You're not going to drink with me?"

"Noooo," I intone.

"That's no fun." He pouts as we emerge into the lobby and walk toward the revolving doors. "Come on. I have taxi money. Neither one of us has to abstain. From anything."

"I do," I say firmly. "But I won't drag you down. I'm good at acting drunk, no matter what my BAC is. Plus, there will be plenty of strangers willing to get drunk with you."

What started out fun went downhill in a hurry after about three a.m. I didn't take into account that I couldn't lug a nearly-passed-out grown man through downtown Chicago, so to get him to my car after the bars closed down, I had to enlist the help of two guys dressed in drag (one looked like Pamela Anderson, the other was definitely Jessica Simpson) at the piano bar where we ended the night. But I know there's no way I'll be able to get him up to his hotel room.

So we sit. We've been in my car for the past two hours, with Drex passed out in my passenger seat, his mouth wide open, his eyes twitching. I've spent the time berating myself for not thinking things through. I honestly didn't imagine that he would get as wasted as he did. I don't think he set out to do it, either. But it just happened.

At around five a.m., he startles me from my doze by shooting up in his seat, pushing open the door, and leaning out to puke next to and under my car. I hold the back of his shirt to make sure he doesn't fall out.

Afterwards, he shivers and turns to me. "Can you take me back to the hotel?" he asks pathetically.

"Can you walk on your own?" I ask in reply.

He nods and slurs, "Yeah. I feel almost sober now. And really sick."

When we get back to the hotel and up to his room, the real fun begins. Stefan hears us in the hallway (I swear, he must have been sitting next to his door, waiting for us) and meets us out there. Like in some kind of underwater nightmare, he follows us into Drex's room and yells at him for being out all night and not answering his cell phone. I snap at him and tell him he obviously survived one night of wiping his own ass.

That's when he turns on me, screaming about what a lousy sexual partner I was and how he didn't believe I could get any fatter, but I've somehow managed to since he left me in my apartment last summer. Fortunately, Drex overestimated his sobriety and is still too drunk to comprehend what's going on, much less understand what Stefan is saying, so I concentrate on getting him into bed on his side and getting the hell out of here. When Stefan correctly perceives that I'm out-and-out ignoring him, he snatches my keys from the dresser, crosses to the window, and chucks them as hard as he can somewhere into the dark, cold city.

I stare at him disbelievingly before breaking down, forfeiting whatever shred of dignity I had left with the guy. He mutters some more obscenities at me, then stomps to his own room. Drex is already passed out, no help at all. I run to the window and try to see where my keys may have landed, but I know it's hopeless. Like everything else in my life.

Scooting Drex's legs out of the way, I sit on the side of the bed and cry like a baby for a few minutes before pulling myself together enough to get out my cell phone. Both calls to Mitzi and Jen go to voicemail. Then Jen calls me back, but she's the jelly to Drex's peanut butter, so she can't come to my rescue.

Oh, God. This is awful. What am I going to do? How am I going to get out of here? I need to get away from here. Now.

Too exhausted and distraught to think clearly, I press my phone to my forehead, feeling the BlackBerry keys digging into it. I can't call my parents; I can't call Nicole or Jason, because then this will get back to my parents. There's nobody. I'm crying with the phone still against my forehead when I hear a voice coming from it.

"Hello? Hello?! Peyton? Is everything okay? Hello?! What's wrong?"

I gingerly put the phone to my ear. "Hello?" I snuffle through my tears.

Brice answers, "Hey. What's wrong? What time is it?"

"Please come get me," I beg.

"I'll be right there... Um... where is 'there'?"

I make quite the picture in the hotel lobby as the night staff wanders aimlessly, waiting for the early birds to arrive for their continental breakfasts. I get more than one or two curious glances in my smoky, rumpled clothes and with my mascara-streaked face, but I don't care enough to find a bathroom and clean myself up. I deserve to be stared at, pointed at, and ridiculed. And when Brice gets here, I hope he finally sees me for who I am and tells it to me straight. No more of this Jesus-loves-you "redemption" nonsense.

When he does walk in, the worry on his face makes me feel terrible. I didn't give him any details on the phone, just told him where I was and that I needed to be picked up. He may have been surprised that I wasn't calling from jail, but he didn't comment. He merely said he'd be here as soon as possible. I stand and move to meet him in the middle of the lobby, but he holds up his hand.

"Where is he?" he asks.

I look around me. "Who?"

He gives me a long-suffering look. "Peyton. Please. Don't play dumb."

I'm honestly not sure if he's asking about Stefan or Drex. And I don't know why it would matter, either way. "Forget it. Let's just get out of here," I answer. "Drex is passed out. And... _he_... is... well, who cares?" I edge past him and walk toward the door. Then I stop short and turn around. "I don't have my keys. That's why I needed you to come get me. And... I can't get into my apartment."

"I'll take you to your parents'," he offers. " _After_ I have a word with your friend."

"No!" I protest. "To both things. Come on! You're dragging out a night that has already felt like an eternity. I'm so tired, I feel sick. Do you want me to start gagging?" I shuffle over to him, grab his hand, and pull on it. "Please." My eyes fill. "Don't make me cry, okay? I just stopped."

He reluctantly allows me to lead him from the hotel. Double-parked on the street in front of the building, its hazard lights flashing, sits his red Jeep. Once we're safely inside the roomy, warm cabin and driving away through the pre-dawn gloom, he says, "You can grab some sleep in the guest room at the parsonage. I'll take you to your apartment later. Your super can let you in and give you a new key."

I nod as I look out the window. I'm glad he's able to problem solve for the both of us.

"When it's light, we can come back and look for your keys."

"They're gone," I say dully. "Just forget it."

I have a spare car key in my junk drawer at home, so once I can get into my apartment, that problem will be solved. I'll need a ride downtown to get my car, but by then, Mitzi or Jen should be available.

He drives in silence for a few minutes. Then softly, gently, he asks, "What happened?"

I know he deserves to know, since he's rescuing me, but I don't know if I can make myself relive it by telling him. "Oh..." I sigh. "Just the usual."

Accepting as always, he states, "You don't have to tell me. The only thing that matters is that you're safe."

That pushes me over the edge. If he would just rail at me, toss some hellfire and brimstone my way, recite Bible verses, and tell me I'm a worthless, hopeless pile of shit, I'd feel more justified rebelling. But this calm, patient tolerance is like a truth serum.

I tell him everything (except for the robe joke, obviously), and he listens without uttering a single word, but when I get to the part about Stefan yelling at Drex and me, he looks sharply over at me. "Wait. Who's Stefan?"

I blink at him. "Stefan," I repeat stupidly before answering, "He's... you know. The father."

"I thought Drex was the father."

"What?! No! Drex is Stefan's assistant. And my... friend. Red light."

He slams on the brakes and flings his arm across my chest. We screech to a stop.

"Sorry," he mutters.

Returning both hands to the steering wheel, he sits slumped over it while we wait at the light. "So that guy at Cozzoni's Wednesday night...?"

"That was Drex."

"Does he know?"

The crickets from my side of the car give him his answer.

"Oh."

"I know. I told you it was bad."

"Because you and Drex are..." He clears his throat and tries to smile encouragingly at me, but his face is just a slightly paler hue than the traffic light, which has just given him the signal to go.

"No!" I answer a mite too vehemently. In the spirit of honesty, I add, "Maybe if all this other stuff wasn't going on, though. I mean, look!" I pull my dress tightly across my midriff, underneath the seatbelt. If the bump had hands, it would wave.

He glances down and quickly back up. "Hmm. Yeah. I noticed that at church last week."

I close my eyes and rest my head against the window. "Why hasn't anyone else noticed?" I ask him in a whine what I've been wondering for weeks.

He coasts to the next red light. "We fail to see things all the time that are right in front of us. The mind is a powerful thing. Powerfully oblivious sometimes."

My eyes open slowly. I look over at him.

He underscores his statement with a shrug. "That's all I have. Maybe it's obvious to me because I know. Do you _want_ others to notice?"

"Yes. I don't want to be the one to tell them. Especially now that I've waited so long. I'm afraid they're going to be madder about all the lies I've told than the initial misdeed."

"When in doubt, tell the truth."

I laugh miserably. "Easier said than done."

"Not when you get in the habit. Or out of the habit of lying."

"You never lie?"

Merging onto the expressway, he says, "Now, did I say that?"

"You implied it."

"Well, I didn't mean to," he maintains. "You have some strange notion that I'm either morally superior or have deluded myself into thinking I am, but neither is the case. And if I give you examples to the contrary, it sounds like I'm bragging about being sinful, which I don't think is something worth bragging about."

I'm too exhausted to have this discussion. "I just wish I had a rule book that I could use to look everything up and know exactly the right thing to do," I complain.

He smiles. "You do. At least, I'm pretty sure you probably do, somewhere. It's called a Bible. If you don't have one, I know what I'm getting you for Christmas."

"I didn't know pastors were allowed to be smart-a— mouths."

"We're allowed to use any method necessary to get through to people. In your case, I've found sarcasm and humor work nicely."

An easy quiet falls between us. The lines on the highway and alternating periods of light and dark as we drive under the street lamps hypnotize me. I try to fight off the sleep for a few minutes but then give in to it, pretending I'm just resting my eyes for the last five minutes of the drive.

I jerk awake when we stop in his driveway. I'm nauseated with exhaustion. All I want is a bed. I don't care where it is. Brice ushers me inside and throws his keys on a table by the front door. While he kicks his shoes off, I look around.

I used to come to this house when the former pastor, Pastor Niedermeyer, would hold youth Bible studies here. Back then, it was dark and paneled and had heavy curtains on the windows and thick carpeting on the floors. Right before Brice moved in, the congregation did a total remodel that included installing hardwood floors, knocking down the wall between the galley kitchen and the living room, and replacing all the window treatments, appliances, and furniture. Now it's open, airy, and clean-feeling. It seems like a totally different place.

He pulls some towels from a closet in the hall and holds them out to me. "Do you want to shower before you go to bed?"

His question leads me to believe he thinks I should. I really don't want to do anything but sleep, but I probably would sleep better after washing off the stink from last night's pub crawl. I take the towels and trudge to the bathroom off the main hallway.

He pokes his head in behind me and peers into the shower. "There's still some women's shampoo and soap in there from the last time my parents were in town. Do you need anything else?"

I shake my head mutely.

"The water gets really hot, so be careful," he warns. "Your bed'll be ready by the time you're finished. Oh!" He disappears and quickly returns with what appears to be a giant football jersey. "You can sleep in this, if you want. I'll wash your clothes while you're sleeping."

"Thanks."

"No problem." He smiles, exits, and closes the door.

I hold the jersey up and stare at the white letters across the back: NORTHAM.

Sure. No problem. I wish.

## 13

# Hiding Out

Waking up after what feels like only a few minutes, I'm shocked when I see on the tiny bedside clock that it's nearly four o'clock in the afternoon. As a matter of fact, I _don't_ believe it. Maybe it's not set correctly, I think as I try to blink some moisture into my contact lenses. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and hear what must have woken me up: voices. Someone's here.

Oh, shit.

I resist the urge to hide under the bed. After all, the door's closed, so nobody can see me. And even if they could, who cares? There's nothing to hide. My pastor, out of the goodness of his heart, put me up in his guest room when I was locked out of my apartment. Period. And gave me some clothes to wear. And washed my dirty clothes. And let me take a shower. So... I was naked in Pastor's house, where I slept in one of his shirts. Okay, I can see how someone _might_ get the wrong idea if I traipsed out there right now. But, still, _I_ know the truth, and God knows the truth, and that's all that matters. Right?

I crack open the door and stand, listening, near the opening. I _really_ have to pee. Is this going to be a long visit that I have to wait out?

"So, that means we're going to need the church van and at least _two_ parent drivers. And that's two parents who drive something like a minivan or larger SUV. So, to be safe, we need to plan for three or four parent drivers. Unless you're coming? Your Jeep holds... five? Six?"

I roll my eyes at the sound of Justine Heideker's voice. Youth director. Single and desperately seeking a husband. Thinks hanging out with high schoolers keeps her young and hip. In all honesty, it makes her look old in comparison.

Brice says apologetically, in response to her pathetic invitation, "No, I won't be able to make it to that outing, I'm afraid. But I'll make an announcement in church tomorrow. You want to print out a sign-up sheet and have it available in the fellowship hall for people to put their names down?"

"Yes. Perfect. And make sure you let everyone know that chaperones don't have to pay admission."

He pauses, presumably to write that down. "Got it."

"Thanks, Pastor."

"No problem."

Oh, does he use that line on everyone? I think. Then, Thank God, it sounds like she's wrapping it up out there. I'm about to pee my pants. I shift my weight from one foot to the other and back again. The trusty pee-pee dance.

"So, whatcha up to this evening?" Justine asks, her voice no closer to the front door than it was a few seconds ago.

"Not much. Polishing tomorrow's sermon, visiting some folks at the hospital later... You know, the usual. I might watch some college football if I have time," he admits.

She laughs. "Ah-ha. The truth comes out."

I hear him walk into the kitchen, where he runs some water. _Oh, why? Turn it off!_ I pick up the tempo on my dance and hold myself.

"Who's your team?" she asks.

"Oohhh... I'm not very loyal when it comes to college teams. I usually root for the underdog, whoever that happens to be."

"Well, I'll let you get to it, then. Unless..."

Nooooo! Justine, I'm going to push your perky little butt out the door in three, two...

"...the youth group is playing mini golf in an hour or so. We'd be honored to have you join us."

_Honored? Really? He's a pastor, not the Pope._ I bite my lip to keep from screeching in frustration.

Sounding regretful, he answers, "Aw, that would be fun, but with the barn swings last night, I got behind on some other things. I'd better keep my nose to the grindstone if I don't want to make an idiot of myself behind the pulpit tomorrow."

"I doubt you could do that," she flirts. "But okay, I get it. Duty calls."

So does nature, so get the heck out, Justine!

"That it does."

I hear them walk to the front door, the front door opening, and another series of "byes" that almost brings me to tears.

As soon as the front door shuts for good, I scamper from the bedroom and across the hallway to the bathroom. I make it just in time.

When I'm finished in the bathroom, I walk unsurely into the kitchen. Feeling shy, I lean against the counter.

"How'd you sleep?" he asks, reaching into a cabinet and pulling down a box of cereal.

The words are hardly out when we hear, "Knock, knock!" and Justine comes through the front door. "Just to clarify, did we say _I'd_ print that sign-up sheet for tomorr—" She sees me and freezes. "Oh! Gosh! I'm sorry! I didn't realize..."

We're a tableau of emotions. She's shocked. I'm chagrined. And Brice is horrified. He drops the box of cereal, scattering flakes across the floor.

"What would you say if I told you it's not how it looks?" I ask, just to check.

She averts her eyes and stammers, "W-well, it's, uh, none of my b-business."

Brice crunches forward. "Yes, Justine, it is," he states, earning surprised looks from both of us. "Without compromising Peyton's privacy, let me assure you that she's here because she was in need of a safe place to stay for just a few hours." He glances at me and winces at my attire. "And some clean clothes."

Now Justine looks at me again and pastes a strained smile on her face. "Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." But her smile falters when her eyes fall on my midriff, which is covered but tenting the jersey more than it would were it in its normal state. I put a protective hand over it, as if I can shield it from her X-ray vision.

She blushes.

"Obviously, your discretion is requested," Brice continues. "I mean, this is a private matter for a fellow church member, and I'm sure you would want the same courtesy if you were in her position."

Nodding eagerly, she says, "Yes, of course." But I can tell she's already thinking of whom she can tell about this.

Of course, Brice—gullible, people-loving guy that he is—believes her and looks relieved. His shoulders sag, and he grins dopily. "Thanks, Justine. Peyton and I really appreciate it. Have fun with that mini golf tonight!"

_Oh, Lord._ And that's not a prayer. Could he be trying any harder? We look guilty, guilty, guilty. All the way from my bare legs to his sweaty upper lip. When she finally leaves (for good this time, I think), I put my face in my hands and peek through my fingers. He busies himself sweeping up the spilled cereal.

"Well," I begin, gently slapping my cool palms against my flaming cheeks, "that takes care of one thing, at least."

He says, "What?" with his ear against the floor as he chases bran flakes out from under the refrigerator.

"The cat's out of the bag. Or the baby is, anyway. She soooo knows."

"She said she wouldn't tell anyone," he points out, which makes me laugh at his naivety.

He stands and dumps a dustpan of flakes into the trash. Then he washes his hands and fixes me a bowl of cereal to eat. I'm hardly hungry, though. Things are unraveling at a rapid pace. I have no choice now but to tell my parents before church tomorrow. Which means tonight.

Tonight.

"Oh, motherf—Hubbard!" I catch myself just in time.

Mid-pour, he tilts his head and sloshes milk onto the counter.

"I need my clothes," I say, pushing away from the counter. "Now."

"What? I thought you were going to eat."

"I don't have time. I mean, I'm supposed to be eating with my family in less than an hour! I'm supposed to be picking up my dad to deliver him to his surprise birthday party. Now."

"Now?!"

"Yes, now!"

He abandons the cereal serving and strides to a door that leads to the garage. I hear the metal clang of a dryer opening and closing.

When he returns to the kitchen, he's holding my dress and tights. "Just let me get my shoes on," he says.

It takes me a second, but I realize he's telling me this because he has to come with me. Because I have no car. And no time to go to my apartment, get the key, and go get my own car.

This predicament elicits the same reaction I used to have when I'd oversleep for school: I panic and start to cry. Standing in the middle of his kitchen, holding my limp dress and stockings, I break down. I know it's counterproductive. _There's no time for crying!_ But I can't help it. I'm beyond overwhelmed right now. It's not just the nightmare from last night. Or Justine walking in on something that looked scandalous, to say the least. Or being late for my dad's party. Or having to tell my parents I'm pregnant, _tonight_ , on my dad's birthday. It's everything.

But what do I say when Brice stands in front of me, struggling to figure out what to say or do to make me feel better? I say, "You're too busy to take me! You have to visit people in the hospital and work on your sermon and watch football!"

"What?" He shakes his head, turns me around, and presses on my shoulders to push me in the direction of the hallway. "Go get dressed and don't worry about any of that."

I nod pitifully and duck into the bathroom. What I see in the mirror is frightening. My hair is everywhere. I'm not wearing any makeup and don't have any with me to apply. And after I pull the dress over my head, it's painfully obvious that it's hopelessly wrinkled.

The nightmare continues.

## 14

# Surprise!

Dad gets into Brice's Jeep and says warily, "Pastor... good evening."

Brice and I have already come up with a cover story that doesn't involve too much lying but somewhat explains his random inclusion in Dad's birthday dinner with me, so he smoothly says, "Hey. I hope you don't mind my horning in on your birthday dinner. Peyton had car trouble."

Since that's the only part of the story he's comfortable telling, I have to pick up the thread when Dad asks, "Why didn't you just call me? I could have driven." He quickly adds, "Not that I mind your joining us, Pastor."

"It's a long story," I say vaguely. That's certainly honest! "Anyway, this'll be nice, don't you think?"

"Sure," Dad agrees, his tone of voice making it clear that he doesn't mean it. "The more the merrier. Is it going to be just the three of us?"

"Yes!" I practically shout. "Just us."

"Okay..."

None of us says anything for a while, but then Dad says, "Wait a second. Is this some kind of surprise party or something?"

"No!" Brice and I lie loudly at the same time. Oh, gosh. My family is corrupting the pastor.

"Because your mom has been acting kind of weird all day. I think she and your sister talked on the phone no less than five times. And when she left to go out with her friends, she was out in the garage a long time before leaving. Maybe loading things into the car?"

"I... Well, I don't know what that's all about," I declare lamely. My head's way too cluttered with worries to lie effectively.

"It's okay; I'll act surprised," Dad promises. "But it was kind of a red flag when you brought the pastor with you to pick me up, Peyton. I mean, really."

I roll my eyes. Despite Mom's suspicious behavior, in the Stratford family history books this surprise will go down as a failure because of me. And not just because of the ruined surprise, I'm afraid.

"I'm sorry, Dad," I choke out emotionally, when I think ahead to what I'm going to have to tell him later.

"Well, it's nothing to cry about!" he reassures me, reaching forward from the back seat and patting my shoulder.

Brice jumps in. "So, Kent. Have you been on the links lately? Fall's my favorite time to golf. We should get together sometime for a round."

"Well, Pastor, now that you mention it, I've asked for a new set of Titleist clubs for my birthday. Is that part of the surprise, Peyton? No, don't tell me! I want to be surprised."

"Oh, God," I moan, taking the Lord's name in vain (and saying much worse in my head).

The golf clubs! They're in my trunk. Mom's going to kill me.

Dad mistakes my outburst for dismay at his guessing the other surprise. "Hee-hee. This is the best birthday ever!" he says gleefully.

Maybe I can convince Brice to drop me into Lake Michigan on the way to the restaurant. Surely it wouldn't take long for hypothermia to set in. My family would still be upset at me for ruining the evening with my suicide, though.

When we get to the restaurant, Brice stops me as we're crossing the parking lot. "You're not going to tell them here, are you? At the restaurant?" he murmurs close to my ear.

"I don't have a choice," I answer in a frantic whisper. "If they learn from someone at church and not from me, it'll kill them."

"Sure. But this may not be the right time. Or place."

"Hey, you two!" Dad calls from across the parking lot. "What's with all the whispering? I already know everything, so let's get movin'! I can't walk in there and start partying without you!"

I sigh, walking quickly to catch up to Dad. To Brice, I say, "We'll see, okay? But if I get an opening, I'm going to have to grab it. I can't take the chance that I'll lose my nerve or that I'll have more than one chance to tell them."

"Fair enough," he replies. When we get to the door, he holds it open for me but stays outside. "You know what? I'm going to hang back here, so it looks like you came alone with your dad, as planned. It'll probably all come out later what happened, but it won't hurt anything if I walk in five minutes from now and let everyone believe you invited me in passing and that I came alone, right?"

I stare up at him, so grateful that I don't have any words. He chuckles and pushes my shoulder. "Go on. Your dad's making his entrance." Then he lets go of the door, leans up against the outside of the building, and gazes up at the night sky.

Dad's a horrible actor. Horrible. But he doesn't throw me under the bus when Mom accuses him of figuring it out ahead of time. He takes all the credit, claiming he's just too smart to be fooled. When Pastor walks in a few minutes later, everyone's so distracted, and Mom's so flattered that he'd take the time to come to Dad's birthday party, that the non-surprise is quickly forgotten. But soon enough it's time to face at least one verse of the music.

"Mom," I stage-whisper to her behind Nicole's back after the food arrives.

She leans back in her chair. "What is it, honey?" she asks cheerfully. She recoils when she looks more closely at me. "Oh, gosh, Peyton. Do you feel okay? You look terrible!"

I wave away her concern/criticism. "The golf clubs are in the trunk of my car."

"Well, go get them," she urges. "While your dad's distracted by his steak."

"No," I explain. "My car's not here. I had to leave it downtown last night."

"You're kidding me. Tell me you're kidding me."

I shake my head. "I'm so sorry. I forgot they were in there."

"Peyton, you are unbelievable sometimes."

"What's going on?" Nicole leans back to get in on the conversation.

"Your sister left your father's gift _from me_ in the trunk of her car, which she had to leave downtown last night during her carousing."

_Carousing?_ Sometimes my mom talks like she's 90 years old.

"I wasn't carousing!"

"Sure you weren't. Why'd you have to leave your car then? With your dad's gift in the trunk?"

"It's a long story," I repeat. It worked for Dad.

But not for Mom.

"I'm sure. You're so lucky Pastor's here, or else I'd be giving you an earful, missy."

I guess this is just half an ear's worth of grief. Which I deserve, I admit. So I hold my tongue. "I'm really sorry. Okay? There's nothing more I can say than that. I'm sorry."

"Well, that doesn't get the clubs here, does it?" With that, she sits up and enthusiastically rejoins the conversation at the table. "Jason! Are you already finished eating that entire steak? My goodness, I'm glad I don't buy your groceries anymore!" She laughs with the rest of the people at her end of the table.

"Way to go, dillhole," Nicole says to me.

I sit up straight and try to pretend everything's fine. I _am_ sorry about disappointing Mom, but this has nothing to do with Nicole, so I don't have to take any shit from her. Keeping a pleasant expression on my face, I mutter to her, "Shut up."

"At least tell me it was worth it. Who were you with? Oh, wait... Didn't you say something about having a date with that Drex guy from Facebook? No, Jason told me that. So... did you... you know?"

I refuse to answer her. Instead, I turn to Sadie, who's sitting next to me and coloring her kids' menu.

"Don't you want to eat your mac-n-cheese?" I ask her, pointing to her full plate.

She shakes her head and continues coloring. "I don't like it. It tastes like barf."

"Yeesh. Then whatever you do, don't eat it," I support her. "You want some of my chicken? I'm very hungry," I lie playfully, "but I'd be willing to share it with you."

She nods shyly, so I cut a small portion of it and put it on her plate. Then I cut it into smaller pieces. "There. Voilà, Madame." She giggles at my crappy French accent. After we each take a couple of bites, I ask her, "So what are you going to be for Halloween? I bet your neighborhood has all the good candy."

"I'm gonna be a hamster," she answers quietly.

"What a great idea! You'll probably be the only one, too. I mean, everyone dresses like a princess or a witch. But a hamster? That's original."

She sighs. "I want to be a lady with a baby in her tummy, but Mommy won't let me. She says it's not healthy for me to always think about ladies with babies in their tummies." Now she looks up at me, and I tear my eyes away from my plate. "I eat my begetables, though, so I'm healthy. I just like to think about babies. And having one in my tummy."

I nod, unable to talk for a while as I stare down into her precious, bespectacled face. Finally, I say, "Me too."

Another one of my mom's brilliant ideas for the night is for us to roast my dad. She's told each of us kids that we're expected to say something funny about him. In front of everyone. His friends are going to participate, too, and so is Mom. So, after the cake has been cut and distributed, Mom stands up and announces that it's time to start. "Kids first, youngest to oldest," she says.

Jason tells the story of the time Dad took him sledding and thought it would be a good idea to try to surf down the snowy hill. "Several hours in the emergency room and a full leg cast later, Mom had him convinced that it wasn't one of his brighter moments. Happy birthday, Dad."

Standing, I take a deep breath. Have I prepared for this? Of course not. Am I in a jolly, ha-ha kind of mood? Absolutely not. Am I good at hiding my true feelings lately? No.

When I don't say anything right away, Mom says, too brightly, "It's okay if you don't have anything. Next? Nicole?"

Normally, I would sit down and, even though my feelings would be hurt, and I'd be embarrassed, I'd shake it off and listen to everyone else's funny speeches. I'd do as my mom told me to do, because I wouldn't want to draw attention to myself. Or make waves. But these aren't normal times. I put a hand on Nicole's shoulder to keep her in her seat. Then I look down the table at Brice.

His smile fades. His eyes widen. He shakes his head and mouths, _"Not here."_ I almost laugh at his crazy notion that I would choose this moment to tell them.

Turning my attention to my dad, I look him in the eye and state, "My dad's never asked me to keep a secret for him. He's never asked me to lie for him. And he's never made me feel like I'm a disappointment to him. Now, you may not think that's funny. And I guess it's not. But it's remarkable. And I just wanted to take this time to say, 'Thanks, Dad.' And happy birthday."

He blows me a kiss and blinks his eyes, which are misty. I blow him a kiss back and retake my seat. After a few more speeches, which I don't listen to at all, I quietly excuse myself to no one in particular and slip away from the table.

Cold air is not a cure for a panic attack. It was worth a shot, though. And it's better to have one out here in the parking lot than in there, in front of all those people.

Actually, once the mind-numbing panic subsides, I realize it's a beautiful night. The air smells like fallen leaves and, well, car exhaust, but if I use my imagination, I can pretend I'm standing in the middle of a pumpkin patch. At least I look like I'm smuggling one up my dress.

For lack of anywhere better to go, I walk to Brice's Jeep and lean against the back of it. I put both hands on my tummy and mutter to it, "Hey. Are you ready for your coming out party? Well, not the _real_ coming out party. You have to wait a few more months for that. But the big reveal is about to happen. I guess you've been a secret long enough. I read the other day that you already have genitalia. And I have a rule: any person with genitalia deserves to stand up and be recognized. I don't know what I'm saying. I don't have a rule like that. That's really random and stupid. I'm just saying the first thing that comes to mind, because I... well, I read that my voice is soothing to you. At least one of us should be soothed."

I stare at the sky as I wait for my heartbeat to return to normal. On the other side of the parking lot, I hear the restaurant's front door squeak open and hiss closed. I glance over long enough to see who's there before going back to my stargazing.

"Oh, great. Here comes Brice. Pastor. Whatever the hell we're supposed to call him. I hope your grandmother doesn't know he left the party to come looking for me. Another reason for me to be in the doghouse." I push away from the vehicle. "Hey."

"Everything all right out here?"

"Yeah. Fine."

He puts his hands in his jacket pockets and shrugs his shoulders up near his ears. "Aren't you cold?"

I pat my tummy. "I have an internal space heater."

Nodding his head, he smiles. "Ah. The party's breaking up inside. What're you doing?"

"Just getting some fresh air. Working up the nerve to break my parents' hearts. You know, the usual."

"Steeling yourself for the worst, huh?"

"Always a good idea."

He fiddles with the windshield wiper on the back window of the Jeep. "Do you want to... I don't know... _pray_ with me about it?"

"I wouldn't even know what to say," I claim. "I mean, I got myself into this mess, and I didn't ask for a lot of input from the Man upstairs when I did, so what right do I have to ask Him to bail me out now?"

"Oh, He's used to it. Come on. I'll do the talking. Even though He's probably sick of hearing from me. 'Man, _that_ guy again? Always with the praying...'"

His impersonation of God sounds like Billy Crystal and makes me laugh.

"You'll feel better just asking for help." He reaches out and grabs both of my hands in his.

When I nod he says, "Yeah? Okay." He bows his head and closes his eyes.

"Lord, we come to You tonight and ask You to give Peyton, Your child, the strength to do something very difficult, something she's been dreading and fearing for a long time. Be with her and give her the words she needs. Help her to feel that she's doing the right thing and that You're with her to guide and direct her, especially when things are hard. Be with Kent and Peg as they're told this news. Help them to see it for what it is, a blessing, and Your will. Give them the strength to show Peyton their love and support. Lord, we ask this in Jesus' name. Amen."

Neither one of us moves at the end of the prayer. We stand with our fingers linked and our heads bowed in the cold parking lot until we hear the voices of my family as they exit the restaurant and spill into the parking lot. Then, dropping each other's hands, we lock eyes.

He smiles at me. "You can do this. Let Him do it for you. And think about how great you're going to feel when you wake up tomorrow, and this moment is behind you."

I nod, believing him. I feel more confident than I have in months.

"Do you want me to get your parents?" he offers softly.

"Do you mind?"

"Not at all. I'll be right back."

They're just staring at me. Staring. Not saying anything.

"Say something."

Dad opens his mouth and closes it again.

Mom says weakly, "I... I thought you were going to apologize again for forgetting the golf clubs."

"Oh. Well, I _am_ sorry about that. Really sorry. Like I said before. Obviously, I've been distracted lately." I gesture in the general direction of my bump and try to wet my lips with a tongue dry enough to light a match.

Finally, Dad croaks, "Wh-who's the guy?"

"Pastor..." I appeal to him. That's why he's here, right? To protect me? I'm tag-teaming.

Suddenly, Dad looks at Brice as if he finally understands something that's been puzzling him, "What? Tell me that's not true," he demands, his voice ominously quiet.

I've only heard that tone of voice one other time: when Nicole told him she was going to marry Lonnie. It was scary then. But now that it's being used in response to something I've said, it's absolutely terrifying. I'm not ashamed to admit that it makes my nether regions tighten. If I weren't so scared, I'd actually be kind of proud that those annoying Kegel exercises seem to be working.

Brice takes two steps backwards and puts his hands up. "Whoa." He laughs nervously. "I'm just here for moral support."

"'Moral,' huh? Interesting word choice," Dad says icily.

Before my parents entertain for another second the idea of our pastor being my baby's father, I quickly blurt, "It was just some guy!" Then trying to downplay the seriousness, I add, "He's not really a factor."

"Huh," Dad chuckles humorlessly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and putting his hands on his hips. "What the hell does that even mean?"

Brice rubs the back of his neck and looks down at the ground before regaining his confidence and attempting to make eye contact with my father. "Listen. I think what Peyton's trying to say is that she doesn't want him to be a part of her life anymore."

When Dad turns his angry stare at him, he shrinks a bit and says, "Maybe. I mean, that's my understanding. Sir."

"What's it to you?" my father growls. "Lucky for you, this is none of your damn business."

With that, he spins and starts walking away. Then he stops and calls to Mom without facing us, "Where the hell are you parked?!"

She squeezes my arm on her way past me and follows him. "Right over there, Kent, by that light pole," she answers, pointing, then trotting to catch up to him.

After they get into their car and drive away, Brice says to me, "I thought you said he'd take it in stride." When all I can do is stand there and cry, he comes over and puts his arm around my shoulders. "Okay. Let's get you home."

He helps me into the Jeep. I flinch when he slams the door closed. And that's when I feel the very first flutter.

## 15

# Tea and Sympathy

I'm cocooned in a fleece blanket on the couch, my hands wrapped around a cup of hot tea. Brice is bustling around me like a nervous mother. After I felt the baby move, I couldn't stop shivering. It was like an intense delayed reaction to the chilly autumn night. But I'm not cold. I just can't seem to speak and convey that to Brice.

As soon as we got to my apartment and got my landlord, Mr. Santori, to open the door for me, Brice ordered me to sit on the couch, pulled the fleece throw from the back of it, and wrapped me in it. Then he crashed around in my kitchen until he found what he needed to make tea. Now, he's sitting in the big chair across from me, watching me carefully.

"I'm fine," I say. They're the first words I've spoken (other than 'I'm locked out,' to Mr. Santori) since leaving the restaurant.

"You're in shock."

"Oh. I don't know about that," I say. "I'm just..." I stop, the word I'm about to say making my face crumple. I put one of my hot hands to my eyes. "Heartbroken."

The couch cushion next to me sinks under his weight. I lean into him, keeping my face covered. He takes the mug of hot tea from my other hand and sets it on the table next to him. Then he wraps his arms around me as I cry. He doesn't say anything; he doesn't move. Just holds me while I wallow in the hurt.

I expected anger and disappointment from my mom, but not from Dad. Dad, usually my defender, my advocate, has turned on me. I guess I've finally done something to bring him around to everyone else's way of thinking: I'm great if you need to get something off your chest, but that's only because I'm such a disappointment that you'll never feel inferior to me, no matter how much dirt I have on you.

That's it, isn't it? That's why I'm everybody's favorite confidante. _"Who is she to judge?"_ That's what they all must think. And why do I let everyone unload their shit on me? Because at least then I feel like I'm contributing something to the family. And maybe they'll consider keeping me around. Because I have a purpose.

After a while, when the tears have subsided, I stop thinking so much about my hurt feelings and more about other feelings. More specifically, how it feels to be pressed up against Brice's warm, firm chest. And to be with someone who has no expectations of me. He seems perfectly content to sit here with me all night, not saying a word. Just being here. And I know he has other things he could be doing. Or would rather be doing. But he's putting me first. Me.

Even though I don't want to, I eventually push away from him. Peeling the blanket away from me as I realize I'm starting to sweat, I accept the clean handkerchief he offers me.

"I don't use them, but I carry them. Part of my pastor kit."

"Thanks." I daintily dab at my eyes and nose. I'd rather not honk anything truly disgusting into the square of cloth.

"Any time," he says quietly. "Sounded like you needed that."

I nod. "Yeah. I guess I did." The clock on the wall catches my eye. "Oh. Gosh. It's getting late," I announce on a disappointed swallow. "And I'm sure you have things to do for church tomorrow."

He doesn't move. "Not really. I'm ready."

"But you told Justine..."

Squirming, he admits, "What can I say? I lied."

When I laugh, he says, "Hey... were you eavesdropping?"

Now it's my turn to confess. "Yes." Then I defend myself: "But I really had to use the bathroom, so mostly I was listening so I'd know when it was safe for me to come out."

"Likely story."

"Don't turn this around on me. I'm not the one who lied to get out of doing something I didn't want to do." I love how ashamed he looks about something that a normal person wouldn't think twice about doing. Without considering it, I toss out, "You're adorable."

We both blush.

"I mean," I quickly explain, "it's funny how embarrassed you are about it. I don't blame you for not wanting to play mini golf with a bunch of walking hormones who think they know everything."

He recovers and says, "It's not the 'walking hormones' that are the problem; I like mini-golf, and the kids in our youth group are a great bunch of kids. It's Justine. Frankly." When my mouth drops open, and I laugh again, he says, "I probably shouldn't have said that. She's a nice person. And she does a lot for those kids and the church. She's a blessing."

"But?"

"But she makes me uncomfortable, for some reason. I can't put my finger on it. Just certain things she says and the way she says them. KJind of fawning-like. You know?"

"It's called flirting. And I'd think you'd be used to it by now."

"What?" The way he brings up his lip and wrinkles his nose conveys his sincere befuddlement.

I shake my head at him. "I'm sure Justine's not the only one who flirts with you."

"The only one I've noticed," he insists.

"Then you're clueless." I go into my tiny kitchen and open the refrigerator. "Can I get you something to drink?" He accepts a beer, so I open it and bring it to him, hoping it's not too old. I haven't purchased or drank beer in months, obviously. I sit down with my water and continue. "Just in the past few weeks, I've witnessed with my own eyes no fewer than a dozen women flirting with you when they greet you after church." With mock-shock, I add, "In the Lord's house!"

"I don't know what you're talking about. We don't even have that many single women there on any given Sunday." He drinks from the bottle, keeping his eyes on me.

"Who said anything about 'single'? As a matter of fact, it's mostly older, married women. Like my mom, for one." Yeah, I've seen it a lot. But my mom's always been a natural flirt, so it's not like that one's surprising. "And Beverly Plucker. But she's obviously just trying to snag you for her daughter."

He nearly does a spit-take onto my Pottery Barn rug. "Tracy?!"

I nod.

"I think you're mistaking friendliness for flirting."

"Whatever."

He drinks some more, pauses thoughtfully, and says, "Now you're going to make me paranoid."

"I've merely opened your eyes. Made the blind to see." My stomach growls. I grab it and grimace. "Whoa. That was loud."

"Tormenting me must make you hungry," he comments, setting his beer on a coaster on the table. Then he says more seriously, "You didn't eat much at dinner, though, so I'm not surprised."

It strikes me that he must have been watching me during dinner, but I don't call him on it. I'm too busy trying to control the light-headed feeling the realization produces.

While I'm rooting in the cupboards for something to snack on that's not too unhealthy to eat so late at night, he asks, "So, was that your sister's daughter you were sitting next to at dinner?"

"Yeah. Sadie. Did you get a chance to talk to her? She's adorable."

I come back to the couch with a box of Triscuits and tilt it toward him. He shakes his head. "No, thanks. And no, I didn't get to talk to Sadie. You two were deep in conversation, though. I can tell she looks up to you."

I shrug. "We're buds. Her mom is way too hard on her. I can relate. She and I were talking about Halloween." I recall Sadie's first choice of costume and laugh. "At least I know Sadie will be happy about my news. She's sort of obsessed with pregnant people and babies right now."

He makes a face and chuckles. "Is that normal for a girl her age?"

"I don't know. I don't remember caring about that when I was six, but... She's smart. And it's a fascinating topic, when you think about it."

Taking up his beer bottle again and picking at the label, he asks, "Do you enjoy it? Being pregnant, that is?"

I haven't thought about it as something to enjoy; it's been more like something to endure and definitely something to hide. But his question reminds me that it's not a punishment for most people. Some people actually _try_ to get pregnant. And are happy about it. And delight in it. But...

"No." I'm relieved when he doesn't seem surprised or as if he disapproves of my answer. However, I do feel a need to expound. "You know, at first I didn't like it because I was puking all the time."

He holds up a hand and closes his eyes.

"Sorry. After I got over that, I was still on edge, hiding it from most people. I wish I could say that I'll enjoy it more now that it's out in the open, but I really just want it to be over." I look down and watch him through my lashes when I say, "I felt her move, in the car, as we were leaving the restaurant."

He raises his eyebrows.

"It was weird. I think you scared her when you slammed the door."

"You know you're having a girl?"

I shake my head. "No. But I can't imagine being a mom to a boy, so I always just think of it as a girl. And..." I sigh, inspecting the cracker in my hand, staring down into the woven grains, scrutinizing the flecks of salt. "It would be hard to raise a boy without a father for him. It's a more manageable job if it's just us two girls. Still scary and hard, but manageable."

Now he leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees. "You think you'll be single the rest of your life, then?"

Smiling sadly, I answer, "I think I've dramatically narrowed the playing field."

"I think you'd be surprised," he states quietly. Then he stands. "Well, I guess I'd better be getting home. Busy day tomorrow."

I stand with him and take the empty beer bottle from him. "Are you sure you're okay to drive, sir?" I joke. When he simply smiles, I hurry to fill the silence that suddenly scares me. "Anyway, I probably won't be at church tomorrow. No car. But I'll read my Bible or something."

"No, you won't," he says mildly, with no judgment.

He's right, but I'm not about to admit it.

"I'd offer to take you to your car, but you'll probably want to go earlier than I'll be available tomorrow."

I wave away his offer. "I'll find someone to take me. If I get desperate, I can take the bus. Or call my brother."

We've edged our way to the door. I don't know how to say goodbye to him. Partly because I don't _want_ to say goodbye to him. I wish he could stay here all night and talk to me. And tell me everything's going to be okay, that I'm going to find a man who'll marry me and be a good dad to my baby and accept me for who I am. I want him to tell me my parents are going to recover from the shock of my news and welcome me back into the fold, treating me even better than they did before. And that they'll love this baby and treat her (or him, I guess) exactly like their other grandkids. I want him to reassure me of all these things.

"I, uh, want to thank you," I say when he reaches for the doorknob. He pulls his hand back and faces me. "For, you know... everything. Not just tonight, although I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't been there. I'd probably still be keeping the secret, to tell the truth. But for being my friend the past few weeks."

He nods. "Of course."

I smile nervously. "I guess I got one thing right in this whole mess by coming to you for help."

"That's what I'm here for," he replies, but he says it in a way that sounds sad.

"Well, I want you to know that I don't take it for granted. It's been important to me."

"I'm just glad I could be a blessing." Now he opens the door. "Well, good luck tomorrow with your car. I guess I'll see you next Sunday?"

"Yeah. Next Sunday." He steps into the hall. "But if I'm not sitting with my parents, don't be surprised."

"I'll be praying about that," he says earnestly. "Goodnight."

Then he trots down the stairs, rounds the landing, and disappears from my sight.

## 16

# Moving On

The next morning, when I go to use my phone to call Mitzi to see if she's available to take me to my car, I see that I missed several calls yesterday, when I was sleeping at Pastor's house. There's one each from Mitzi and Jen; the other four are from Drex.

> Drex Call #1: "Hey. Uh... when did you leave? What happened?" He laughs. "Did you tuck me in? If so, I'm disappointed that I still had all my clothes on when I woke up. Give me a call."

> Drex Call #2: "It's Drex. I'm getting ready to get on the plane back home, and I wanted to try to reach you one more time before I have to turn off my phone. If you get this in the next twenty minutes, call me back."

> Drex Call #3: "I'm home. Sort of. I'm actually at Stuffing's. Although he's been a real bitch all day. Did something happen when we got back to the hotel? I had a dream about Stuffing yelling at us. But maybe it really happened? Listen, I'm kind of worried that I haven't heard from you. Call me or text me or email me or something so I at least know you're okay. And if you're mad at me for some reason, just tell me why. It'd be nice to fill in some of the blanks from last night."

> Drex Call #4: "Okay. Now I'm sure I either pissed you off or you're dead in a gutter somewhere. So when the cops listen to all your voicemails, I want them to know I'm just as clueless about what happened as they are. I have a shitty alibi, considering I was alone in my bed in my hotel room, passed out. Stuffing, however... who knows what he was up to? And we all know he doesn't like you. Suspect number one! Seriously, though, call me. I feel like a moron for getting so wasted. Not a good way to impress someone you'd really like to... impress. Also, flying with a hangover isn't fun. In case you needed to know that. I don't recommend it. Call me. Please. Bye."

So, while I wait for Mitzi to get to my apartment for our trip downtown to retrieve my car, I call him back. The man practically begged me to, after all. It would be cruel to keep him wondering.

"God! Finally!" he says in greeting. "I couldn't figure out what would be worse, your hating me or your being dead."

"Thanks... I think."

"Are you pissed at me? What did I do? What did I say?"

I decide I need to be careful about what I tell him. He's one of two people that I'm not ready to come clean to yet. "No. I'm not mad at you. I just... by the time I got home yesterday, I fell into bed and slept all day. And I had to go to my dad's birthday party last night. I didn't even check my messages until just now."

"Oh. Whew! I was stressin'."

I laugh, trying to sound carefree. "Yeah, I could tell. Sorry. I thought you were fairly coherent when I left you. And, yes, I tucked you in."

"Did you give me a goodnight kiss?"

The tips of my ears tingle. "Maybe," I lie flirtatiously.

What the hell am I doing?

"I hope not. I'd be very upset if I didn't remember it."

I can't help myself with this guy. He's so yummy. And fun. And, obviously, he feels the same way about me. And to him, I'm just me. Peyton. With no other person hitching a ride. Which, I am aware, is part of a huge problem. But what's the harm in pretending? He's back in New York now, far away. Nothing's going to come of this. It's just fun. Flirty fun.

I murmur, "Well, you'd remember it. So, I must not have."

"You're giving me a boner on the subway. That's not easy to do."

"Don't get the weirdo next to you too excited," I warn.

He laughs. "How'd you know there was a weirdo next to me?"

"Lucky guess."

"I'm so glad you're okay, and you're not mad at me. So, I just dreamt that stuff about Stuffing? He's still giving me the cold shoulder. Not that he's ever cuddly..."

Okay, how much do I reveal? I tap my lips and say, "He _did_ yell at us. He was mad at you for not answering his calls while we were out."

"Figures. Okay, that makes sense now."

I can't resist asking, "Why? Has he said anything to you about it since you've been back?"

His voice cuts in and out; then I hear, "So I just wondered."

"What? I'm sorry; your phone cut out."

"Oh. I said that he's been muttering about 'that bitch,' and calling me a man whore."

The Peyton Drex knows wouldn't care. She'd laugh. She'd tease Drex about being a man whore. She'd say something about Stefan not being able to sleep without his Drexy-Bear. Something. Anything. But I can't get past what he's said about me. I'm stung. What did I ever do to Stefan to make him hate me so much? Does he treat all his one-night stands like this? _He_ was the jerk; not me. I was perfectly content to hate myself in private for sleeping with him but continue our professional relationship as before. He was the one who had to make it ugly. And Lord knows I could make it _really_ ugly for him if I wanted to. I could slap a paternity suit on him, and he'd have to sell a lot more paintings. I'm trying to be classy and self-reliant and leave him alone. So what's his deal? Why can't he be an adult, too, and leave me alone?

Drex seems to think I'm being quiet because I feel bad for him. "Don't worry, though. I can handle it. The douche-bag's obviously jealous. He's worse than a little kid on the playground who pulls the hair of the girls he likes. I just didn't realize I was cock-blocking him. It's kind of funny, now that I think about it."

"Hilarious," I manage to reply. There's a knock on my door. "Come in!" I yell to Mitzi, covering the mouthpiece of my BlackBerry so I'm not screaming in Drex's ear. "Hey, I have to go."

"Noooo!"

I laugh. "Yessss! I have to."

"Fine," he pouts. "I'll call you later."

"If you want," I allow coolly, smiling at Mitzi as she leans against the back of my couch, waiting.

"I do. Very much want to. In the meantime, I'm going to have a lot of fun with Stuffing now that I've figured out he has a crush on you."

"Oh, Drex. Please. Don't antagonize him. He's still your boss."

"But I have something he wants, for once."

"No, you don't."

"Well, not yet. But I'm a lot closer to it than he is."

Suddenly, I'm disgusted. "Listen, I'm not some pawn in your stupid mind-fuck, okay?"

"I was just kidding!"

"Whatever. I have to go. And now I _am_ pissed at you, so don't bother calling and leaving a hundred messages on my phone."

"But—"

"Goodbye."

After I hang up, Mitzi says, "What the heck was that about?"

"Guys are such pigs," I reply, grabbing my jacket and purse. "Let's go. I'll tell you on the way."

After I've filled her in on the very busy couple of days I've had, including the most recent phone call with Drex, but leaving out the part about sleeping at Pastor's house (for reasons I don't even understand) she sighs. "Well, I think it's kind of hot that you have two guys fighting over you."

"I don't, though," I try to get her to see. "There are two guys pissing on me, like they're marking their territory. And they don't even know what that territory entails. That it includes a fetus. Neither one of them would want anything to do with me if they knew."

"So I guess you could put a swift end to it by just telling them, huh?" she asks. "If you hate it so much?"

"I don't like it, okay? I don't like Stefan _at all_. But telling them would result in the one I like disappearing and the one I can't stand feeling like he has a say in my life, because one of his man seeds beat the odds. Nobody wins there." I stare miserably out the window. "Anyway, I can't worry about their dick-fight right now. After I get my car, I have to deliver the golf clubs to Mom and Dad, and I haven't talked to them since last night in the parking lot."

"Did your dad really say 'hell' and 'damn' in front of your pastor?"

I can't help but laugh at her incredulity. "Yes. But I've said worse in front of him, so I doubt he was shocked that my dad said it. Now he knows where I get it."

"You've cursed in front of your pastor?" Mitzi, who doesn't swear at all, is outraged.

"I said the f-word on the phone to him last week. Accidentally. It slipped out when I saw that Stefan was at the gallery."

"Peyton!"

Her reaction is giving me the giggles. "I know! It was awful. But he doesn't seem to mind. I mean, he doesn't ever react."

"How many times have you cussed in front of him? Don't you have any control of yourself?" She turns into the hotel parking lot and pulls up alongside my car, which has two tickets on its windshield.

"I don't know. It seems like he's always a witness when I'm flustered or upset about something."

"You must be hanging out with your pastor more than you are me lately, then," she states. "What's up with that?"

I stare at the tickets flapping in the wind. "He's been helping me come to terms with... everything. Like a shrink. Who dispenses prayer instead of pills."

She accepts my explanation and nods at the tickets. "Looks like you have some presents. I'd make Stefan pay for those, if I were you."

"That's not a bad idea." I open my door. "Thanks for the ride. Let's meet at the park for lunch this week, if it's not too cold."

"You got it."

After snatching the tickets from under my wipers, I slide into my chilly car and stare straight ahead. I know my next stop isn't going to be a fun one. Unless Mom and Dad are still at church. I turn the key in the ignition so I can glance at the clock. If I hurry, I can probably drop off the clubs before they get home.

The house looks quiet when I arrive, but I peer in the garage windows, just in case. Dad's car, the one they usually take to church, is gone. I'm more relieved than I thought I'd be. Until I realize I can't get into their house, because their house key was on the keychain Stefan pitched out Drex's hotel window.

"Fuck," I mutter. Then I remember the spare key under the stone bunny in the backyard. After propping the clubs next to the front door, I trudge around the side of the house and through the gate in the privacy fence. I'm bending over to retrieve the key from under the yard ornament when my phone rings. And not just any ring. Brice's ring tone, "A Mighty Fortress," the Lutheran anthem (I just couldn't resist).

"Hey. Aren't you supposed to be in church?" I answer cheerfully.

"Where are you?"

"Uh, sneaking around, trying to break into my parents' house so I can deliver these stupid golf clubs. Where are you?"

"In my office. Church is over."

Crap. That means I have to hurry, or I'm not going to get out of here before Mom and Dad get home.

As I'm plucking the key from the bottom of the yard ornament and rushing back to the front door, I find myself babbling nervously. "I totally forgot to read my Bible this morning, but I'll read it tonight or something."

"I'm not calling you about that."

"Okay..."

"Listen." His voice drops. "There's a bit of a... situation... brewing here. Because of what Justine saw yesterday."

"I told you!" I cry, nearly dropping my phone as I fumble with the sticky deadbolt. I picture church members waiting for him with pitchforks this morning. "Lutherans just love to gossip." Inside the house, I heave the unwieldy clubs up against the shoe bench in the entryway. Then I walk to the kitchen, planning to look for a pen and a piece of paper to put a note on them (I'm such a wuss).

"She didn't gossip. She went to her elder. Who happens to be your dad."

"What?!"

"So you're starting to understand the gravity of this? It's more serious than some petty gossip."

"How did he react?"

"Well, I managed to explain it quickly enough to him that he hasn't done any bodily harm to me. Yet. I'm not sure that he's convinced nothing... inappropriate... happened." He sighs. "But that's not the end of it. The elders are waiting for me in the church library. And they want you there, too."

"Me?" I feel horrible for hoping he'll fix this alone, but I don't want to have to deal with this. On top of everything else. Pacing in the kitchen, I rattle off breathlessly, "I can only make things worse. My dad won't believe a word I say, after last night. I'm some kind of floozy that he doesn't even recognize as his daughter right now. And just thinking about what everyone must be thinking will make me blush and stutter like a guilty person."

He's remarkably calm, considering. "But you're not guilty. So all we have to do is tell the truth. I promise it won't take long. Just a simple meeting to clear up a misunderstanding. Especially since you're not worried about people knowing about... you know... anymore. We can explain the whole thing." He sighs. "Please. They need to hear it from both of us. That I haven't taken advantage of my authority."

"Oh, my gosh!" I blush at the implication and pace faster, fanning my face with the notepad my mom uses for grocery lists.

"And your dad's probably going to be calling you soon, too. Just a heads up. He was furious when he left here a few minutes ago." As if on cue, my other line beeps.

"Gee, thanks for the two seconds' notice," I snipe. Forced into a hasty decision, I tell him, "I'll be there as soon as I can."

When I click over to my dad's call, he simply says, "Get your ass to the church right now."

And if he thinks it's weird that I say, "Okay," without asking a single question, I don't know, because I don't stay on the line long enough to find out.

## 17

# Day of Reckoning

Well, it's not quite a lynch mob gathered in the church library when I get there. But that's only because no one's holding a torch or a pitchfork. They all look exceptionally severe, though. Except for Brice, who stands when I enter the room and offers me a chair.

"Hi," I say uncertainly to him and the six elders standing in various positions throughout the room. I don't even acknowledge my dad. The more I've thought about it in the few minutes since I hung up with him, the more pissed I am that he would jump to such awful conclusions about me.

The room smells like musty books and dust. The chair I'm sitting in is a hard, wooden folding chair that's probably original to the building. My hips don't quite fit between the hinged sides, so the metal digs into my bulging butt through my yoga pants. About the only thing that would make me feel more physically or psychologically uncomfortable would be if a group of circus clowns trouped in here and started squirting me in the face with water pistols.

Dad's the first one to talk, and it's obvious that he's in charge. "Now that we're all here, let's get started. It's been brought to my attention that there may be something inappropriate going on between the two of you," he says to Brice and me. "Pastor Northam, a member came to me and said she witnessed Peyton, dressed immodestly, standing in your kitchen yesterday afternoon. Is this true?"

I'm already blushing. This is hopeless.

Brice says, "No. She was completely decent."

"What was she wearing that would make Ms. Heideker feel like something unseemly was going on?" Zeke, one of the other elders, asks. He looks too eager to know, for my taste. Ick.

Calm and cool, Brice answers, "A large football jersey."

"Which team?" someone mutters, causing some chuckles.

My dad shoots the mutterer, Jim, a dirty look and prods, "A football jersey and...?"

"That's it," Brice says. "She had been sleeping in it." When that causes some fidgeting and mumbling, he requests, "Can we maybe start from the beginning here? We're kind of telling this story piecemeal, and it _does_ seem appalling, but really, there's a very simple, innocent explanation."

He glances over at me.

I take a deep breath and come to his rescue. It's only fair, since he's done it for me so many times recently. "Um... A couple of months ago, I found out I was pregnant," I begin. After seeing the looks on a few of their faces at that revelation, I decide my lap is a safer place to keep my eyes during this recital. "I've been scared and confused about the whole thing, including how and when to tell people and..." I trail off. "Anyway, I came to Pastor Northam for help. And he's talked to me on several occasions. Until recently, he was one of the only people who knew.

"Friday night, I was out with a friend, and I got stranded downtown when my friend got really drunk, and I lost my keys. I called some people to help me, but Pastor was the only one who answered. He came and got me, took me back to the parsonage, and gave me a clean shirt to sleep in so he could wash my clothes for me while I slept. When I woke up, Justine was there, and when she left, I came out of the _guest room_ and out to the kitchen. She walked back in before I could get my clean clothes." I look up. Their expressions are not encouraging. "That's it."

"What were you doing bar-hopping with friends in your condition?" Dad asks.

Brice speaks up. "Is that relevant?"

"I'll ask whatever questions I feel like asking. You have a problem with that, then you can leave. I think, based on what we've been told so far, we can be _fairly_ certain that _you_ didn't do anything inappropriate." Dad turns back to me. "So? Answer my question."

"Dad. Not here."

"Answer me!" he bellows.

I look to the other elders for help, but they look like they're just as interested in hearing the answer as he is. I sigh. "It was a friend from work. He doesn't know I'm pregnant. He was in town and wanted to go out."

"So you just say, 'Yeah, sure, whatever!'? Because anything goes, apparently?"

Brice stands. "Okay. No. This is a private conversation between you and your daughter. This is no longer church business." He gestures to Zeke, Jim, and the others. "Does anyone have any questions about the incident yesterday?" Nobody says anything. "Hearing none, you're excused."

As they file from the room, Dad and Brice stare each other down.

When the door closes behind the last elder, Dad says, "Don't you _ever_ undermine me like that again."

"With all due respect, you were out of line, sir."

"She's my daughter. I deserve to know."

"She's an adult. Your right to know reached its statute of limitations about a decade ago."

"I'm here," I pipe up, in case they've forgotten. They both look at me. I rise from my chair, wincing at the cramp in my abdomen from the sudden movement after sitting, tense, for so long. I'm relieved when the chair doesn't come with me. I'm pretty sure I'll have hinge marks on my ass for hours to come. "Yeah. So... are we done?"

Dad says, "Hardly." He stares at me for a second, putting his hand to the side of his face when he asks pitifully, "What the hell are you thinking lately?" When I don't answer, he continues, "Having casual sex and getting pregnant; lying to your family; dragging your pregnant ass around downtown with drunks; parading around half-clothed in your pastor's house... I don't even _know_ you!"

My heart races. "You _don't_ know me," I agree, struggling to control my shaky voice, "especially if you believe all that is true."

"Well, tell me otherwise, then!" he begs. "Please! I'm listening." He pulls up a chair and sits in it, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

"You wouldn't understand."

I don't know where to start, anyway.

"And you!" he turns on Brice. "You knew my daughter was going through this and didn't tell me! Didn't even give me the courtesy of a, 'Hey, Kent, maybe you should have a heart-to-heart with Peyton.'"

"My responsibility was to her and her confidence."

Dad snorts. "Pastor Niedermeyer would never have let me be blind-sided and humiliated like this. Never!"

"I'm sorry you're hurting," Brice replies. "But he would have been wrong to tell you anything that someone told him in confidence, especially in order to satisfy your misplaced sense of entitlement. Just because she's your daughter doesn't make her different than any other member who comes to me for help or advice or comfort."

Dad narrows his eyes. "Comfort, eh?"

Brice nods uncertainly. "Yes..."

"What kind of comfort are you offering, Pastor?"

"Dad!"

Brice's color rises, but his voice remains steady as he answers, "Not the kind I think you're implying."

"Really? Are you sure about that?"

"Absolutely."

"Because there are a lot of things that just aren't adding up, Pastor."

"Such as...?"

Dad stands and pushes the chair away. He steps closer to Brice and tilts his head. "For example, I find it hard to believe that you would give—oh, let's just use Mrs. Hanson as an example, since she's single—a football jersey to wear while she was staying at your house. I daresay Mrs. Hanson would never be invited to stay at your house. The church's house, actually."

I'm too grossed out by the mental image of Mrs. Hanson in a football jersey to react or come to Brice's defense.

He swallows and blinks. "My guest room is open to anyone who needs it. I didn't have a hidden agenda when I chose what to give your daughter to wear. As a matter of fact, I grabbed the largest shirt I could find that would be the most comfortable and hang the longest on her. I didn't have any pants for someone shorter than six-two. Is this a detailed enough explanation for you?" His nostrils flare.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Pastor," Dad says with a scowl.

"I sleep just fine. But thanks for your concern."

"Oh, I have a lot of concerns. A lot. But you could ease a lot of them by answering one more question for me."

"Ask anything," he offers confidently.

Dad walks to the door and opens it. "Do you have feelings for Peyton? Feelings that you don't have for other parishioners?"

[Time out! Dad must be getting into Mom's chick lit stash again when he's low on reading material. He was weird for weeks after reading a Nicholas Sparks book one time. I thought for sure Mom would never let that happen again, but she obviously hasn't been monitoring his chick lit intake if he's asking questions like that one. Time in!]

I bark a relieved laugh and roll my eyes. "Oh, come on!" I say between giggles.

Neither of them is laughing. Or paying a bit of attention to me.

Brice blinks first. And I can almost see him thinking, _When in doubt, tell the truth,_ as he opens his mouth and says, "Yes."

"That's what I thought," Dad replies smugly. Then he points at him and warns, "You're on thin ice, buddy. And I'm watching you." With that, he exits the room.

The top of my head tingles, my face feels hot and numb, and my salivary glands have decided now is a good time to go on that vacation they feel is their due after twenty-seven years of fairly reliable service.

We remain motionless while we listen to Dad's dress shoes on the tiles as he retreats quickly. After the front door's bang and click signifies that he's left the building, the only sound is the ticking of the clock on the wall.

I keep waiting for Brice to explain himself more, but he doesn't appear to be in any hurry to fill the silence with anything that would make it less awkward. A chuckle and a _"Just kidding!"_ would suffice. But no. He's too busy with that intense study of his dress shoes.

When I can no longer stand it, I say to him just about the only thing that's been going through my mind since he answered Dad: "No offense, but what the fuck?"

## 18

# The Tiniest Secret

It was supposed to be a happy day. Relatively. At least, the happiest day I've had in a while. I have to admit, life's been grim the past couple of weeks, considering I'm barely speaking to my parents (or they to me); a bunch of old dudes at my church know more about my sex life than I ever dreamed they would in my worst nightmares; and I appear to have lost one of my best friends. Oh, and I'm also still pregnant and still very much alone.

Drex has been obediently distant since I yelled at him on the phone about using me to mess with Stefan. He's sent me a few emails and posted some things to my Facebook wall but nothing overtly apologetic or beseeching. He's actually been acting more like he used to act, before we were friends. Which is probably for the best.

If there's one thing my dad said that was right on target, it was that I was acting like someone with no boundaries. Sure, my "out-of-control" might not even register as inappropriate on someone else's scale of "wrong," but it's all relative. And my behavior's been relatively immoral, by my standards. And definitely by my parents' standards. They would claim I was raised better than this. I suppose I was.

In regards to Brice, if I had been in any condition to run, I would have run as fast I could away from the look on his face when I asked him that question after my dad left. As it was, I did my best impression of an Olympic speed walker. And he probably interpreted that as revulsion. But I wasn't disgusted by what he said. No; it made me feel good. Too good. Then terrified. In a good way, but terrified nonetheless.

Frankly, it scares the shit out of me that someone with such a clear understanding of right and wrong can know so many of my faults and still say he has feelings for me. It makes me question his judgment (and sanity).

But I can't stop thinking about that look. It wasn't a sexual look. If it had been, I could roll my eyes and chalk it up to typical maleness. I've heard of guys who think pregnant chicks are hot. Weird. But not that uncommon, I guess. No, it wasn't sexual. It bore no resemblance at all to the way guys have looked at me in the past. Or the way Drex looks at me. It was... tender. And affectionate. And shy. It asked, _"Do you feel the same way?"_

And my response was to flee.

I've thought of calling him a hundred times, but then I think, _Then what?_ Not only do I not know what to say to him, but I don't know where this is going. There's no way in hell (well, maybe in Hell, actually, it would be acceptable) that he and I could start up a _relationship_ the way I am now. What would everyone think and say?

First of all, they'd assume their suspicions were correct regarding the football jersey incident. Secondly, it would be like all those stories of Jesus hooking up with Mary Magdalene (which the Lutheran church doesn't believe, by the way). He'd be asked to step down as pastor. It wouldn't be the end of his career, I'm sure; he'd be reassigned, but—again—then what? I'm not leaving Chicago to follow him to some other parish. I don't want to be a pastor's wife.

And isn't that the next logical step? You don't put yourself through Hell just to take a girl to the movies a few times and share a fudge sundae with her at Dairy Queen. As far as I know, pastors don't date fallen women. I could never ask him to choose between his calling and me. I could never bring all that grief on him. I'm so not worth it.

So, when I woke up this morning, it was a relief to set aside all those torturous thoughts and focus on the event of the day: the ultrasound. The big one. The one that will tell me if I'm having a boy (oh, dear Lord... please no. Enough challenges, okay?) or a girl, as I've suspected all along. This is momentous. This is something that deserves my undivided attention.

And it has it. I'm ready. I took the day off, even. Because after the ultrasound, I'm going to go shopping for baby clothes. And it's going to be awesome.

I'm so excited about my plans that it takes me a while to pick up on the fact that the ultrasound technician has gone suddenly quiet and serious. At first I think she's merely having a hard time getting the baby in position to see his or her private parts.

Then she says, "Oh. I'm so sorry."

I still don't understand. "What? Well, if you can't see anything, then that usually means, 'girl,' right?" I ask hopefully.

She shakes her head. "No. I mean, I don't see a heartbeat."

"What?!"

"When was the last time you felt your baby move?"

I honestly can't say. Thinking back to the night before, I realize I got a better sleep than usual, probably because I wasn't being kicked as much. "Yesterday?" I guess. "No. I'm sure I felt something this morning..." But I'm _not_ sure. I just don't want to admit to being so oblivious.

She spends another agonizing few minutes searching before giving up, repeats, "I'm sorry," and crosses to a phone, dials a number, and mutters something into the receiver. When she returns to my side, she helps clean the jelly from my bump and gently says, "They're going to come get you to take you to labor and delivery. You have to have this baby, sweetheart."

I wake up in a dim, quiet room. Off in the distance, I hear a baby crying. Foolishly, I think, _Oh! She made it!_ but I know the truth and don't allow myself to believe it for longer than a few seconds.

I saw with my own eyes: her lifeless face and limbs. And at the time, it seemed like everything was moving in slow motion, so I got a good, long look. I heard the doctor declare her dead. I heard myself crying in response.

Now, movement at the foot of the hospital bed gets my attention. I lift my head slightly and let it fall again when I see who's there.

He asks, "How are you feeling?"

I laugh bitterly at the complexity of the real answer to his question. But I give a short one. "I've been better."

"Do you need the nurse? She said to press the button when you woke up, if you were in pain."

I don't think the nurse has a pill or an injection for the kind of pain I'm feeling, so I simply shake my head.

He scoots the chair to the side of the bed and lowers the rail. He grabs my hand as he sits down again. "I'm really sorry."

I close my eyes so the tears race down the sides of my face. "It was a girl. _She_ was a girl."

"I know."

I want to ask him, What was the point of this? Why did God allow this to happen? Why did He let me go through the humiliation and hurt of telling my parents, only to take her away from me? Why did He let me start to care about her? But I can't talk. And I don't want to hear his platitudes. I want real answers. Answers he can't find in his stupid little Book.

"Is it okay that I'm here?" he asks after a while. When I nod, he says, "Because I heard Marilyn taking a prayer request, and then she said your name, so I motioned for her to send the call to me. Your mom told me everything. And asked me to come here. But if you don't want me here, I'll just get the information I need for the service and go."

My eyes fly open while my heart drops into my stomach. _Ker-plunk_. "The service?"

"Your mom said you'd probably want a funeral service."

Typical _._ "She has no idea who I am or what I want," I say.

"It doesn't have to be a huge deal. Just family, maybe?"

"I can't do it," I state. I notice for the first time that he's holding a legal pad, in addition to his Bible, and he's scrawled a makeshift form on it. Most things are already filled in, but he has a question mark next to _"Name:"_

"Okay," he says, clipping his pen to the side of the pad and leaning forward as if to stand.

"Don't go," I croak, reaching weakly toward him. "I just don't want to talk about... that."

He relaxes back into the chair and nods. "All right."

"Where are my parents?" I ask, after we've been quiet for a while.

"Your mom said she was going to your apartment to get some stuff for you. I haven't seen your dad."

I appreciate him not trying to sugar-coat it for me.

"How long do I have to stay here?" Suddenly, I want to rise from the bed and run from the building.

He shakes his head. "I don't know. You want me to get the nurse? She can tell you."

"No. I'll wait for Mom to get back."

"I'm assuming you'll have to stay at least one night."

I nod. "They made me... deliver her. Not that it was difficult or took very long. She was tiny."

When he swallows audibly, I say softly, suddenly self-conscious, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be graphic or gross you out."

Squeezing my hand, he firmly reassures me, "Don't worry about that. I'm just sad for you. I'm sorry you had to go through that."

"Yeah, well. At least I knew ahead of time that she was... gone. I can't imagine thinking that you're going to have a baby in a few hours, and after all that work and excitement... nothing. And going home to all the clothes and the nursery and... It would be ten times—no, a hundred times—worse."

"It's still painful. You're still allowed to hurt."

I shrug.

He squeezes my hand again. "Would you like to pray?"

I answer immediately and decisively, "No."

"Fair enough."

A few more minutes pass. Then I say, "Secret."

"Hmm?"

"That's what you can put down as her name," I clarify, nodding curtly toward his pad of paper. "Secret Stratford." It makes me smile. "Sounds like the heroine in a spy novel. But I like it."

"It's very fitting."

"Exactly. It makes sense."

At least something does.

## 19

# Not Strictly

I did end up having a service for her. But I was the only one who attended it, so it wasn't really a service. It was more like a prayer over a pink casket in a cold, windy, sunny cemetery. Brice said the prayer. I tried to listen, but I had a hard time focusing.

My lack of focus was nothing personal. I'm sure whatever he said was lovely. I just can't concentrate on anything lately. I'm sleepwalking through life. Thankfully, nobody expects anything from me.

But it's back to work tomorrow. I've been gone for just more than two weeks. Marshall did say I could take as much time as I needed, but I feel like I'm disappearing. I need to get back to my life. I don't deserve to sit around weeping and watching bad daytime television anymore.

It doesn't even make sense that I feel so bad. After all, wasn't I the one who told Brice I just wanted this whole chapter of my life to be over? If I'm being completely honest with myself, she was an inconvenience. I wasn't looking forward to the added responsibility of being a single mother. So I should be relieved, not sad. But I can't stop seeing her blue arms and legs. And that perfect, lifeless face, which was a lot smaller than I ever imagined it could be. I feel terrible that I didn't appreciate the miracle of her before it was too late.

That's how life is most of the time, though, isn't it? It's a downright cliché. Songs are written about it; people shake their heads and lament it; and yet we don't learn from it. Because our human nature doesn't allow us to be taught how to treasure the things in our lives that are givens. We make the same mistakes over and over again, and each time we make them, we vow that we'll never forget how it feels to suffer the consequences, and we won't take blessings for granted. But we do. We always do. Especially when we don't even realize that's what they are.

Well, I _want_ to forget how this feels.

So I log onto Facebook and go to Drex's profile page. I click the button to send him a private message.

> _Hey. When're you going to be in the Windy City again? We should get together and do something that we actually both remember_

I look around at some of my other friends' pages, post a comment or two, and listen to some music. Then the notification pops up that I have a message. I click my way to my messages and open the new one from Drex.

> _I don't see Chicago anytime in my near future, but New York would look good on you. You should find a way to have Marshall send you here. I'd be an excellent host_

My tummy tingles as I write,

> _You may be onto something. Let me see what I can do_

The chat window pops up before I can hit "send" on my message.

> **Drex** : Well, hello there
> 
> **Me** : Hi
> 
> **Drex** : Does this mean I'm forgiven?
> 
> **Me** : Maybe
> 
> **Drex:** Sweet
> 
> Where've you been? Your "out of office" message at work has been taunting me
> 
> **Me** : Little R&R
> 
> **Drex** : What's that like?
> 
> **Me** : You should try it for yourself
> 
> **Drex** : I wish
> 
> Stuffing's needier than ever. He made me trim his pubes for him yesterday
> 
> **Me** : You're kidding
> 
> **Drex** : Yeah. But not by much. Can I call you?

I take a deep breath and reassure myself, It's okay to move on. You have to heal. And who better to help you than one of two people in your life who has no idea what you've been through and won't constantly remind you of it?

> _Sure_

It wasn't hard to find a work-related reason to go to New York City. Stefan isn't the gallery's only contributing artist who lives there, so when I saw that one of our biggest sellers was having a show in a few weeks, I pitched the idea of going up there to make contact with her and discuss a theme for a show she could have in Chicago.

Marshall still doesn't know that Stefan was the father of the baby I lost; nevertheless, he seems unsure how to talk to me now that I'm back to work, even though it's been weeks. I think he was relieved to have a productive reason to send me away for a few days.

Now I'm here, visiting with Gretchen at the end of her show, firming things up with her about the Chicago show I've convinced her to do in the spring. Based on historical sales with her, my trip here has already paid for itself several times over in future sales. Marshall will be pleased. And I've justified my glorified booty call.

From my vantage point on a catwalk above the gallery, I scan the crowd for Drex. He's supposed to be meeting me here when he shakes Stefan for the night. And I'm excited, to say the least. I'm humming.

He spots me right away as he walks through the front door, and he beams up at me. I wave enthusiastically, not caring how eager it makes me look. I _am_ eager. Why bother pretending otherwise?

It's nice that he's not pretending, either. He takes the stairs two at a time as he climbs to the catwalk. Coming to a stop beside me, he leans against the railing, mirroring my pose, and says, "You're a sight for sore eyes."

"Who says that anymore?" I tease him.

"I do. To you."

We both straighten and hug. It's a spontaneous thing, but it feels right. In my spike heels, I'm just a hair shorter than he is, so when we separate, we're exactly eye-to-eye. Grinning.

"Is it just me, or is there less of you?" he asks, looking down the length of my body.

This is one of the things I was expecting; I'm a size 10 for the first time since high school. If it weren't for such a sad reason, I'd be pumped. Tonight, of course, I lie and tell him, "Yeah. Weight Watchers."

"I could watch you all day."

"It's getting deep in here," I warn him as I blush.

"Okay, fine. You don't like compliments. I get it. FYI, though, I do. In case you wanted to know."

I laugh. "Oh. Right. Well, then, you look fabulous, sir. You are rockin' that t-shirt."

He puts his hand on my face and pushes me away. "All right, all right. I forgot to make sure you understood that I like _sincere_ compliments."

Removing his palm from my face, I hang onto it and let our hands fall between us and remain linked. It feels natural and comfortable.

We people-watch together for a while, commenting on the characters we're seeing, as well as the coolness of the gallery we're in. Then I turn to him and say, "So, where are you taking me tonight? I'm ready to have some fun."

"Are you really going to have some fun, or are you just going to watch me have fun, like you did in Chicago?"

"That wasn't any fun," I admit. "So I won't be doing that again."

"In that case," he says with a wiggle to his eyebrows, "let's go."

"Let's."

He ends up taking me to one of the strangest places I've ever been. As a matter of fact, I don't know if my Midwestern brain can even describe it and do it justice, but I'll try.

The place is painted black, from the ceiling to the walls to the floors. Blue neon tube lights line the walls and the baseboards. Women in black bikinis and chains (not kidding) and men in black satin boxer shorts and spiked dog collars are the servers.

There's live "music," a group that plays improvised tools rather than traditional musical instruments. I'm not sure they're singing in English. If they are, I don't understand a single word. And the place is packed, mostly with people who look a lot like Drex, with his messy black hair, piercings, and tattoos.

"I love this place," he says to me when we're settled at a table for two. He motions to one of the scantily clad servers, who comes over and takes our drinks orders. I go with a classic dry martini; Drex orders whiskey and water.

"It's... different," I state, trying to keep my expression neutral. I don't want to seem like a bumpkin.

He grins across the table at me. "That's why I like it."

"Okay."

"Okay. So, what's new? Business picking up at the gallery for the holidays?" he asks pleasantly.

Our drinks arrive, so I wait for the server to leave before answering, "Yeah. We've been really busy, actually. Are you getting more studio time nowadays? What's your latest project?"

His face lights up. "It's hard to explain, but I'm super-excited about it. I'd like to take you to the studio later, to show you."

"Stefan's studio?" I ask, hiding my frowning mouth in my martini glass.

"Yeah. Stuffing's studio. It's a cool place. I'm there a lot late at night. That's really the only time I have to work on my own stuff." He downs his drink and signals for another.

"Well, you're going to have to slow down on those"—I nod to his empty glass—"if that's going to happen. Remember, I don't know where this place is, so you'll have to walk on your own and be coherent enough to know where we're going."

"Trust me, I'm not going to make the same mistake I made in Chicago." The look he gives me makes it clear he's not just talking about the drinking. When the server sets down his drink, he says, "This is the last one."

I wave away the offer of another martini, still nursing my first. I'm quite the lightweight lately, and a pleasant buzz is good enough for tonight. Just enough to lower my inhibitions enough to have a good time.

But first I have to get through the trip to the studio. Drex is my friend (and may be more than that eventually, I hope?), so I want to be supportive about his work. I want to see what he spends time doing when he's not being Stefan's slave. I want to feed his ego. I just don't want to have to go anywhere associated with Stefan to do it.

When our drinks are gone and the bill is paid, Drex stands up. "Well? You wanna go check out my latest masterpiece?"

I smile bravely and say, "Absolutely," as if there's nothing I'd like to do more.

## 20

# Portrait of a Mother

I wish I weren't so distracted about the Stefan-ness of this place, because Drex is right; it really is cool. It's industrial and open and... fun. A series of platforms connected by metal stairs and ladders make up the different work areas. It looks like Stefan has several works in progress, judging by the number of easels, both covered and uncovered, scattered on the platforms. The result is something that actually looks more like a tree house than an art studio. Who knew that Stefan had such an inner child? Well, I guess his immaturity has hinted at it, but I didn't realize he had recognized and embraced it so much.

We climb to a large platform, where Drex turns on a huge light that illuminates a canvas covering a section of the wall that's about six feet tall and three feet wide.

"Oh," I breathe. Then I stupidly state, "That's me."

Pregnant me. Well, not in Drex's mind, but definitely on the canvas.

He stands in front of it, grinning proudly, with his hands on his hips. He tilts his head in order to study it better. "Yeah. From memory. It helps that I'm not a realist, so it doesn't have to be perfect, feature-for-feature. But it still has to be recognizable. And I obviously did a decent job, since you saw it right away."

Trying to control my emotions, I don't say anything for a while as I look at it. When I've been quiet for long enough, he asks, "Well? What do you think?"

Too choked up to talk, I merely stare at myself and shake my head.

He interprets my emotion as tears of joy. Wrapping an arm around my shoulders, he pulls me up against his side. "Well, I didn't mean to make you cry. Although this _is_ a gratifying reaction."

Finally, I tear my eyes away from the portrait and blink at him. It takes every muscle in my face to make me smile, but I manage it somehow. It's the utmost truth when I say, "Wow. I wasn't expecting this."

Foolishly, I thought that as long as I avoided Stefan, New York would be the last place I'd have to worry about reminders of what's happened. But it's unavoidable. As long as I'm still breathing, I can't forget.

Drex puts his hand to the side of my face. "I don't know why you're so surprised. I think it's painfully obvious that I'm, you know, crazy about you."

"Well... there have been some hints that you want to be more than friends."

He moves in closer, rubbing my cheek with his thumb. "Either I'm too subtle, or you're clueless." Not waiting for me to tell him which one I think it is, he places his lips softly on mine. Then he presses harder.

My lips part under his as I feel the tension leave my shoulders. I loop my arms over his shoulders and twine them around his neck. This feels good. And it _almost_ feels right. There's no reason it shouldn't feel right. Right? Right?!

But something's not right.

What's wrong here? I like Drex. He likes me. We're alone. In New York City. On the cusp of Christmastime. In front of a painting he made of me. A beautiful painting. It doesn't get much more romantic than this. Plus, we've been building up to this for months. And I _need_ this. Who would begrudge me this?

My cell phone rings in my coat pocket. I reach down, pull out the BlackBerry, and hold it up next to his head so I can see the display without withdrawing from him.

"Don't answer it," he murmurs against my lips.

It says, _Unavailable._ I immediately think of an emergency back home that would require someone to call me from a number that my phone wouldn't recognize.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to an eye-rolling Drex as I answer the call. "Hello?"

"Peyton?"

"Pastor? Is everything okay?" I immediately ask, stepping back from Drex as I imagine something happening to one of my parents and Brice calling from a hospital ER.

"What? Yes. Of course."

My shoulders slump with relief. "Oh, good. I thought maybe you were calling with bad news." It seems like I'm always poised for bad news these days. "Where are you calling from? It wasn't your ringtone."

If it had been, I wouldn't have answered. But I don't tell him that.

Drex steps further away and turns his back on me.

"What? Oh. Yeah, I'm calling from my desk phone. Now I feel horrible. I didn't mean to scare you," Brice says remorsefully.

I take a second to calm my pounding heart. Then I say, "Uh, what's up?"

He laughs nervously. "I don't know, honestly. I was sitting here in my office, working late, and I... never mind. It's hard to explain. Are you doing well?"

I turn so that Drex and I are back-to-back, with about ten feet of air between us. I curl around the phone in an attempt to create my own phone booth with my body. "Fine. I'm kind of busy right now, though."

"Oh! Sure. I'll let you go, then. I just... I've, uh, missed you. At church! Lately."

There's no rebuke or scorn in his voice, but I blush with shame, anyway. I mutter into the phone, "Well, things are still pretty strained between my parents and me. And, uh..."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he says when I don't finish my thought. "But, you know, your church family is here to help, to get you through this tough time. You might be surprised how much coming to church helps."

"I can't this week. I'm out of town."

"Oh? Anywhere fun?"

Until you called, yes.

"New York. For work."

"Hm. For work." His tone and volume tell me he doesn't believe me. Or maybe I'm paranoid, because I feel like he somehow knew what I was doing when he called. And what I was planning to do next. Then his voice takes on a hopeful note. "Well! Maybe I'll see you next week, then."

I can't bring myself to outright disappoint him. So, I say, "Maybe. Yeah."

"Or you can call me when you get back to town. If you think I can do anything to help, I mean. With your family situation. Or anything else."

I hear a sigh behind me. Drex has seated himself on the top step of the platform's stairs to wait out the rest of my call. "We'll see. I really have to go."

But I don't want to, I realize with a pang. I've been waiting for him to reach out to me for weeks. His timing, however, couldn't have been worse.

"All right. Well, then... take care," he says, tacking on a quiet, "Goodnight."

After I disconnect the call, I sit down next to Drex. "Sorry," I repeat. "I thought it was an emergency."

"You have a lot of people calling you with those?" he asks.

"Yeah, actually. Well, maybe not emergencies..."

"But things important enough to interrupt what we were doing." He says it like a statement, not a question.

"You're mad." There's no question in my statement either.

He shakes his head. "Not mad. Disappointed."

I thread my arm through his and lean my head against his shoulder. "Well, I'm still here."

"Physically, yes."

I wish I could contradict what he's implying. But he's right. I'm mentally in Chicago, in a quiet, carpeted office decorated with ridiculous hand-drawn religious pictures. I'm watching a young pastor as he sits in the glow of his computer monitor and blinks in time with his cursor while trying to think of the perfect word to resonate with his audience, the people who rely on him week after week for spiritual guidance and renewal.

I miss him.

Lying, in order to recapture the mood, I say, "No, totally. I'm not _that_ easily distracted."

"Well, I guess I am," he says. I'm forced to release his arm when he stands up. "Just forget it."

I'm hurt, but I have no one to blame but myself. "Okay," I accept, swallowing tears for the second time in one evening. "I guess I'm going to call it a night, then."

He leads the way down the stairs. "I'll hail a cab for you," he offers. And I can tell he thinks he's going above and beyond.

## 21

# Holiday Plans

I return home more sexually-frustrated than when I left. Which I didn't think was possible. But I'm often surprised lately at the boundaries of what's possible and impossible in my life.

The Christmas season is in full swing, and it's usually my favorite time of year, but it's different this year, for obvious reasons. I can't get into the spirit of things. I can't get into the spirit of anything. The Black Friday madness I usually enthusiastically partake in with Jen and Mitzi held no appeal for me, so I skipped it for the first time in years. And now, weeks later, even Mom and Nicole have given up trying to get me to go shopping with them, like I do every year.

Since returning from New York, I've been in all-out solitary confinement, not counting work. Most nights I spend in front of the TV, not really watching the shows but finding a sort of comfort in the flickering light and the murmuring voices as I doodle the same thing over and over again in my sketch pad.

I'm spending just such another night when my phone chirps, alerting me to a text message.

I pluck it from the coffee table and plop onto the couch. Settling into the cushions, I peer warily at the screen.

> _I'm sorry I was a jerk in NY_

Hmph. Well, he should be. But I can't help but soften at Drex's willingness to apologize. Not every guy would do that. Some guys would say that I was a tease. Some guys would complain about genital discomfort brought on by women who don't know what they want. Or at the very least, some guys would try to pretend like their pouty behavior never happened. Not him. So I text him back.

> You're forgiven
> 
> * * *
> 
> Really?
> 
> * * *
> 
> No begging required
> 
> * * *
> 
> I was willing, just so you know. I want credit for that
> 
> * * *
> 
> OK

In my hand, the phone starts ringing. Or, rather, singing. The Kings of Leon want me to know someone very hot and sexy is calling.

"Yes...?"

"So, how does Christmas in Vegas sound? You, me, a suite at the Venetian. Palm trees strung with lights..."

He has no idea how good that sounds. Well, maybe he does. He seems pretty confident about his suggestion.

Forlornly, I half-groan, "I can't."

"Why not? Just one reason," he demands.

"Family. I have family, and they expect me to celebrate Christmas with them."

"I do, too, but I'd be willing to give them the old kiss off. Just this one year. Come on!"

I close my eyes and rest my head against the back of the couch. "Drex..."

He sighs. "Yeah, yeah. You're a good girl. You'd never do anything as daring as run away to Vegas with a guy who wants to screw your brains out."

My heart quickens at his directness. I stare at the multi-colored lights on my Christmas tree until they blur. As if in a trance, I reply, "Oh..." I'm getting a vivid picture of what Drex's idea of a perfect Christmas would be like. And I like it. A lot.

But...

"Your peer pressure isn't going to work, Bub. I'm already on the Stratford Family Crap List; I'm not as good a girl as you think I am."

"Sure, " he teases. "Miss Churchy-Church, best friends with your pastor. You probably sing in the choir and organize food drives for the poor."

I laugh at his truly distorted impression of me. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Who's your favorite singer—Michael W. Smith?" His tone is breezy, but I'm starting to feel uncomfortable with his stereotype. "Do you say things like 'fiddlesticks' or—when you're furious—'golldarnit'?"

"Stop it," I say with a strained smile.

But he continues, his voice a taunt now. "I'll bet when you're alone in bed, thinking dirty thoughts, you make yourself get up and read a chapter of the Good Book. Or you hum a few bars of _Kumbaya_."

"Cut it out, okay?" I snap loudly. "Just because you don't believe in _anything_ doesn't mean it's okay to make fun of people who do."

He laughs. "Ooh. Touchy-touchy. Sorry. Didn't mean to hit a nerve." After a few seconds' pause, he asks, "So, are you playing the part of Mary or the angel in the Christmas pageant this year? I bet Mary. And your pastor buddy will play Joseph."

Through clenched teeth, I say, "You are such a jerk sometimes."

"Oh, come on! I'm only kidding. Geez."

"You're pretending to kid," I point out, "but you're lashing out at me, because I'm not giving you your way about Vegas."

"Vegas was a joke. Although if you had taken me up on it, I would have jumped at the chance. But I knew it was a pretty sure thing that you'd say no." He sounds so pitiful when he says it that I almost feel sorry for him.

But my fuse has been lit. "You think you know me so well... If that's the case, then I can see why you're rushing the getting-to-know-you part of our relationship. Let's just hop straight in the sack, because you have me all figured out, except that part."

Trying to placate me, he says, "Aw, come on. That's not how I feel at all. I just..." He sighs. "Do you _really_ think I'm rushing this? We've known each other for months; we talk or email or chat online every single day. We've been to each other's hometowns. The only thing missing is that we haven't met each other's parents. Or seen each other naked."

"We've kissed _once_ , Drex. I'm not sure yet if I _want_ to see you naked."

Liar, liar, pants on fire! Oh, shut up.

"Excuse me for not being as indecisive," he retorts. "I think it's simple. I like you. A lot. From your sense of humor to the way you look to the way you look _at_ me. About the only thing I don't like about you is how uptight you are about sex. It's just sex. I'm not asking that you make me the only person you ever have sex with for the rest of your life. Now, that would be something to make you think twice, I'm sure. But—for now—this is just fun. Or it's supposed to be, anyway," he tacks on with a mutter.

"What a romantic proposition," I sneer.

He lets me have the last word on that. Neither of us makes a sound for a few minutes. I'm inspecting my recent manicure courtesy of Sadie and peering at the shaky work with sparkly green "Christmas" polish when he finally sighs and says, "Sorry. Again. Why am I always apologizing to you?"

"Because you have a habit of being a jerk and a baby," I say mildly.

He has the good humor to chuckle. "That's how guys are when it comes to sex, in case you haven't had much experience in that department—which I'm beginning to suspect, by the way."

I snort. "Your lame attempt to find out if I'm a virgin without actually asking is laughable."

"Well, are you?" he asks.

Shaking my head at him, I answer nonetheless, "No. Dillweed."

That cracks him up. "Okay, then."

"Are _you_?" I counter, and when he laughs dismissively at me, I say, "Because you kind of act like someone who's never interacted with a girl outside the playground."

"Ouch! And I thought I've been so charming!"

"You've had a few moments," I grudgingly admit, "but your form could use some work. Grown women, such as myself, don't like to be pressured or threatened or insulted into having sex. And 'commitment' isn't a bad word."

"Wait. I need to write this shit down."

"Yes, take notes."

"On a scale of one to ten, how attractive is this statement to you: let's get married and have ten kids."

"Overkill," I declare. "Happy medium, Buddy."

"Oh, God. I've been downgraded to 'buddy' status. I'm backsliding!"

When I laugh, he's encouraged to say, "Okay, how about this one: spend Christmas with me. I don't care where. I'll come there, if you _insist_ on spending time with tiresome family members. Stuffing owes me some time off. And I have some frequent flyer miles I can redeem."

His suggestion curls my toes. "Wow. You're a fast study," I compliment him. "That's the kind of statement that can get a girl's attention in a hurry."

## 22

# Walk in the Park

I stare through my windshield after dropping off Sadie at the ballet studio. I wave at my sister and try not to picture her soaking in a bubble-filled bathtub in her giant master suite while her disgusting husband calls someone else "hot" within earshot of his six-year-old daughter. But it's no use. The picture's as clear as if I'm watching it unfold on a screen in front of me. A horror movie.

Why is this picture burned into my brain? Because Sadie innocently revealed the information to me while we were roasting marshmallows in front of my open oven during our impromptu sleepover last night.

I'd said to her, "Well, Sadie-lady, do these look brown enough for us?"

She'd giggled and said they did. As we were smacking our lips and licking the marshmallow residue from our fingers, she told me, "Daddy always teases me and calls me 'Sadie, the shady lady.'" Then she blinked up at me innocently. "What does that mean?"

_Thanks, Lonnie_. I rolled my eyes and tried to shrug it off. "Who knows? Your dad always says weird things, doesn't he?"

She nodded. "Yeah. 'Specially when he's on the phone. I heard him talkin' to someone once, and he told them they were hot. But that's silly, because it's winter."

Rinsing in the sink the roasting sticks I'd "borrowed" from Mom and Dad's camping gear in their garage the last time I had a craving for roasted marshmallows and keeping my back turned to her, I casually asked, "Oh. Was he talking to your mom?"

She shook her head, covered her eyes, and giggled. "No! Mommy's always cold! And she was in the bathtub."

My stomach sank. My recent problems have been good for one thing: people have stopped burdening me with their issues. I guess they figure (correctly) that I have enough of my own. In particular, Nicole has mercifully stopped giving me a play-by-play of her marital problems. But learning from my innocent, sweet niece that things are just as bad as ever—if not worse—broke my heart. I'm glad, however, that she seems to be relatively clueless about what must really be going on.

Now that I've returned her to the care of her equally oblivious mother, I need a head-clearing walk. Maybe I'll take Brice up on the offer he left on my voicemail last night to take a (cold) turn around the park this morning. I have plenty of time to get there. And I can't think of anything else to do besides go home and wrap Christmas presents (yawn).

Plus, I miss our talks. I always feel good after I talk to him. I could use a shot of that this morning. Thinking about my sister and Lonnie has nearly frozen any warm fuzzies I have left over from last night's phone call with Drex, during which we firmed up plans for him to come stay with me next week.

That's right. Stay with me. At my place. I'll never admit it to him, but his accusing me of being uptight about sex bothers me. As if! Now I want to prove myself. And I realize I'm probably playing right into his strategy, but in this case, I don't mind being manipulated. I want to be putty in his hands.

At the park, I'm greeted by the sight of Brice bent over, tying his shoe, his foot propped on a bench and his very cute butt pointed my way. I have an inappropriate and irrational urge to smack it, athlete-style. But I'm afraid it might be misconstrued, so I keep my hands to myself.

I come to a stop next to him with my hands in my coat pockets and stare off into the distance. "Hey," I say casually, as if the last time I saw him wasn't two months ago across my baby's coffin.

He straightens and gives me a much more enthusiastic, "Hey!" He looks like a little kid in his Chicago Bears knit hat. The tip of his nose is already red from the cold. "You came."

"Unless I'm a mirage... then, yes." I wrap my scarf more tightly around my neck to try to block the wind from seeping down into my coat.

We take off down the path and quickly fall into step with one another. We're two of only a handful of other people brave enough to face the bitter cold. It even hurts to breathe. I pull my scarf over my mouth to filter the freezing air.

"What's on tap for the sermon tomorrow?" I ask, for lack of anything better to say.

He squints into the wind. "Now, if I tell you, then you won't feel the need to come hear it."

"Yeah, well..."

Looking over at me, he says, "Is that your way of telling me you're not going to be there tomorrow? Still not talking to your parents?"

I sniff. "Oh, we're talking," I reassure him. "Just not about anything important."

"Hm."

"Indeed."

He smiles sadly at my wry declaration. "Are you okay with that?"

I shrug. "For now. I mean, I don't know if I have the energy to talk about anything too heavy with them, anyway. It would probably only end in a fight."

"Maybe they're just unsure of what to say to you, in light of everything," he suggests diplomatically.

Now I smile. "Do you always think the best of people?"

He seriously considers it. "Not always. But I strive for it."

My question brings to mind Drex's frequent teasing me about my faith, so I ask, "Do you ever get sick of people thinking you're perfect? I mean, do you feel pigeon-holed? Or underestimated? Like you're just a sandals-wearing, people-loving, hymn-singing, hand-holding, robe-sporting, tambourine-playing virgin?"

The last word hangs between us until he contemplatively queries, "Is that how you see me?"

"No!" I deny a bit too vehemently, keeping my eyes on the horizon in front of us. "And that doesn't answer my question." I chance a peek over at him, but my glance transforms into a bolder look into his eyes.

He holds my gaze. "Sorry. I don't know if I remember your question."

"Do you get sick of people assuming that's all you are, some kind of Christian stereotype?" I rephrase more succinctly.

Finally, he looks away from me. "Well, I know I'm supposed to model my behavior after Christ's. So if—by your vivid description—you're implying that those things are Christ-like, then I should welcome the comparison."

"But?"

Again, he meets my eyes. "Nobody likes to be reduced to a two-dimensional caricature, myself included. I hope that people see I'm a guy with a personality and a sense of humor and feelings. And that I'm capable of strong emotions, including some that aren't very pleasant." Now he tries to stifle a grin. "Plus, in my opinion, Jesus is the only guy that can pull off wearing sandals. They're just not my style. And I generally don't trust guys who wear them."

His shallow assertion surprises me into staring open-mouthed at him for a while. He laughs. "See? A tambourine-playing virgin would never say something like that."

When I crack up at that, he laughs harder. The older couple in front of us turns around to glance at us. He waves and says, "Hi there!" making them face forward quickly. "Okay," he says, shrugging. "I was just being friendly, but whatever."

"They're not used to that, probably. Everyone's snide nowadays," I explain.

_"Hi there!"_ is something Drex would say but with a completely different tone, meaning, _"Turn around and mind your own business."_

"I could see how you would know a lot about that," he says, still grinning. "Queen of Snide."

I try not to take his comment as a criticism. I don't have much time to dwell on it anyway, because he asks, "So, aside from your pants size, what's new with you?"

My defensive reply of, "I'm not anorexic or anything," earns me a sharp look from him, but he lets his original question stand. I hate when he does that. It's like he's waiting for me to step into the hole of silence he's leaving, expecting me to trip up and say something revealing. I refuse to give him the satisfaction. "Nothing. I mean, I went to New York on business, like I told you..."

"Were you successful?"

_On which front?_ Since he only knows about the business side of the trip, I say, "Very. We'll see just how successful after we tally the sales from the art show in the spring. I have every reason to believe it'll be a big seller, though."

"Great."

"Yeah. So, I guess you're slammed lately. Lots of Christmas activities going on at the church?"

He nods. "Oh, yeah. Between mid-week services and evening activities, toy drives, food drives, choir concerts, and the Christmas program, I don't know how I'm going to find time to entertain my parents while they're here."

I get a flash of the picture in his office featuring him with the older couple. "Oh, your parents are coming to visit? How fun!"

He laughs. "Yeah. I have a feeling they'll be sitting around the parsonage a lot, while I work long hours. But knowing them, they'll want to help. And I'll have to force them to rest."

"You make them sound ancient. I bet they really appreciate that."

"I was a late-in-life baby," he explains. "My mom always called me her little miracle." If his face wasn't already so flushed and wind-burned, I'd say he was blushing. "Anyway, they're a lot older than your parents. In their late seventies. But don't tell them that."

"Okay. I'll try to remember that." I stare down at the gravel path. "I'm going to have a visitor for Christmas, too," I reveal apprehensively, my heart beating a suddenly-swift staccato against my sternum. When he waits for me to go on, I do. "Yeah. My friend Drex."

"Really," he breathes. I can tell without looking that he's not as happy for me as I was for him.

"Yeah." I chuckle nervously. "I guess he wants to see what a dysfunctional family Christmas is like."

"So, he'll be spending Christmas with your entire family?"

"Well, maybe. I don't know yet. I guess it'll depend on how brave he feels that day. Maybe he'll just hang around my apartment for the few hours I'm with them."

"Oh." His listless tone makes me look up, despite being afraid of what I'll see in his face. He swallows. "He's staying _with_ you with you."

Suddenly I remember that I'm talking to my pastor. I blush. "Uh... well... I... I mean, it'll save him some money," I finish lamely.

He says nothing to lead me to believe he's buying my pathetic cover story. On the contrary, he snipes, "Well, that should be _fun_."

When I attempt to play innocent, saying, "Yeah. I'm excited," it actually sounds like I'm flaunting it, and I immediately regret it. But I know if I keep talking, I'll just dig the hole deeper. And I'm not willing to acknowledge that we'll be doing anything wrong. If I acknowledge it, then I'll be expected _not_ to do it. And I won't commit to that.

We've almost made it all the way around the park. Now he speeds up so that I have to trot to keep up. My lungs are burning.

"You should definitely make it a point to bring Drex to church. We'd be happy to have him," he says tightly.

How awkward would that be? I'm cringing just thinking about it. Drex, Mr. Agnostic, would probably feel like he was in the midst of some mindless cult, as we pray in unison the prayers we've known by heart since we were kids. I'd be so uncomfortable, thinking that he was sitting there privately laughing at all of us, Brice especially.

I manage to mumble a noncommittal "We'll see," as we stop at my car. "Can I give you a ride?" I offer, grasping for a change in subject.

He shakes his head. "Nah. I'm fine. I'm not even cold anymore."

His ultra-polite tone makes me feel shy. "Oh. Okay. Well, I guess I'll see you around, then," I say, sitting down in my car.

Just before he shuts the door for me, he replies, "I guess."

As I reverse out of the spot and pull away, he gives me a half-hearted wave. In my rearview mirror, I see him turn, hunch his shoulders against the wind, and make his way home.

## 23

# Rebound

I bought new sheets. Expensive sheets. And a girl on a budget doesn't buy new, expensive bedding (and wash it three times so it doesn't _look_ new) for nothing. The girl who does that has an agenda. A naughty agenda.

I stand next to Drex, just inside my front door, as he sets down his bag and surveys his surroundings. "Nice place! Wow. This would be, like, a palace in New York. All this room! And all to yourself? No roommates?"

"Just me," I confirm.

He turns to me. "You're so lucky. This is great. So quiet!"

I lead him down the short hallway to my room. There, I spread my arms. "Well... this is it. I mean, this is my room. I mean..." I trail off, embarrassed. Amused, he looks on, waiting for me to say something else. "This is where you'll be sleeping," I eventually manage.

"You're cute," he declares, stepping closer to me.

I duck my head. "Whatever."

"Not whatever," he insists, rubbing against me. My body responds accordingly. I want him so badly that there are certain parts of me that are actually aching. I've read about that but have never experienced it firsthand. It's absolutely awesome.

I look up in time to see his mouth moving in. He has a nice mouth. Pretty, almost. Lips like flower petals. I let him kiss me. Softly at first, but then harder and harder, almost urgently. I didn't envision us doing this less than five minutes after walking through the door, but... oh, well. It works.

Grunting, he squares up to me and backs me up to the foot of the bed, where he gently pushes me down. I scoot back so my legs aren't hanging halfway off, while he lowers himself next to me, bracing his weight on his arms. He stares at my lips in a way that leaves no question as to what he's thinking. I reach up to him, impatient. But in the process of sliding on top of me, something catches his eye over my head.

He freezes before reaching for my nightstand. My eyes follow his hand as if in slow motion as he grasps at a book buried under several others, its spine facing us. My copy of _What to Expect When You're Expecting_ slides into his hand while the books on top of it scatter to the floor.

"What the fuck?" he asks, bewildered, staring at the cover.

I snatch it away from him and toss it to the floor on the other side of the bed. "I'll explain later," I promise. _After I come up with a good lie._

"But you're not...?"

"No!" I laugh as if it's the most preposterous idea in the world. "God, no."

"You're sure?"

"I think I'd know. Come on!" I clutch him tighter to my chest by wrapping my arms around his back and squeezing. "You were about to give me a very merry Christmas present, remember?"

He smirks down into my face. "I was, wasn't I?"

"Are. Not past tense."

"Not past tense," he agrees, refocusing on me.

I breathe an inward sigh of relief. I know too well how short his attention span can be. And seeing a book like that on a woman's bedside table could distract the most focused of guys. There are only a few reasons for someone to have that book, and most of them aren't welcome news for a guy about to have sex for the first time with the woman who owns it.

I should probably start thinking of a good story to tell him. But... Ohhhhh... It's going to have to wait. I'm sure I'll come up with something when I'm less distracted.

The clock tells me when I wake up a few hours later that I don't have time to shower and get to the Christmas Eve service at church. _Oh, well_ , I think as I languidly stretch and cuddle up against Drex's side. _I'll go in the morning._ Or not. I guess it depends how I feel. I'm not going to worry about it, though.

Right now, I'm more worried about eating. I'm starving. Too nervous to eat before I picked up Drex from the airport, I haven't had anything since last night. A few months ago, if someone had told me that I'd be able to go this long without eating, I would have laughed at them, then asked what kind of horrible disease I'd have to be suffering from for that to be possible.

I poke him in the shoulder.

He grunts.

"Are you hungry?" I ask quietly.

"For food?" he quips, reaching blindly for me.

I evade his capture. "Yes, food. I haven't eaten in almost twenty-four hours."

He sits up as if there's a fire. "What?! Are you kidding me?"

Laughing, I answer, "No," as I gather my ridiculously scattered clothes and put them on.

"No wonder you're so fucking thin all of a sudden. God! You need to eat more often, Peyton."

"I eat when I'm hungry, thank you," I reply defensively, popping my head through my shirt.

He quickly dresses too. "But you're not hungry often enough."

"If you think I'm skinny, wait 'til you see my sister, Nicole. She's a bone."

He makes a face. "How is that sexy?" he says, as he stands and zips his jeans. "It'd be like having sex with another dude. All hard and curve-less. Ick."

At the door to my bedroom, I wait for him to put on his shoes. "Well, hurry up, then. I don't want to get too thin for you. My love handles are melting away as we speak."

As he lunges for me, I squeal and dart into the hallway.

A few minutes later, at a nearby diner, he waits for me to start eating before he picks up his burger. Great. I'm a suspected anorexic because I'm no longer overweight. I'm touched that he cares so much, but at the same time, he's making me self-conscious. I'd hardly call a size eight emaciated. Even on my taller-than-average frame. I'm sure he's seen much thinner in New York. Much.

"Stop staring at me," I demand, pausing with a spoonful of chili halfway to my mouth. "I'm eating."

He grins. "That's not why I'm staring at you." Suddenly, he looks down at his plate.

"What?" I hastily wipe my face with my napkin. "Do I have food on my face?"

"Nope."

When he doesn't elaborate but keeps smiling that secret smile as he pops French fry after French fry into his mouth without looking up, I set down my spoon. "I'm not eating another bite until you tell me what's so funny." My stomach growls in protest, but I'm serious. I don't like being the butt of a secret joke.

The smile slides away. "Hey. Come on. Just eat."

"Tell me what you're laughing about to yourself over there."

He sighs. "It's nothing," he dismisses. "Stupid."

"Try me."

"God," he mutters, wiping his hands on his napkin and tucking them under his arms while sitting back. After staring me down for a few seconds, he says, "I was just thinking... I'm going to sound like such a jerk when I say this. Don't make me say it," he pleads.

Now I'm intrigued. And somewhat apprehensive. But mostly curious. And amused by the desperate look on his face. I reach across the table and wiggle my fingers at him. He puts one of his hands in mine.

"Be brave," I urge him as I hope that being silly will lighten the mood.

Looking at the ceiling, he says, "I was just thinking that I've officially proven that Stuffing was blowing smoke up my ass about sleeping with you."

My chili revolts, but I swallow it back. However, I can't open my mouth to speak, so I simply tilt my head and hum an inquisitive, "Hm?"

He quickly adds when he sees my face, "Not that I ever thought you did. I mean, I knew he was lying, but I have proof now. Not that I needed it. Oh, shit. See? I wish you hadn't made me say it. I shouldn't have even thought it. It's just... his description of his supposed experience with you isn't even close to the reality." Shyly, he stares down at his hands. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. I love you. Even if you did sleep with him, I don't think I could walk away from you."

I gulp my water and move my chili around in my bowl so it looks like I'm eating it.

"Enough," he states firmly. "Stuffing is a lying, pathetic moron."

"You needed to sleep with me to confirm that?" I ask. "I could have saved you the condom."

He cracks up while I try to moderate my body temperature with sheer force of will. The sweat is dripping down my back and into the waistband of my jeans. Gross! But I'm on the verge of either tears or hysterical laughter as I think of the moment that has arrived. I have to tell him. Now. He's dropped the L-bomb and forced the issue.

I manage to force feed myself enough bites to satisfy my audience, but then I toss my napkin on the remnants so I don't have to look at it. My stomach is just starting to settle when he startles me by laughing out loud for seemingly no reason.

"Now what?" I ask.

He shakes his head as he finishes laughing and says, "I just remembered that fucking book on your nightstand. What the hell?"

"Huh-huh," I nervously titter. "You're going to laugh," I assure him to stall for time as my brain scrambles and all I can come up with—annoyingly—is, _When in doubt, tell the truth._

"Let's get out of here, and I'll explain everything."

Drex is sitting sideways on the couch, his arm resting along the back of it. His grin from thirty seconds ago is gone.

"What the fuck are you telling me?" he demands.

I decide the Band-Aid removal strategy is best. "I _did_ sleep with Stefan. Last summer."

Staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at me for a while, he finally reacts. By laughing. "That's not even funny," he finally manages to say.

"I know. It's _not_ funny." I grab his hands and try to maintain as much eye contact as possible so he knows I'm sincere. "That's why I haven't been able to figure out a way to tell you. And... there's more." I wince. My heart pounds and my muscles tense. "I got pregnant. And I had his baby. But she was stillborn."

At my grave tone, he stops laughing, but then he resumes. He wheezes, "Oh, shit! You had me going for a second. Until you added the stuff about the baby. That was too unbelievable. I'm sure Stuffing's sterile, anyway. But your face is so serious! You could be an actor. You—"

"Drex!"

He quiets abruptly.

I let go of his hands.

He clears his throat and sniffs. Catching his breath, he searches my face, narrowing his eyes. Then he says dismissively, "Whatever," which shocks me, until he adds, "I'm not falling for it, this sick little joke of yours."

The liar in me (95% of my make-up) tells me to run with his out. It's not my fault he doesn't believe me, right? I tried to tell him. My obligation has been met. But I'm compelled to be honest. Because I may not want to marry Drex, but I'd like for things to continue with him on some level, and I don't want this hanging over my head anymore.

I take a deep breath. "I'm telling you the truth," I persist, feeling like a masochist. "Unfortunately."

There it is... finally. The sinking realization that I'm not joking. He physically recoils from me, scooting as far away as the sofa arm behind him will allow.

"I'm sorry," I offer lamely, but then I point out, "It was before I ever knew you, though."

"It's still _Stuffing!_ "

"Yeah, well, he was different then." I sigh and backtrack, "Not really. I mean, I _thought_ he was at first, but I figured out he was a douche-bag before I slept with him." I stare into space as I force myself to remember that night and try to be as honest as possible. "It's just... I was an easy target. Not that I was a victim. But I've never had the best self-esteem, so when he flattered me with his attention... And then he did this thing—"

Jumping from the couch, he cries, "Oh, fuck! Please! Spare me the details." He shivers and rubs his hands on his body like he's trying to scrub off his tattoos.

I repeat, "I'm sorry," and look down at my hands in my lap. "Like I said, I understand how upsetting this is."

"Do you? Do you?! I don't know, Peyton. I don't think you do. I don't know how you _could_." He laces his fingers on top of his head, like a runner trying to cool down, and turns his back to me. "It's horrifying, to say the least."

"Okay. I get it," I say.

He whirls around to face me and points. "Stop saying that! Okay? Just stop." His voice breaks on the last word.

"Sorry."

"And stop apologizing. Shit."

"Sor—Okay." I swallow and watch him pace around my living room. Looking far from calm, he's still fairly unreadable. I recognize the nausea, but the rest is a mystery to me. I wouldn't be surprised to see anger and hurt, but his greenish face is blank.

After several minutes, I beg, "Please, say something. I mean, anything to give me some idea of how you feel. Or what you're thinking."

He stops and snorts. "I thought you said you knew."

"I thought I did know. But you said I didn't. So..."

"I don't think you want to know."

I bluff, "You can't hurt my feelings. You can't say anything that I haven't felt about myself."

Laughing bitterly, he shakes his head and puts his hands on his hips. "I plead the Fifth, okay?"

"Gosh, it must be awful, then," I mutter.

He rubs his hand across his mouth. "For months, I've thought that Stuffing was the liar. And all this time, it was _you!_ You've had so many opportunities to set the record straight, but you chose not to."

"You're right."

Emboldened, he continues, "And this horrific hook-up might have happened before we ever met, but I'm assuming the other part of this story was ongoing. So you lied to me about that, too."

"Yes. Well, 'concealed' is probably a more accurate description."

He spits, "Give me a break. It all boils down to the same thing: you knew things that you didn't tell me. Purposely."

"Yes."

"What's the timeline here?" he asks suddenly. "In relation to you and me, anyway?"

Is it crazy of me to be hopeful at his use of the phrase "you and me"? Crazy or not, I _am_ hopeful. I know the answer to this question is very important. And I can't fudge any of the details. To be sure, though, I check. "Are you sure you want to know?"

His no-nonsense expression is my cue to continue.

"Okay. Stefan and I... well, you know... It was back in early June. I figured out I was pregnant early July. I had the baby in late October." I spout the facts as unemotionally as possible.

"So, when I was here for Stuffing's show, you were..."

"Four months pregnant."

"Oh, my God!" His eyes practically bug out of his face. "And when you came to New York?"

"Not pregnant anymore."

More to himself than anything, he says, "That explains the weight loss. And the time away from work. But..." His head snaps up. "Wait a second. Stuffing doesn't know about the baby, does he?"

Tears of shame trickle down my cheeks and drip from my jaw. "No. I never told him," I say amazingly clearly. "It didn't seem like something he'd care to know."

"So what? Don't you think he had the _right_ to know?"

"You obviously think so," I reply. "I obviously didn't." I take a deep breath. "He was extremely verbally abusive the morning after... you know. So I could only imagine how he'd take the happy news that he was a father."

"I'd want to know."

"Duly noted," I crack.

"Not funny," he retorts. "I'm serious."

I rub my eyes with my thumb and forefinger. "I know. I'm just trying to stop crying."

He plops next to me on the couch but doesn't touch me. "Stop trying to make me feel sorry for you."

"I'm not," I object.

"Good. Because it's not going to work." But he puts a warm hand on my back.

I crack an eye open to look at his face. It's slack and not as green. He's staring at the Christmas tree lights.

"I didn't want to lie to you," I venture. "I honestly just didn't know how to tell you."

"I'm a pretty understanding guy," he answers, his thumb rubbing back and forth against my shoulder blade.

I relax against him more. He scoots away. Tense again, I look over at him and know what he's going to say before he says it.

"But not _that_ understanding." He stands up slowly, rubbing his palms on his thighs, leaving sweaty tracks down the front of his black jeans. "I'm sorry, Peyton, but... You know how much I hate him."

Dry-mouthed, I manage to say, "But... you... you... told me you loved me. Doesn't that matter more?"

He shakes his head, and he looks embarrassed to admit, "I thought it would, but... I guess not. There's just no way I can stay here, with you, knowing this."

I can tell there's nothing I can say to change his mind, so I sit impotently on the couch while he retrieves the bag he hasn't even opened to unpack and leaves my apartment without so much as a goodbye.

## 24

# Holiday Message

I know I'm late for church when I see my brother's already there. Brice is greeting the packed house when I tap Jason—who's struck The Thinker pose so he can doze undetected—on the shoulder and motion for him to slide over to let me in. Mom leans forward and gives me a tiny, relieved smile. I finger-wave and try to turn my attention to Brice.

I didn't feel like getting out of bed this morning. Or ever. But especially for church.

Something broke through my misery, though, and compelled me to come here.

Plus, if I didn't show up to church on Christmas Day, I'd never hear the end of it for the rest of the day, which is going to be difficult enough without that added annoyance.

"If you're visiting us this morning," Brice is saying, "we're glad to have you. And we hope you'll come back again. We pray we're a blessing to you and that today's service enriches your life."

Is it just me, or did he look straight at me when he addressed the visitors? I'm not a visitor. It hasn't been _that_ long since I've been to church. Or was he making a point to acknowledge that I didn't bring my visitor with me this morning? Either way, he can go suck an egg. Yeah. That's right. I mentally told my pastor to suck an egg. On Christmas Day. Double naughty.

Anyway, he'll be happy to know that I didn't have a visitor to bring.

"Please rise as we sing our first hymn in celebration of our Lord's birth," he invites us. As we're standing and he's turning to go back to his own seat at the front, he shoots me an utterly beatific smile, which instantly makes me remorseful for even thinking a cross thought in his direction.

I pin my eyes to my hymnal and sing the Christmas classic without even thinking about the words. What I'm thinking is, _Wow. That smile's like emotional crack. I could use one of those a day, at least._

He's all smiles today, like the proverbial little kid on Christmas Day. It's obvious he's delighted with the holiday and the message that goes along with it and that he gets to deliver it to all of us. Then I remember that his parents are here, and I'm even happier for him that he gets to share something so joyful with them.

Before I know it, we're singing the last verse of the song before the sermon. Again, it's a perennial favorite that I know by heart, so I close my hymnal and put it away in the rack attached to the pew in front of me. As the last notes ring out, I sit back in my seat and get comfortable. I'm looking forward to hearing what I'm sure is going to be a happy, celebratory message, probably peppered with amusing anecdotes from his childhood and a few jokes here and there.

"Grace, mercy, and peace be unto you through Christ Jesus our Lord. Amen," he begins. He takes a quick sip of the water he keeps in a glass at the pulpit and smiles out at us. "Merry Christmas!"

We return the pleasantry as one.

"So! In case you didn't know, or couldn't tell, Christmas is my favorite holiday. For obvious reasons, of course. But for some other, less overt reasons, too. You know, there's the family, the food, the great music, the general good will toward men, blah, blah, blah..." Everyone laughs. "Don't forget the presents. I like those, too, even though I pretend they don't matter." He cups his hands around his mouth. "They do," he whispers loudly, earning another laugh.

"But, no! What I love most about Christmas is pondering what we all take for granted: that 'God so loved the world that He sent His only begotten Son that whosoever believes in Him should not perish but have eternal life.' You know that one? John 3:16? It's a good one. A classic. Look it up if you've never heard it before."

He gives us a second to appreciate his joke while he takes another drink of water. "Anyway, not only did He send His _only_ Son, He sent Him in what form? As a baby. A helpless, innocent, fragile infant." He holds his hands out, cupped together as if he's holding the tiniest of babies in his palms. He stares down into them. "Why is that, I wonder. Why?"

He waves away the question. "Well, there are a lot of theories, of course. If you're interested in hearing some of the teachings of the Church on the topic, feel free to come by anytime, and we'll have a discussion about it." He takes a deep breath. "No, the reason I bring it up is that we've all heard the story so many times that I think we skim over the significance of Jesus' humble beginnings. He's all-powerful; yet, He began life dependent on other people to care for Him. He was a _baby._ "

I tense at his current topic. I feel like if the whole world would stop talking about babies, I could heal a lot faster. But they're everywhere. Everywhere I turn. And now here, at church, on Christmas, I have to hear more about them? So I'm temporarily relieved when he switches tracks. Somewhat.

As he often does, he steps out from behind the pulpit and walks closer to the congregation, pacing with his hands behind his back, staring at the floor as if he's all alone, talking to himself, trying to puzzle something out.

"And can you imagine being Mary? Like all pregnant women, she was probably _really_ ready to not be pregnant anymore." He looks up. "Am I right, those of you ladies who have endured what feels like the never-ending gestational periods of your precious ones? Yeah, I see lots of nodding out there. Including my mother. Ha! Sorry, Mom. But it's a common refrain. 'I just wish this would end!' Doesn't mean you don't love your baby; just that pregnancy isn't the most pleasant experience sometimes."

The lump in my throat is growing by the second, threatening to cut off my oxygen supply.

He returns to pacing. "Anyway, not only did Mary have to endure the usual discomforts of pregnancy, but think about what her life must have been like back in those times as an unwed mother-to-be."

My face gets hot and numb at the same time. I'm glad he doesn't look at me.

"Let me just tell you, in case you don't know, people were a lot less understanding, okay? In their eyes, she was a fornicator. Who had ever heard of a virgin becoming pregnant? And by the Holy Spirit? Come on! What was this, an episode of _The Twilight Zone, B.C._? So, things were slightly stressful for Mary.

"But _on top of all that_ , let's add a journey of what probably felt like a thousand miles on the back of a donkey. Whew! Forget walking at the mall and eating spicy foods, ladies. Mary had the perfect labor induction strategy: a donkey-back ride."

He stops and checks with us. "So, are you with me so far? These are not ideal conditions, by any stretch."

Returning to the pulpit, he pauses to sip some more water. "Okay. Now, Jesus was born in a stable. No doctors; midwives; no fancy beds that move up and down and control the TV; uh... no TV; no pain relief for Mary—well, I don't know; maybe Joseph was nice and let her bite down on his walking stick... but even so, no antibiotics or vaccinations; no _nothing._ We're talking bare bones here, people! If ever someone tells me they doubt there's a God, I give them this nightmare childbirth scenario as proof that there definitely is. Because Jesus lived through it! And so did Mary. Do you understand the sheer miracle of that? Do you, really? Think about it for a second. Especially those of you who don't go anywhere without your hand sanitizer. You know who you are. Mom."

After giving us a minute to absorb what he's said and imagine what it must have been like, he continues, his tone much more serious.

"Let me give you an idea of how miraculous this was." He holds up a piece of paper with some notes scrawled on it. "According to the American Academy of Obstetrics and Gynecology, 15 percent of pregnancies in this country—today, in the twenty-first century—end in miscarriage, which is defined as the loss of the baby's life before the twentieth week of pregnancy. Then there are the babies who are born prematurely or full-term without a heartbeat. Last year, out of every thousand babies born, roughly six of them were not alive at the time of birth."

I squirm in my seat, willing the mental images away, but I can't help but think, _Six Secrets. Six mothers like me, seeing their lifeless babies in the hands of a doctor. Six families going home empty-handed._ Tears sting my eyes and nose, but I don't give in to them.

Relentlessly, he continues. "Another four of those one-thousand babies who managed to make it through pregnancy and childbirth died before they were a month old. And two more of those one-thousand babies never saw their first birthday. In this day and age, with all of the technology and medicine and in the sterile surroundings provided by hospitals!" He pauses dramatically.

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you this, but there's nothing more heartbreaking than watching a mother grieve for her baby or a father cry over a tiny casket. It's one of those things they try to prepare you for when you're training to be a pastor, but nothing can prepare you for it. And it makes you realize—again—how ridiculously blessed most of us are and don't even have the grace to be thankful!"

Everyone else kind of fades and blurs around me. As far as I'm concerned, there are only two of us in this sanctuary right now. I know this is a sermon written for an audience of one. If someone else out here gets something from it, he'll consider that a bonus, I guess. But he's speaking to _me._ All my nerve endings feel like they're shutting down. I'm powerless to stop watching him or stop listening to him, no matter how desperately I want to do both.

"Even the Lord's birth we take for granted! Every year. It's like, 'and He was born in a lowly manger, blah, blah, blah, wrapped in swaddling clothes, blah, blah, blah... Is the food ready yet? When do we get to open presents?'"

Open-mouthed and incredulous, he stares out at us, the twinkle returning to his eyes. "Seriously. I mean, if you went through an ordeal like Mary's and lived to tell about it, much less _gave birth to the Savior of the world_ , wouldn't you be offended at how blasé everyone has become? Or how they've diverted the attention away from the true origins of the holiday and have turned the yearly remembrance of this miracle into something completely unrelated to it? Or worse, they don't believe it happened at all!"

He shakes his head regretfully. "When I think about it, I mean, _really_ think about it, I'm absolutely embarrassed for us as Christians. Nonbelievers, what do you expect? They don't know any better (partly because we don't work hard enough to bring them to the truth—that's another sermon, though). But _us_ "—he points to his chest, then out at us—" _we're_ supposed to know better."

Waving a hand dismissively in front of himself, he says, "What do I know, though? I'm sure there are plenty of you out there, discreetly checking your watches right now, mentally scolding me for going over my unofficial twelve minute time limit, especially on Christmas. The nerve! Not to mention what a downer I've been with all this talk of fetal and infant mortality.

"But I want us to really celebrate this day!" He slaps his hand on the pulpit, making the microphone shake. "And see it for the miracle it is! And not take it for granted! I don't think that's too much to ask. I'm asking you, _imploring_ you, to sing a little louder the rest of the service; smile a little brighter; give someone a hug you haven't hugged in a while—or ever; stop worrying if everyone picked up on all the hints you gave them about what you wanted under the tree; BASK IN THE MIRACLE THAT WE'RE HERE TO CELEBRATE TODAY." He pauses and takes a deep breath. The smile beams out at us. "Please. Amen.

"May the peace of the Lord, which passes all understanding, keep our hearts and minds in the true faith, through Christ Jesus. Amen."

For the next twenty minutes, I have a vague awareness of people putting their offerings in the plates passed around, singing songs, standing and sitting, saying prayers and creeds, and participating in the service, but I'm barely conscious of any of it. I stand when they stand and sit when they sit, but I don't sing or talk or read. I even walk up for Communion on auto-pilot. I finally snap out of it at the Communion rail when Pastor offers me the cup with one hand and briefly, oh-so-lightly, places his other hand on my head.

Then all the feeling rushes back in, similar to what happens when you've been in the cold so long that you're numb, until you come indoors, and as the heat reawakens your extremities, they ache to the point that you can't keep them still. When we're dismissed from the Lord's Table, the rest of my family returns to our pew, but I keep walking down the side aisle and through the doors leading into the fellowship hall and the building's exit.

I stand coatless in the parking lot next to my car and heave in great breaths of sharp air.

"Fuck," I mutter when I have enough breath to say anything.

The carillon starts playing the final verse of _Joy to the World_. It won't be long before everyone else floods out the doors. The wired kids will be anticipating playing with their new toys or opening their presents, if they haven't already. The parents will be trying to control the kids; some of them will be telling their spouses that they have to hurry home before the ham dries out in the oven. It's a happy day. Christmas Day. All red and green and silver and gold.

But all I can think of is that pink casket.

## 25

# Front Porch Sermon

I've never seen so many stickers in my life!

Since I bluntly announced upon arrival that Drex had changed his mind about staying with me for Christmas, everyone's given me a wide berth except Sadie, who needs my help assembling the Barbie car I got her. The instructions are written in the same language the band in that New York club was using, and not only are there a million stickers, but they're incredibly tiny. My fingers aren't small enough to press them into the minuscule nooks where they belong, so I head into the kitchen to find a toothpick.

Mom turns from the counter, where she's mashing potatoes. Her face lights up.

"Oh, hey! Just the person I wanted to see!"

I check over my shoulder to make sure she's talking to me. After verifying I'm the only one in the room with her, I say, "Okay..."

She doesn't elaborate at first, so I begin to hunt in the cabinets for the toothpicks. Finally, she says, "So, your friend, Drex... He decided to stay in New York for the holidays?"

Here we go.

"Something like that," is all I offer in reply. I know it's Christmas, and I should make more of an effort to be pleasant and easygoing, but I'm sick of always being the easygoing one. And I certainly don't want to talk about Drex.

"What are you looking for?" she asks, after I bang shut the third cupboard door.

At first, I think we're still talking about dating, but then I realize she's speaking literally. When I tell her, she opens a drawer, pulls out a box of toothpicks, and hands it to me.

Then she says, "Well, it's just a shame. I was looking forward to meeting him. Nicole showed me his Facebinder picture, and he was a real cutie."

I roll my eyes. "Facebook," I correct her while rolling the toothpick between my thumb and forefinger. Knowing her like I do, there's more. Wait for it...

She returns to mashing the potatoes, so I head for the kitchen door, but she stops me with, "It's only... I was wondering... is he... _was_ he... the father?"

[Time out! Why is everyone trying to further ruin my already shitty Christmas with their constant referrals to Secret? All I want to do is pretend this is a normal year. To that end, I want to help Sadie assemble her new Barbie stuff so that I don't have to think too much about the fact that I was dumped on Christmas Eve just hours after having sex for the first time with the guy (a personal record for me) _or_ that my pastor decided to use his Christmas morning sermon like a giant bottle of lemon juice to pour over what feels like my still-raw, bleeding uterus. Why won't everyone else cooperate? If they do, we might all make it through this day without being on the late news tonight. Time in!]

Despite my internal temper tantrum, I remain calm on the outside. I say, "No, Mom. I told you. I'm not on friendly terms with her father." I lower my voice even further. "And... can we _please_ not talk about it? I'd think I wouldn't have to ask, but apparently, it's not as obvious to some people that I don't want to talk about it... ever."

She puts down the masher and wipes her hand on a towel tucked into the waistband of her jeans. "Oh, honey. I'm sorry. But it's not healthy to _never_ talk about it. I'm sure Pastor Northam would be glad to sit down with you sometime—"

I laugh mirthlessly. "Mom..."

"What? I thought you and he were friends. And I thought what he said today in the sermon was very nice."

This is one of those moments when it couldn't be clearer how different we are. I want it to go away; she wants to analyze it to death. She thinks a sermon about the miracle of life only two months after I've given birth to a dead baby is "nice."

And I hate when she plays dumb like this. She saw me leave the church before the end of the service, and I was gone from the parking lot by the time she came out, but has she asked me what happened or what was wrong or if I'm okay? No. Of course not. The closest she came to mentioning it was when I arrived here at the house, and she informed me, "I brought your coat and purse home for you. You shouldn't drive without your license and wallet."

She doesn't want to know what I'm going through. Not really. She just wants me to get over it so we can put "all that unpleasantness" behind us. And she may say it's unhealthy to never talk about it, but with whom am I supposed to have these discussions? Not her! She avoids the topic at nearly all costs, usually. Unless it's Christmas. And she's trying to ruin my day.

Instead of getting into it with her, though, I simply say, "Well, it wasn't nice for me, okay? And I'd like to forget it."

She looks shocked. "Really?" She twists the towel between her fingers. "I thought it was his way of telling you that you're not alone. And that he feels for you and knows how hard this time must be for you."

"Oh, right. Well, I guess he must have lost my phone number." Not wanting to argue with her, I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. "I'm, uh, helping Sadie."

The doorbell rings before I can escape.

"Oh! That must be Pastor and his parents right now," she says, as if it's the most normal thing in the world. As far as I'm concerned, though, she may as well have announced, "The President's here."

"What?!" I hiss, dropping the toothpick on the floor. It rolls into one of the grout lines between the tiles.

While I struggle to pick it up, she explains, "I invited Pastor and his parents over for Christmas dinner. I thought it would be nice for them not to have to worry about cooking and cleaning up a big meal. And since Midge, Paul, and their kids and grandkids are in the Bahamas, we have a small group this year." She edges past me to go answer the door.

Rock bottom: I wish I were one of Aunt Midge's kids.

After the awkward introductions to Brice's parents, I slip through the front door and collapse into one of the rocking chairs on the porch. It's pleasantly freezing. I imagine my sweat drying into icicles down my back. Drawing my knees up to my chest and burying my face in the neck of my hoodie, I inhale deeply. It's warm in here and smells like ham.

When the front door opens only five minutes into my peace and quiet, I sigh and seriously consider diving through the rails on the side of the porch, despite there being nowhere to land but the rose bushes. Then I see who's joining me, and I actually make a move to do it.

Brice sits in the matching chair next to mine but ignores my antics. "Kind of intense in there, huh?" he opens innocently. "So that's what it's like to have siblings."

I say nothing while I re-settle into my chair. He doesn't even see me roll my eyes, because I'm looking away from him, staring at the huge blue spruce that Mom and Dad have decorated with bright blue Christmas lights.

A tense thirty seconds passes. Then I can't help muttering, "Nice sermon today. Real Christmas-y. Made me feel all warm and fuzzy." _And nauseated._

Since I'm making a point not to look at him, I don't realize he's smiling until he speaks, and I can hear it in his voice. "Yeah. It was a gutsy play call—such a serious topic on such a happy day—but the Spirit moved me."

Now I do swivel my head his way as I lean as far away from him as I can, pushing so hard against the inside of the rocker's arm that the wood creaks. "It's not funny!" My eyes puddle. "I can't believe you!"

Startled, he turns his attention from across the street, where some kids are throwing muddy handfuls of snow at each other, and looks at me. The smile is a memory. "I didn't say it _was_ funny."

"You're making light of it right now! 'A gutsy play call'? Maybe this is a game to you, or juicy material for your sermons, but it's my life, okay?"

"Okay." The word is more of a conversational placeholder than a statement of understanding.

After I feel like I have my emotions under control enough to speak steadily, I inform him, "It was very upsetting to hear you say those things."

"That wasn't my intention," he quickly and quietly asserts.

I squeeze my eyes closed and clench my teeth together as I stifle a scream.

When I don't say anything further, he does. "But I was just stating the facts. I'm not responsible for how they make you or anyone else feel."

"When you're insensitive, you _are_ responsible for how your words make someone feel," I insist.

"So I should never preach a sermon on marriage, because what if someone in the congregation is divorced and feels bad about that? Or single and sad about it? If I had to worry about offending people with the truth, I'd never preach about anything! At some point, we all have to take responsibility for our own feelings and reactions to what people say. That includes you."

"I'm not walking around thinking that everyone's out to hurt my feelings, if that's what you mean," I say. "As a matter of fact, I've been pretty diplomatic and understanding that no one seems to have a freaking clue what to say to me or how to act around me anymore. I even feel guilty about it. And maybe you'd know that if you'd made any effort to get in touch with me lately."

Snorting, he fires back, "You've made it clear that you don't want or need to talk to me. I'd just cramp your style, anyway. You don't want anyone to make you reconsider any of the decisions you're making or examine your motivations. I mean, what _does_ motivate you to keep making poor decisions?"

"Excuse me?"

He doesn't back down. Rather, he ticks them off on his fingers, "Lying, fornicating, more lying... Did I mention lying?"

"Oh, who's being judgmental now?" I snap. "Mr. I-Love-Everyone-Despite-their-Flaws-and-Weaknesses-Because-I-Don't-Have-Any?"

Throwing a hand up between us, he replies, "I don't even know where to begin with that ridiculous statement."

"Good. Then don't say anything."

"I have weaknesses! And flaws! And I'm well aware of them. But I also have some self-restraint. And I use it once in a while. You should try it."

"I'm sorry; I can't concentrate, because all I can see is the inside of your nostrils as you stare down your nose at me."

"It's called being a fruit inspector."

"What?!"

He nods self-righteously. "Yes. It's not my place to judge, but as your pastor—and your friend—it's my place to point out where you have room for growth and maturation."

"Which one of you is talking right now, my pastor or my friend? I get so confused sometimes." I hold my head and blink in mock-disorientation.

"Both!"

"Sorry, I need to know one or the other."

"Why? Are you trying to figure out which set of lies to tell me?"

That question is like cold water on my campfire temper. Retreating into my hoodie once more, I quietly reveal, "I don't lie to you."

"Ever?" he challenges.

I think back to make sure I'm _not_ lying, even unintentionally. As far as I can tell, the answer is still, "Never."

He drums his fingers on the arms of his chair, grudgingly replying, "Hm. Interesting."

I roll my eyes at him. "I know; you should feel special."

He half-smiles. "Okay, then. If you never lie to me, then tell me this: how serious is this thing with you and... and... Pablo Picasso? I notice he's not here, so I take it he's waiting for you back at your place? How cozy."

"His name is Drex. And you know what? It's none of your business!"

"You've sort of made it my business, haven't you?"

"Implicated you in my sinning by telling you about it, you mean?" I ask, completely setting aside for the moment that it's a moot point. _He_ doesn't know that. And I'd like to keep it that way if he's going to be such a dickhead.

"Exactly."

I smirk. "I'm sorry. I made the mistake of thinking you were a grown-ass man who could handle knowing about how the real world works. I won't tell you anything ever again."

He sighs and ignores my attempt to shut the door on this conversation. "Well, do you picture yourself"—he looks away from me and out at the yard again—" _marrying_ the guy?"

I laugh bitterly at the concept, considering I'll probably never speak to "the guy" again.

He obviously thinks I'm scoffing at the idea of marriage in general, because he says, "So, what then? You're okay with that?"

"With what?"

He squirms. "You know."

"What? Why don't you come out and say it, Brice? I assume you're not asking all this as my pastor. So just say it."

"If you know what I'm thinking, then why do I need to say it?" he demands. "Do you enjoy making me uncomfortable?"

"I'm not the one asking the personal questions!" I cry.

"Forget it!" he mutters. "Just forget I said anything. It was inappropriate."

Suddenly, I want him to know. I want him to understand who he's dealing with. I'm no Tracy Plucker. I haven't been saving myself for marriage in the past, and I'm still not waiting for some guy to offer me a ring now.

"The answer is, yes. Yes, I'm okay with _that_ , if _that_ is premarital sex."

Through gritted teeth, he growls, "I said 'forget it.'"

"No! Too late for that." At his stubborn glare, I press, "And since we're sharing such intimate information, I think it's only fair that you reciprocate. Are you a virgin? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

Levelly and readily, he answers, "No. I'm not a virgin."

"When was the last time you were intimate with a woman?" I ask belligerently, knowing full well how terrible I'm being but not seeming to be able to control myself.

He looks at his hands in his lap. "A long time ago."

"Do you consider yourself a born-again virgin?" I sneer.

He shakes his head and snorts. "You and I both know there's no such thing. It's not something that can be undone." When he burrows down further into his scarf and coat, it looks more like he's trying to hide than stay warm.

"Exactly."

"What do you mean, 'exactly'?" He squints one eye at me.

"It can't be undone, so why bother regretting it? Might as well enjoy it."

Again, he shakes his head at me, this time in resignation. "You're just saying that to push my buttons. It doesn't work that way, and you know it. You know that it's sacred. It's something not to be done outside of marriage and definitely not with someone you don't love. And just because you trip once doesn't mean it's okay to stay on the ground." Nostrils flared and eyes dark, he asks, "Do you _love_ him? Drex?"

I want so badly to lie to him, if for no other reason than to shut him up, but I eventually answer honestly, if not completely, "No."

He gestures toward me with his palm up as if to say, _Well, there you go, then._

This smug, self-satisfied move re-lights my fuse. "Oh! Yes! Of course! The rulebook." I mimic pulling something from my back pocket, then open the "book." "Hmm... 'If this, then that. If that, then this.' Oh. Yeah. Still not clear. You know why? A little variable called 'emotion.'" I hurl the "book" over the porch rail and at the blue spruce.

"Love is the only emotion that you need to factor in here. All the rest—like lust and anger and frustration—is garbage that clutters up the decision-making process."

With narrowed eyes, I say, "It must be nice to be a Jesus robot and look at everything as black and white. Then all you have to do is toe the line and follow the rules and everything works out just fucking peachy!"

"And it must be nice for you to feel like you don't have to follow _any_ rules," he fires right back. "Some of us—and believe it or not, you're included in this group last time I checked—don't have that luxury. We're being held to a higher standard than that."

"By whom? My parents? My pastor? My so-called _friend_?"

"BY GOD!" he shouts.

The front door swings open. Mom pokes her head out. "Oh! There you are! We've been looking for you two. Dinner's ready." If she notices the tension between us, she doesn't let on.

I make it perfectly clear, though, when I stand up and say furiously as I edge past Brice, "Good! I'm starving! Sex always makes me hungry."

"Peyton!" she gasps, her face turning fuschia. To him, she fumbles, "Pastor... I'm... Oh, my gosh!"

He doesn't move from his chair. But as I stomp into the house, I hear him consoling my mom. "It's okay, Peg."

What a liar!

## 26

# Dysfunction for Dinner

I'm extremely waspish during dinner, and everybody notices it. A couple of times, Sadie tries to engage me in our usual dinnertime discussion, but I give her short answers, sometimes just a "yes" or "no," so even she eventually gives up.

My Christmas is officially, utterly, completely ruined. I wish I could blame Drex for that, but the biggest offender is Brice. It's like he's trying to antagonize me today. First his sermon at church, then his sermonette on the front porch, followed by his intrusive questions.

I mean, what's it to him? I _didn't_ love Drex. But what's the point in making me admit it? Just to make me feel guilty about having sex with him? I thought guilt was reserved for Catholics.

And why is he all of a sudden hell-bent on making me see the errors of my ways? I mean, I've told him a lot of things about my life and my sins, both past and present. He's never laid the guilt trip on me before. I have parents for that, anyway.

Mom, in her infinite wisdom, has seated me right next to Brice at the dinner table. She's either clueless or diabolical. And what's the deal with Dad? A couple of months ago, it seemed like he'd rather punch his pastor in the face than share a meal with him. Now, the two of them appear to be best buddies. They're discussing the Bears' chances of making it to the playoffs and even making plans to watch the game together, if that's the case.

I'm itching for a fight. I guess the sparring match on the front porch before dinner wasn't satisfying enough. But I know better than to continue my argument with Pastor at the table. Nobody will take my side in that fight. My eyes move from person to person as I consider who to pounce on before subsequently ruling them out.

Brice's parents are guests. And old. It would be rude to pick on them.

Nicole's usually a good candidate, but it seems sadistic to kick the girl when she's so obviously down, sitting there with her dark under-eye circles, prodding her mashed potatoes.

Jason's been the picture of the perfect brother lately, so I don't have a beef with him.

Mom and Dad... well, even I'm not that brave.

Who am I kidding? I'm not brave enough to take on anyone. It's best to just keep my mouth shut, get through this meal, and go home as soon as possible afterwards.

Then Lonnie pipes up to the table at large, "Anyone wanna toss a football around after dinner?" His smug, family-man act makes me want to barf. I suddenly have an irresistible urge to hurl a spoonful of yams at his morally-bankrupt head. "Jason? Pastor?" he continues to prod. "Come on! I know Caleb and Everett want to, right guys? There might even be enough of us to play a pick-up game. Huh? Peyton? You're a solid girl."

"Shut up, Lonnie," I hear myself say. "Nobody wants to play with you." Then, less under my breath than I planned, I mutter, "Except your trashy girlfriend."

"Excuse me?" he asks.

"Do you really want me to repeat it?" I reply, setting my fork down and tossing my napkin on top of my plate.

Nicole shoots laser beams at me from her eyes. Oh. So she knows. Good. I didn't mean to break the story at Christmas dinner. Or at all. It just kind of slipped out.

Brice murmurs, "Hey," and puts a steadying hand on my arm.

In a totally different tone, Dad—apparently still not okay with _some_ things his pastor does—says in response to his touch, "Hey!"

Brice quickly removes his hand.

Mom twitters, "Everyone calm down. It's Christmas. Huh-huh."

Dad addresses Lonnie and me. "I don't know what's going on, but it had better stop right now."

Lonnie takes his life into his own hands when he ignores Dad and says, "Are you sure you want to call people out on their moral shortcomings, Peyton? You're like an after-school special."

"Leave her alone," Jason rumbles.

"She started it," Nicole retorts, like a little kid. I can't believe she's defending that unfaithful jerk!

"Why's everybody mad?" Sadie chirps innocently.

"We're not, sweetie," I reassure her. "Why don't you and your brothers go play with your new stuff?"

The three of them are more than happy to oblige, clattering from the table and scattering to other parts of the house.

When they're gone, I say, "I have nothing to hide, unlike just about everyone else at this table."

"I don't have anything to hide," Mom insists, laughing nervously. "Except maybe that my youngest daughter has inappropriate outbursts at family gatherings, but I guess that's no secret now."

I glare at her. "You're one of the worst offenders. 'Don't tell Nicole' this, 'Don't tell your father' that. It's exhausting! It's gotten to the point that I don't answer your calls because I can't stand to keep any more of your stupid secrets!"

"Well...!"

"That's enough, young lady," Dad declares.

"I'm finished," I inform them all. "Keeping your secrets, that is."

"Peyton, you need to leave the table," Dad says firmly. "Now."

I ignore him and recite as if I'm delighting everyone with a Christmas poem, "Lonnie and Nicole are about to get a divorce, partly because Lonnie's having an affair, and they're only still together for financial reasons. Jason's got more tattoos than... than... Axl Rose," I blurt for lack of any other inspiration. "Mom's taking you on a cruise for your 35th anniversary, Dad. And I'm a major screw-up."

"I'm gay," Jason adds quietly but confidently.

I don't even miss a beat. "There. And Jason's gay. Which I didn't know, surprisingly enough, but now we all do."

Tossing my napkin on top of my plate, I stand and say, "So... I don't know about everyone else, but I feel much better." Not waiting for the consequences of my outburst, I whirl from the table with a parting sarcastic, "Merry Christmas!"

## 27

# Run With It

I'm early. In a way, that's good; I'll know exactly when he gets here. But it also means I have to see him visibly wince when he notices me sitting in my cold car, watching for him like a stalker.

A normal, sane person would immediately start her car and burn rubber from the parking lot. I eagerly alight from my vehicle to meet him on the path.

"Hey!" I say as cheerfully as I can possibly say in my dismal mood.

"Hi," he replies rather dully. He pulls one of his legs, then the other, behind him to stretch.

Oh.

"Are you jogging this morning?" I ask.

He nods. "Yep."

I make the snap decision, "I'll run with you. If that's okay."

He lets go of his foot but manages to keep hold of the smile he's barely hiding. "Sure."

I once confessed that I haven't done anything remotely close to running since I was in high school, when it was part of my physical education grade. My confession was in response to his asking me if I wanted to jog with him. I had to somehow explain why I was laughing so hard.

But today I'm that desperate to talk to him.

When I simply stand, waiting for him to start running, he checks, "Do you want to stretch or warm up first?"

"Oh!" I can tell by the way he's looking at me that the correct answer's probably yes, but I don't want him to watch me fumble through a bunch of stretches that could make it impossible for me to even begin the run, so I say, "No. I'll be fine."

"Okay," he allows skeptically, heading down the path.

Crap, he has long legs! And I can tell he's jogging frustratingly slowly so that I can keep up. I push myself harder.

After what feels like hours, he says, "So."

"So!" I gasp back. "This." _Pant_. "Is." _Wheeze_. "Awesome." _Gasp_.

He laughs. "Yeah. I like it. Clears my head. Especially when it's this cold." He's not out of breath, not even a little bit, I notice with irritation.

I, on the other hand, feel like I'm about to cough up blood. My saliva is the consistency of corn syrup. My lungs are burning. My legs are tight. And my left knee keeps doing this annoying clicking thing.

"Hmm," I respond to his statement.

I kind of need to spit. How long have we been running? Since we haven't even made it to the duck pond, I can tell it hasn't been long at all.

"Do you need to stop?" he asks politely.

"No!" I manage to scoff and wave, although I realize I'm wasting precious oxygen. "I'm." _Huff, puff, gasp, wheeze._ "Fine."

"You look kind of... not fine," he points out, slowing to a walk. He grabs my arms and places my hands on top of my head. "Try that for a minute."

He's right; it helps. But it requires too much muscle control to hold up my arms, so I let them fall after about thirty seconds. Humiliated, I state, "I know; I'm pathetically out of shape."

"I wasn't going to say anything."

I have a fairly decent excuse, but I'm not willing to bring it up, so I just walk silently next to him while I catch my breath. Until I can't stand the quiet another minute. "Have your parents returned home yet?" I ask, figuring that's a safe enough topic to get things rolling.

"Yeah. They left Monday. I can tell they were ready, too. Like little kids. They were bored." He sighs. "I'm just so busy. I'm supposed to get Saturdays and Mondays off, but... I mean, if people need me, they need me. I can't say, 'Sorry; I'm not visiting you in the hospital before you have your triple bypass; it's my day off.' So, I didn't get to spend much time with them. It's better when I go to St. Louis to visit them."

I nod my understanding. "Wow. You rarely get a day off?"

He kicks at a piece of gravel on the path. "No. But I knew that would be the case. It's not like I have a wife or kids. It's just me...."

"So what? You still deserve a weekend, time to relax and recharge your batteries. Gosh! I'd be such a grump if I didn't get any days off from my job."

He chuckles. "It's a calling, not a job. But yeah. Sometimes I get kind of worn out."

As excitedly as I can, considering I'm _still_ breathing like I just finished a marathon, I say, "You know what you should do? On one of your so-called days off, you should turn off your phone and hit the road."

"What if there was an emergency and someone needed me?"

"You could leave a message on your phone to call one of the elders. I nominate my dad."

He hardly pauses before saying, "I don't know..."

"Think about it longer than that!" I gesture hugely with my arms, like I'm doing some kind of interpretive dance. "Open your mind to the possibilities," I urge him in a spacey voice, wiggling my fingers in his face.

"I'll try," he finally allows, blinking and pulling his face away from my hands. "Now that Christmas is over, it'll be easier."

"Thank God Christmas is over," I mutter, jamming my gloved hands into my coat pockets.

He looks sharply over at me. "That bad, huh?"

"You were there!" I remind him. "Yes, that bad. You know I'm not exaggerating."

"It was eventful," he understates. "You certainly made an impression on my parents."

I groan. "It was humiliating. I hope my mom managed to redeem us somehow before you guys left."

"The pie was good."

"Oh, in that case...."

He laughs. "Listen. Big families have big issues sometimes. And things come to a head at inconvenient times. My parents have been around the block a few times."

"This sounds rehearsed," I accuse him with narrowed eyes. "Like you've been thinking about what to say to me to make me feel better about it all. It was ugly."

"I didn't say it was pretty."

"And embarrassing."

"Probably. But we got to go home. The rest of you have to deal with the consequences."

"The only one in my family talking to me right now is Jason."

"That's rough. I'm sorry. And while I'm apologizing..." I actually hear him swallow. "I'm _really_ sorry about my Christmas sermon."

The tortured look in his eyes almost makes me relent, but all I have to do is remember how I felt, sitting in my pew, while he zapped nerve after nerve. Then again, during our conversation on Mom and Dad's porch.

"You should be," I reply coldly, right before remembering some of the things _I_ said.

He stops walking and gently grasps my elbow so that I have no choice but to halt, too. "I am. Would you believe me if I said that I didn't mean to hurt your feelings or make it sound like I was chastising you in any way from the pulpit?"

My refusal to look him in the eye is enough to make him continue eagerly, "Because, truly, that wasn't my intent. But I can see how you might interpret it that way."

No longer angry about it, I quietly say, "I didn't feel like you were chastising me. But I did feel like you were speaking directly to me in front of all those people. About something very private. And I felt so... naked." Now I try to convey as clearly as possible how I felt, even though I'm just figuring it out myself. "It was like you... you... were trying to convince me that I wasn't a failure, that it happens to a lot of people, but it had the opposite effect. It made me feel even worse."

When I shiver, he rubs his hands up and down my arms. "I'm sorry."

"I just wish you would have said those things to me in private. I could have used some reinforcement after I had to bury her. And your message would have been comforting if it had been delivered one-on-one. But hearing you up there... It was terrible." I wipe my eyes on the cuff of my coat sleeve and resume walking. Anything so that I don't have him staring at me anymore.

He quickly catches up. "I didn't think you wanted to talk to me. And not for the reason I gave at your parents'. I thought maybe I reminded you too much of what happened, and that's why you weren't coming to church. But I thought you needed to hear what I wanted to say to you. And I figured—correctly, as it turns out—that you wouldn't skip church on Christmas, so I knew that might be my only chance to let you know how I felt."

"By forcing me to listen? By letting the entire congregation, and several visitors, listen in?"

"It was poor judgment," he agrees. "Absolutely. I admit it. Have I said how sorry I am?"

I sniff and smile over at him. "Yes. Once or twice."

"I mean it. I've thought a lot about it and feel terrible. Especially since I gave you the impression that I was making light of it."

"Forget it," I urge him. "Can we just... I don't know. Talk about something else? How 'bout those Bears?"

"In a minute," he promises. "First, though, I have to apologize for what I said at your Mom and Dad's house." He looks down at his feet and ruefully shakes his head. "I... Wow. I'd like to be specific so that you'll know how sincere I am, but that would require me to repeat some of the things I said, and I don't know if I can stand the humiliation."

"Are you kidding me?" I nudge him so he'll look at me. "Please. I owe you just as much of an apology, so let's call it even. I was horrible."

The two of us make quite a pair as we blush and twitch and fidget on the trail.

He chuckles nervously and hums a noncommittal, "Hm."

I blush even more deeply as I remember baiting him about premarital sex. "I said a lot of things purely to get a reaction from you and to make you feel uncomfortable."

His steps slow. "Oh. So, does that mean what you said wasn't true?"

I'm forced to admit, "No."

I even meant what I said about sex making me hungry, but I don't feel it's necessary to be _that_ honest right now.

Instead, I leave it at, "There were plenty of things that could have gone unsaid, though. _Should_ have gone unsaid."

He says nothing to that.

"And you were right," I inform him, hating the taste that sentence leaves in my mouth.

"I know," he replies before I can be more specific. When I laugh, he defends his statement with, "I mean, I _meant_ what I said; I just could have said it a lot nicer."

"Well, semi-apology accepted," I assure him. I desperately want to change the subject. We're dancing around a very uncomfortable topic that we've already explored plenty.

"Ditto." He sounds wary when he asks, "Is that why you came here today? To clear the air?"

"Actually," I answer, "I came here for an ass-kicking run. So, mission accomplished."

He throws his head back and laughs.

" _And_ I didn't want to hang out by myself at my apartment all day like a friendless loser."

That immediately stops his laughing. "Ah. So your guest is gone?"

"He's been gone. Listen, I... I told him everything about Secret on Christmas Eve, and he... well... left. Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"Not sort of. Did. Leave. Right after I told him. Personal record for quickest relationship ever." I try to smile and laugh it off, but Brice's serious expression sobers me.

"That's pretty telling behavior regarding his character."

He looks more upset about it than I feel, so I'm quick to defend Drex in an effort to reassure him that I'm okay. "Well, I've told you how much he hates Stefan, so it's not like I have the right to be surprised that it was too much for him to handle."

"His feelings toward Stefan are _his_ problem, not yours."

"I don't know about that. They're feeling like one of my problems right now, considering."

"Trust me. You have enough of your own problems; you don't need to be adopting other people's."

"Gee, thanks."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do. And like I said, thanks."

After a tense pause, he states unapologetically, "I can't say I'm sorry Drex is gone."

"Me neither," I reveal as we stop in front of my car. I hop onto the freezing hood and face him while my bold statement hangs out there like something physical.

He stares down at his shoes. "I have a feeling there's a story behind that, and you want or need to tell someone."

"Maybe," I admit.

Before I can say more, though, he says, "Well, no offense, but maybe you could call up one of your girlfriends and have a chat with them?" He lifts his head and blushes at what I can imagine is the completely befuddled expression on my face. He explains, "It's just that I don't think I can be very objective on this topic. I know I can't, actually."

"Oh." I slide down from my car and straighten my knit hat. "I see." I'm simultaneously thrilled and disappointed. But the thrill is winning out.

"You do?" he asks.

I nod. "Yeah." When I step toward him, he backs up. I take another step. He retreats even more. In one last attempt to make sure it's not a coincidence, I take two quick steps. He flinches and keeps backing.

"I, uh, better go," he says, pointing over his shoulder in the direction of his house.

"Okay," I reply quietly. That's all I say, though, before he turns and jogs away. There's only so much rejection a girl can take.

## 28

# Girl Talk

"He literally ran away from you?!"

"What would you have done if he had stood his ground?"

Jen's hosting our girls' night at her duplex. Well, it's her dad's duplex, and she lives free in one side of it in exchange for managing the other unit. She has it made. It must be nice being an only child. I fantasize about it sometimes.

In response to both of their questions, I say, "Yes. And, I don't know. I think... I mean, it _felt_ like I was going to kiss him."

"You slut!" Jen tosses one of the seventeen pillows from her bed at me.

"What about Drex?" Mitzi asks breathlessly.

"What about him?" Jen counters. "He's history. Couldn't take the heat. Got his little man ego all bruised."

I interrupt them. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. I said it _felt_ like I was going to kiss him. But I probably wouldn't have. He was giving off a definite 'keep away' vibe."

Jen snickers, but Mitzi objects. "He's a pastor! He can't be preaching one thing on Sundays or to the teenagers in the youth group and turning around and sexing it up."

"'Sexing it up'?" Jen snorts. "You are such a dork, Mitzi. It would have been a kiss, not an orgy in the park." To me, she says, "But seriously, Peyton. What are you thinking? You're totally on the rebound. It was a week ago _today_ that you got dumped. Do I need to keep you under house arrest until you get your hormones in check?"

"I didn't go there intending to come onto him," I defend myself. "Really. I... I just wanted to talk things out with him. He's my sounding board."

"Not about other guys. He's admitted he has feelings for you. It's _rude_ to discuss other guys with him, even if he's the one who comes out ahead at the end of the conversation. That's what girlfriends are for. Hello!" She plucks a grape from the bunch in the bowl in her lap and pops it into her mouth. "Think about it. You're messing with him! And I have to say, I kind of admire you for having the balls."

Hugging a pillow to my chest, I say, "I'm not trying to mess with him. But talking about Drex to him is the only way I can get an idea of how he feels for me now. Not weeks ago. Now."

"Uh, how about just coming out and asking him?" Mitzi suggests. "What's the point in playing all these games? You're both too old for that."

I shrug and squeeze the pillow harder. "I don't know... hinting around is just safer. If I come right out and ask, he could come right out and say, 'I don't feel that way about you anymore.' And that would be so embarrassing. But if talking about my ex-boyfriend—"

"Lover!" Jen corrects loudly.

"—with me doesn't bother him, it's a more face-saving way of figuring out that he doesn't care anymore."

Jen fakes a yawn. "This is tedious as shit. Let's get down to the interesting stuff. Do you want to marry a pastor?"

I wrinkle my nose at the idea of being a pastor's wife. "Well..."

"Then forget about Pastor Hot Buns. He's not playing the field, okay? He's looking for a wifey-wife to have his Lutheran babies and head up the women's group at church and listen to him rehearse his sermons."

"I disagree!" Mitzi cries.

"Of course, you do."

She ignores Jen. "Peyton. This is your chance to redeem yourself. You're always talking about how you hate always making the wrong choices. Make the right choice. Brice loves you, warts and all..."

"Oh, puh-lease!" Jen begs.

"... _and_ he knows what love and marriage are supposed to be about..."

"She doesn't _want_ to get married! Especially to a pastor!"

"It doesn't have to be about Bible studies and knitting circles, okay? You guys are young and don't have to follow all those old rules."

Jen states nonchalantly, "It's just as well, since Mitzi wants Drex for herself."

"I do not!" But she blushes. "I don't, Peyton. I'm blushing, because... I blush about everything. And I think he's cute. But I... I... don't like tattoos." She's says this last part in a tiny squeak.

Jen and I both laugh.

"It's okay, Mitzi," I reassure her. "He _is_ cute." I sigh. "Listen, I think we're getting off-track. I'm so confused!" Scrubbing my face with my hands, I muffle a scream into them. "This is crazy. Crazy."

Jen mumbles, "Drama Club much?"

My head snaps up. "I know; it probably seems so immature." I mock myself, "'I like Brice; no, I _love_ Brice'—" I clap my hands over my mouth. "I did not just say that."

Because I don't think I even mean it. It just slipped out.

"Yes, you did!" Jen grins. "Holy crap! You want to marry the pastor! You _want_ to have his Lutheran babies and host Bible studies and organize potluck suppers, and... and—help me out here, Mitzi; I don't know enough about churchy things to keep teasing her."

Mitzi rolls her eyes at her. "Shut up, Jen. What's so horrible about wanting to get married to someone stable and caring and tall and sexy?"

"You want the _pastor_ , too?!" Jen gasps. "Control yourself, woman!"

I crack up at the two of them. While they continue to give each other shit, I stare off into space, thinking about Brice. He _is_ all those things that Mitzi said and more. He's honorable and chivalrous and... and... he loves his parents (for some reason, this means a lot). He knows the difference between right and wrong and isn't afraid to speak the truth, even if it's not popular.

And I think he loves me.

## 29

# Wake-Up Call

The Lutheran anthem startles me from a deep sleep filled with dreams about childbirth and idyllic motherhood. It takes me a second to realize a) I'm not pregnant; b) I'm not in church or supposed to be in church; c) it's Saturday; d) it's really effing early; e) that song is coming from my cell phone; f) that song means Brice is calling me for the first time since our post-Christmas "jog" in the park.

I fumble around for my phone on my nightstand but only succeed in knocking it onto the floor, where it's lost in a sea of clothes, not to be found until I can slide my glasses onto my face to correct my 20/80 vision. The old, evil foe's about to do some deadly woe by going to voicemail by the time I finally snatch up the BlackBerry and answer the call.

"Hello?" I answer breathlessly, pushing my glasses higher onto my nose.

"Hi. I hope it's not too early," he says, sounding wide awake and chipper.

I glance at my alarm clock and balk. That's when I notice it's still dark in the room. "No, I'm always up before 6:00 on Saturday. What the—"

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. I couldn't sleep."

"That's what your Bible's for," I grumble before my filter can grab that one and set it somewhere safe.

Fortunately, he laughs. "I didn't realize you were such a morning person."

"Yes, well, I'm only being this nice to you because you're not my mother or sister calling at this hour." And I realize I like hearing his voice to start off my day.

"I appreciate that. Listen, I'm calling for a reason."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I decided to take some advice you gave me. After this call with you, I'm turning off my cell phone."

He sounds so proud of this statement that I almost feel bad replying dully, "That's nice. I'll probably do the same."

"And I was wondering if you'd like to go somewhere with me today."

I flop back into my bed, bouncing onto the pillows. "Um, sure. Well, not sure. Where?"

"Does it matter?"

I consider it for a second. There are a few places I can imagine I would not like to go today, even with him. "Yes. It matters."

"Oh." He sounds disappointed, but he's obviously not deterred, because he says, "Well, I haven't decided yet. I just thought we'd... _go_... and see where we end up."

Now, this is promising, but I'm too tired to get excited. Around a yawn, I ask, "When do you want to leave?" I quickly calculate a decent time when I'll be awake and ready. "Ten-thirty?"

"I'm ready now."

"Very funny."

"I'm serious." My doorbell chimes.

I sit up in bed so fast that I give myself vertigo. "That better not be you."

"I hope nobody else is creepy enough to be ringing your doorbell this early." The smile in his voice warms my ear. And other parts of my body.

"I'm not ready!"

"For what? We're not going anywhere special. Just brush your teeth and get out here."

"You're skipping a few steps." If I followed his instructions exactly, I'd be standing on my welcome mat wearing fuzzy socks, panties, a tank top, bed head, clunky glasses, and a minty-fresh smile. Or probably not actually a smile.

"I guess I can wait a few extra minutes if you need to do other things."

"I can't believe I'm going to do this," I say more to myself than him.

"Yay!" he cheers quietly, ostensibly so as not to wake my neighbors, which I appreciate.

Without another word, I hang up on him and say into my dim, chilly bedroom, "You can turn off your phone now."

While he pumps gas, I try to pump him for information through the open window. "Where are we going?"

Keeping his eyes on the pump's display, he says, "Dunno. I'm sure something will catch our eye as we're driving down the road, though."

I kick off my shoes and prop my woolen-sock-clad feet on the dash. "Okay, then, in what direction are you planning to drive?"

"I'll even leave that up to you."

A beat passes, then I say, "North, then. Along Lake Michigan. It's beautiful in the winter."

"North it is." He replaces the nozzle, screws on the gas cap, closes the gas flap with a thunk, and slides behind the wheel. "I bet you wouldn't mind stopping for some caffeine first, though."

"Oh, yes, please!" I reply like a little kid.

Twenty minutes later, we're cruising up the highway, sipping our drinks (black coffee for him and a diet soda for me) and listening to the radio.

"I can't believe you listen to this station," I say after a while. "I like it."

"I couldn't possibly listen to a station you like?" he questions.

"It's just that I hate contemporary Christian music, which is what I assumed you probably listened to. The songs on this station are... pop-y."

"I like to keep in touch with what the kids in the youth group are listening to. Helps me to understand where everyone else is coming from." He glances over at me and smiles shyly. "Plus, I play this game where I come up with Christian meanings to the lyrics."

I slightly recline my seat and set my cup in the holder between us. "What about songs about sex? Every other song on this station is. And you know they're not talkin' about missionary man-and-wife sex strictly for the sake of procreation. It's the fun, dirty, extramarital kind."

I don't know why I enjoy antagonizing him about sex; I always end up the one embarrassed. But it's like I can't help myself. I want to see how far I can push him, I guess. I know it's mean and improper, but that's half the fun of it.

He barely blinks. "Who says? Rarely is there a song that comes right out and says, ' _So, we're not married, but we're having sex anyway, and isn't it great?'_ "

"That's because that song sucks."

He laughs. "You know what I'm saying, though. And anyway"— he leans forward and pays suddenly-close attention to the road, which is still mostly empty at this hour on a Saturday—"why does sex between a husband and wife have to be boring and only for the sake of having kids? That's a pretty dismal view." His hand darts over and turns down the heater.

"You're avoiding the question," I accuse, trying to ignore the sudden goosebumps on my arms that have nothing to do with the actual temperature in the vehicle. "How do you get a Christian interpretation from a Katy Perry song? _I Kissed a Girl_ , for example."

He scratches his head. "Hm... refresh my memory on some of the lyrics."

I do a lousy Katy Perry impersonation as I screech the chorus to him, but he pretends he's enjoying it, nodding to the beat and turning down the real radio so he can hear me better.

When I've sung as much of that dirty song as I'm willing to sing to a pastor, he grins over at me. "Wow. That's bad. I'd almost forgotten how bad it is."

"My singing or the song?"

"The song!" He taps his chin with his finger while he ponders his answer to my original question. Then his eyes light up. "I've got it!"

"You're kidding! There's no way you can find God anywhere in that song." Confidently, I put my hands behind my head and wait for what I expect to be a ludicrous stretch of his imagination.

"Ye of little faith. Here goes. We all sin, and we all enjoy it, and we all struggle with the temptation to be unrepentant about some of our sins. Sometimes, we're downright belligerent about it, like Ms. Perry." He turns to me and points. "Ha! In your face!"

When I'm finished laughing, I concede, "You're good."

He shrugs. "It's how I justify listening to music that I enjoy but that may not have the cleanest message. Plus, it's good practice for seeing God in everything, which I try to do."

I turn the radio back up and say, "Let me try."

I was hoping for an easy, life-is-great happy song, but unfortunately, a sex song is playing. An old sex song that I _hate_.

"Blech. _Your Body is a Wonderland_? What a schmaltzy, transparent thing to say to a girl to get laid," I grumble.

"But what's the hidden, Godly meaning?" Brice prods without even blinking at my crude statement.

Half-joking, I answer, "I don't know... ever since the Garden of Eden, men have been trying to one-up each other with increasingly lame lines to get women into bed with them?"

"Hmmm... That's kind of a back-door way of seeing God in the song, but it works... sort of." He nods and thinks about it some more. "All I can come up with is that God made our bodies, and it's nice for us to appreciate their beauty. Winnetka or Des Plaines?"

"Huh?" I'm totally thrown by his non sequitur, especially because I'm more than a little distracted by thinking about the body God did an outstanding job of making for him. Must have been one of God's overachieving days (whereas, I think God may have been asleep at the potter's wheel when I was created).

"Direction?"

"Oh! Winnetka!" I blurt at the last second, so he can take the exit onto a two-lane road that runs parallel to the Lake as it takes us north. "But we're not going there, are we?" I was hoping for something less... ordinary.

"I want to get off the interstate and roam some smaller roads with real scenery, not billboards and exit signs," he explains.

"How far are we going to go?" I ask.

His answer—"Not too far"—is disappointing, but then he intrigues me by tacking on, "But far enough. I want us to feel like we've been somewhere new and different."

I settle into silence on my side of the car, occasionally drinking my watered-down pop. As we exit suburbia and begin to drive through farmland, I set my feet on the floor and sit up straighter, so I can look out at the fields.

"I love cows," I reveal out of the blue as we pass a pasture full of them, some of them standing close to the fence at the roadside.

"Really?" He glances over at me and ducks his head a few inches to look through my window at the livestock as we pass. "You're such a city girl."

"I can do pastoral," I reply coyly and blush at my unintended double entendre. "Uh... Plus, cows are so cute. And calm."

"And dumb. Or so I hear."

In their defense, I state, "Well, I've never given a cow an IQ test, so I don't know about their intelligence, but I admire their contentment. They're perfectly happy to eat grass, wade in ponds, have babies, and do whatever else cows do."

He laughs. "Put food on your table?"

Mock-horrified, I say, "Hey! I don't like to think about that aspect of their lives. It's the stuff between birth and slaughter that I envy. Anyway," I point out, "most of the cattle around here are dairy cows, so pbbbb!"

I'm surprised when he slows down and pulls onto the shoulder. Gravel pops under the tires and pings the undercarriage.

"Have you ever touched a cow?"

"W-what?" I ask. My muscles immediately tense.

He brakes to a stop and puts the Jeep in park. About twenty feet from my window are three of the large animals, one of which is stretching its neck through the fence rails to try to reach some long weeds that have somehow survived the winter.

"You claim to love them so much, but have you ever done more than look at them from the safety of your car as you're driving by?" he probes.

"No! They're wild animals!" I draw my knees up to my chest.

This gets the biggest laugh of all. He unfastens his seatbelt and opens his door. "Out. You're touching a cow today." When I don't move, he comes around to my side, opens the door, and leans across me to unbuckle my seatbelt. "Let's go."

"I don't have my shoes on."

"Don't make me carry you over there."

Sighing, I slide my feet into my shoes and take the hand he offers me as he helps me down the short but steep drop-off from the shoulder to the grass. It's soggy due to some recent snow melt, so our shoes suck at the ground as we make our way to the fence. I'm nervous, and one of the cows must sense it (can they smell fear, like dogs can?), because she instantly moves away from us. The second one blinks disinterestedly at us. And the one struggling to eat the brush barely pays any attention to us at all, because she's so focused on her quest for some variety in her diet.

On his way over, Brice snatches a handful of dead brush and offers it to the hungry one over the top rail of the fence. She pulls her head up and over the rail, nipping at the stems with her rubbery-looking lips. Then a huge purple tongue snakes out.

"Aghh!" I cry, startling her.

He chuckles and shushes me. "Hey, my hand is practically in her mouth! Don't spook her. Come here."

"I don't think so," I refuse, continuing to hang back. I'm mesmerized by the steam coming from her nose and mouth. Then I'm transfixed as I watch Brice, now empty-handed, reach out to stroke her wet nose. She actually nuzzles him before sticking out her long tongue and licking his fingers.

I gasp but don't make any loud noises.

He glances over his shoulder and laughs at me. "You're such a baby. She's a sweetie. Come on and give her a stroke. She's docile."

The second, previously-unimpressed cow is suddenly a lot more interested in us, since we're paying so much attention to her friend. She ambles over, pushing her hungry friend's face out of the way and nudging at Brice's hand.

"Whoa, ladies. Let's be nice, now," he murmurs to them.

I edge closer. "They're fighting over you!" I observe with amusement.

"This is a first," he jokes.

I'm dying to know what their furry heads feel like, and if their noses are as soft as they appear, so I venture forward and place my hand between the calmer one's eyes. She tosses her head, trying to reach my hand with her tongue, but it's not a threatening gesture. I trace my fingers down to her nose and give it an experimental tap. It's cold and slimy. And when her tongue finally sneaks its way to my palm, it's all I can do not to scream.

I whisper, "Oh, shit! It's like sandpaper!"

Brice turns his attention away from the newcomer. "What did you expect it to feel like?" he wonders with a grin.

I shrug. "I don't know. Velvety, maybe. Or squishy. But not as hard and rough." I back away from the fence and wipe my hand on my jeans. "It doesn't look like it would be like that."

Beaming down into my face, he stands next to me. "Now you can say you touched a cow. Pretty cool, huh?"

"Yeah," I agree. "Pretty cool."

## 30

# Breaking the Ice

It doesn't take long after getting back on the road before we hit the Wisconsin state line.

"Lutheran land!" Brice declares. He breathes in deeply. "Ah! Can you smell the Jell-O salad?"

"You're crazy," I mutter, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle.

He ignores my insult and muses, "I should have done some research about Wisconsin before we set out this morning. I could have found someplace for us to go off-roading."

"Yeah!" I agree enthusiastically. "And maybe then you would have given me an extra hour of sleep!"

Grinning over at me, he says, "Stop pretending like you're not glad to be here."

My mouth drops open. Then I laugh. "I _am_ glad to be here," I admit.

"I know you are."

"I just wish we had set out about"—I look at the clock—"now. Or even a couple of hours from now."

He waves my statement away. "There's no use wasting your life in bed."

"Good things happen in bed," I reply before thinking about it first. I revise hastily, "I mean, I like sleeping."

He chuckles. "Yes. I've gotten that impression from you. And that reminds me..."

I tense, wondering what could possibly follow.

"...there's something coming up at the church that I'd like your help with."

Confused even more, I nearly grunt, "Huh?"

"A youth group lock-in," he reveals, trying to sell it with a wide smile and bright eyes but ending up sounding like a parent trying to trick a child into thinking that lima beans taste like candy. "Justine needs chaperones, so—"

"No, thanks," I answer politely but firmly.

I remember what we used to do to the chaperones at the lock-ins I attended when I was a teenager. And the thought of spending a sleepless night with Justine trying to keep twenty teenagers out of trouble matches a vision I've had of Hell.

"I've already volunteered us," he informs unapologetically. "She's desperate. None of the parents want to do it; none of the kids want their parents to do it. She figured it would be best if some of the single adults helped out."

As if operating on instinct, he hangs a left at a road nearly hidden in the trees. "You know, we're not old enough to be seen as 'uncool' yet (well, at least you're not). They might even look up to someone like you, someone who's young and hip and modern."

"'Hip'?" I shake my head at him. "Kissing up to me using outdated slang doesn't change the fact that you volunteered me for something without asking me first. _That's_ what's 'uncool.'"

"I think it'll be fun," he insists.

"Where are we going?" I ask suddenly, grabbing onto my door handle as we jostle down the dirt road, which is more like a steeply-graded, frozen, muddy track.

"I don't know," he admits. He squints through the windshield. "The sign on the highway indicated that this was a lake access road."

"Just don't drive _into_ the lake," I warn him, slipping my feet into my shoes so I can bail out quickly if necessary.

He rolls his eyes at me. "I can see the water over there, through the bare branches. I'm just trying to figure out how this is going to get us from here to there."

"Then what? Ice fishing?"

My snide remark receives no response, so I go back to the previous conversation. "I don't want to chaperone the lock-in, okay? When is this thing, anyway? I have a feeling I have a previous commitment..." I'm praying it will conflict with the Vegas Art Expo in three weeks on Valentine's Day weekend.

"A month from now," he dashes my hopes. "And please. Otherwise, it'll just be me, Tracy, Justine, and Michael. We need at least one more person to help us. Even then, it'll be a five-to-one ratio of kids to chaperones, which is not ideal."

Damn. Who am I kidding? I have nothing on my social calendar that weekend. Other than attending the Expo, I'm embarrassingly free between now and then. And he's so earnest with his pleading blue eyes and furrowed brow.

I sigh. "Fine. But you owe me."

"I don't think so," he replies matter-of-factly.

I know he's right. If there were a tally sheet of favors between the two of us, I'd be seriously behind in the count. But his statement surprises me; he doesn't seem like a score-keeping kind of guy.

Sure enough, he explains, "You're going to be thanking _me_ when it's all over, because you're going to have such a great time."

We come to a stop at the top of a small hill overlooking a wooden dock that extends out into a lake that's frozen from the shoreline to about twenty feet out. The ice-ringed body of water resembles something seen under a microscope, an amoebic blob that seems dormant but is likely teeming with life, even in these freezing conditions. It's all steel blue and gray and white. It looks hard and harsh and unyielding.

Without a word, Brice exits the SUV and heads for the wooden steps built into the hill that lead down to the dock. When he doesn't wait for me, I hurry to catch up, swishing through the snow-dusted dry leaves. At the end of the dock, he lowers himself and dangles his legs from the edge, his gaze pinned to some spot on the shoreline across the lake.

I take a seat next to him and pull my coat more tightly around me as the wind gusts.

Still looking away from me, he asks, "How are things between you and the rest of your family?"

I shrug, hoping he'll see the gesture in his peripheral vision.

He must, because he explains his question. "It's just... I haven't seen you at church since Christmas. I wasn't sure what that meant."

It means several things. Mostly it means that I'm lazy on Sunday mornings, but a part of me has been keeping my distance from Brice since Christmas. I'm not comfortable with the way I feel and act around him. I also don't feel like sitting next to my parents every Sunday and pretending that everything's hunky dory.

Instead of giving him excuses for my absence, I half-answer his original question. "We're pretty good at ignoring our problems."

"What, so things are back to normal?"

I consider it for a few seconds before answering, "No. People aren't telling me their secrets anymore."

He smiles. "Well, that's a good thing, right?"

It should be. It's what I've wanted for a long time. But now that I have it, it's not as great as I thought it would be. I feel as though I've been excommunicated from my family.

"I guess," I say, instead of explaining all that. I don't want to come off as someone who's impossible to please.

Silence falls between us while I contemplate my recent uselessness and Brice thinks about whatever pastors think about. (Jesus?)

"This is beautiful," he breathes eventually. "If you like cold weather."

"You don't?"

His smile has a guilty tinge to it. "Not really. It's a nice change from hot weather, but I would be happy with two weeks of winter as a break, then back to summer. I pretend, though, since everyone else around here seems to love it." He swings his legs like an overgrown kid as he grips the edge of the dock in his large hands. "What about you?"

"I've lived in this area my whole life, so I'm used to it. I don't think about whether I like it or not. It's just a part of life." My eyes are watering in the wind. I dab at them with my fingers but quickly put my cold hands back in my pockets. When I look over at him, he's staring at me.

"If you could live anywhere, where would it be?" he asks, squinting as another gale hits us and ruffles his hair, which lifts from his forehead before falling across it once more.

"Anywhere?"

"Anywhere."

My mind is a blank. Because all I can think of suddenly is how closely we're sitting to each other and how I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. But that's hardly something I can say out loud without sounding like a sap.

When he can tell I'm having trouble coming up with an answer, he pushes, "You don't have a place that you dream of living someday? Maybe not a specific place, but—I don't know—by the water or in the mountains? Anywhere like that?"

"I guess not," I admit, ashamed of being so apathetic. "I've never lived anywhere but here, and I like it well enough that I don't have aspirations to live elsewhere, but—this is going to sound hokey—I always just figured it's more important who I'm with than where I am."

[Time out! I did _not_ just say that. Someone tell me I didn't. Oh, shit. I did. And I can tell by the grin he's trying to hide that he _does_ think it sounds hokey and contrived and... and lame! Why don't I just blurt out the other embarrassing things floating through my head right now, like " _I've always wanted to make out on a dock, in plain view of anyone who happens to pass by. What do you say?"_ or _"Man, it's cold out here, but you're hot!"_ Stupid, Peyton! Stupid! Time in!]

He remarks, "You sound like you were born to be in the military. Or some other profession that requires frequent relocation. You can make a home anywhere, huh?"

I duck my head. "I don't know. Where have you lived that you liked the best?"

"Florida," he answers readily. "Definitely Florida. Weather-wise. But that's when I was a prison chaplain, so I was glad for the sunny, warm weather. I spent a lot of my days off at the beach, out in the sun. My work was depressing enough without being surrounded by gray skies."

I involuntarily picture him, glistening wet, lying on a towel, staring up at the sky. But referring to his job at the time, I say, "I can't imagine."

He hunches his shoulders up near his ears. "It was grim. But, the funny thing is, I didn't realize how sad it was until I was away from it for a few months. Now, years later, I wonder how I did it for so long. Well, I don't wonder. I know God got me through it. But you know what I mean."

I nod. "Yeah. You're an upbeat guy, though. I can see how you wouldn't let it get you down."

His sad smile makes me wonder if I've said something wrong. But before I can ask him, he says quietly, "It would have been nice to have someone to talk to." The wind snatches the next two words and makes them inaudible, but I see them on his lips. "Like you."

And I know if I close my eyes or lean closer, the last vestiges of doubt will be whisked away, and he'll kiss me like he wants to. Like I want him to. But like an idiot, I turn my head and ask loudly, "Where'd you live before here?"

He clears his throat. "Uh... Kansas. A tiny town piggybacked to another small town named Hayes. But the church there was bigger than the one here, believe it or not. We were the only Lutheran church in something like an eighty mile radius. Some people drove more than an hour each week for church."

"That's dedication," I mumble guiltily, thinking about how I can hardly drag myself ten miles from my bed most Sundays.

"It's just the way things were. I spent a lot of time in my car, driving here and there, visiting people. I don't think I used the oven in my tiny house a single time. I was always at someone's house for dinner. A lot of farms in that area." He nudges me with his elbow. "Incidentally, the first time I touched a cow was when I lived there. I saw a calf being born that same day."

I wrinkle my nose. "Ew. I saw that on TV once. It looked... messy."

He laughs. "Yeah. Well, I stood back. It was actually pretty amazing. Another one of God's miracles."

"Sounds like you had a lot more people to talk to and socialize with there."

With a terse shake of his head, he says, "Not really. It's amazing how lonely you can be when you rarely have a minute to yourself. How is that possible?"

I don't shy away from his eye contact this time when I answer, "I don't know. But I know that it is."

After another strong gust of wind, he crosses his arms over his chest, tucks his hands under his arms, and says lightly, "This is nice. Thanks for coming with me."

"Thanks for asking me. I really needed it." That realization surprises even me.

"We should do it more often then," he ventures.

I nod mutely, catching my lower lip between my teeth. Before I can say anything, he quickly stands. "Come on, before our butts freeze to this dock."

I grasp both of his extended hands, and he pulls me effortlessly to my feet. Once standing, neither of us moves or lets go. Our frozen breaths mingle between us, sometimes so thick that the steam almost obscures my view of his face. Until he leans down and brushes his chilly lips against mine. Then my eyelids block my view as I tiptoe into the kiss. Only for a split second do I think, _I'm kissing Pastor!!!!!!!!!!_

Mostly, I'm consumed by a feeling I've never had before: the feeling that what I'm doing is right.

## 31

# Bad News

"Is this okay?"

"Very okay."

"No, I mean, is this _allowed?_ " I clarify as I kiss his neck while lying on top of him on my couch.

He laughs. "Yes. I'll stop you if something's not allowed."

"I don't want you to feel like I'm pressuring you, though," I explain. I look down into his face.

He looks up at me. "I'm a big boy; I can handle myself."

"Mmm, really?" I reply naughtily. "Okay..."

He kisses me on the lips and presses his hands against my butt. Then he pulls his head away and groans.

"What?"

"My phone is vibrating like crazy in my pocket."

"If you say so."

"No, really. Someone's been trying frantically to get in touch with me for a while now."

"Yes. She's on top of you."

Straining to reach down into his pocket, he grimaces. "You're on my phone."

I make absolutely no effort to move. When he continues to try to pinch the device between his fingers to retrieve it, I state, "I thought you'd turned it off."

"I did. Sort of."

"Vibrate isn't the same as off," I point out, but I finally sit up and give him access to his pocket.

"Baby steps," he assures me. "I've never been out of touch for a whole day. I've been good about not looking to see who's been calling, but I wanted to keep track of how many calls were rolling over to your dad."

That's one way to kill an amorous moment. One mention of my dad, and it's like he's flipped a switch.

"Check your phone," I grouse.

He chuckles after scrolling through a few of the numbers. "Well, this is embarrassing," he mutters. "They're all from my mom."

The chagrin on his face makes me laugh before going to the kitchen for a glass of water. "That might not be something you say out loud," I kid, but a small ping of alarm sounds in the back of my brain. "How many times did she call?"

Maybe she had a sixth sense that her precious angel boy was cavorting with the strumpet who makes scenes at the Christmas dinner table. I can't imagine she'd be happy to know he's been with me all day.

He doesn't answer right away, so I lean around the half wall to get a visual of him. He appears to be counting.

"Seventeen times," he finally says. "But no messages. I'd, uh, better call her back." When he stands, he turns in a circle as if he doesn't know where to go.

I point down the hall to my bedroom. "You can go back there if you want some privacy," I offer.

Absently smoothing down his mussed hair while he holds the phone to his ear, he shakes his head. "No, that's—Mom! Hey. I see you've been trying to get ahold of me. No, I've been out with Peyton."

It surprises me that he says it as if it's a completely normal thing for him to tell her—like it's as mundane as being at the grocery store—and that he doesn't have to explain to her who I am. Like I'm an old family friend, familiar and often talked about, perhaps even _warmly_ talked about.

I'm still marveling at this when he quickly plops onto the couch again. " _What..._ No... But... wh-what happened?"

One look at his ashen complexion and slack face tells me something is seriously wrong. I set my glass on the counter and rush into the living room, where I sit next to him on the couch, trying to glean information from his side of the conversation.

But he just keeps repeating, "No... no... oh, no..." Finally, he breaks the pattern by saying, "I'll be there in"—he flips his wrist over and looks at his watch—"five hours, so it'll be really late. No, I'm not waiting until morning, Mom!" That's when the tear leaks from the outside corner of his right eye. He rubs it away so fast with his thumb that I almost wonder if I imagined it, until I see another one quickly take its place, and he doesn't do anything to stop it from sliding down the side of his face. "Okay, I will. I just have to stop by the church for a few minutes for my stuff. I can't believe this is happening."

I have a sick notion it's his dad before he disconnects, gazes miserably at me, and says, "My dad died," but that doesn't lessen the impact of the words.

Feeling like all the air has been sucked from my lungs with a giant shop-vac, I whisper, "Oh, Brice. I'm so sorry."

"I have to go," he announces unnecessarily and robotically. "I have to go to the church and get my robes and vestments and... and... Bible and..."

I grasp his hand as he walks past me to get to the door.

"I have to go," he repeats, prying his fingers away from mine.

"Hey, I'm not trying to keep you," I explain my touch. "Why don't you skip the trip back to the church? Get on the road. I'll call Marilyn and meet her at the church. She can collect all your stuff and give it to me. I'll leave in the morning and bring everything to you."

"My parents live in St. Louis," he states. "You're not going to drive all the way to St. Louis just to bring me my stuff."

I shake my head and roll my eyes at him. "You're right. I'm going to drive to St. Louis to be with you for your father's funeral."

He makes a strangled noise at that last word.

"Sorry." I push his shoulder. "Go on. I'll figure it all out. You just get to your mom. And concentrate on getting there in one piece."

He nods distractedly. "Yeah. Okay. That'll work. Call me when you get to the church, and I'll tell you exactly where everything is."

"Fine," I appease him, all the while knowing I'm going to do no such thing. Marilyn and I are going to take care of everything. "Go."

When he opens the door, I think to repeat, "I'm so sorry."

In a dull tone, he replies, "Thanks," before rushing down the stairs and out to the parking lot.

I allow myself ten seconds to take a few deep breaths and say a quick prayer that I don't screw this up before I spring into action, simultaneously pulling on my coat, sliding on my shoes, and dialing my dad's cell phone number before rushing down the hall to throw some things for myself in an overnight bag.

## 32

# Personal Assistant

_I 'm more useful to him here than I was there,_ I tell myself confidently. Or semi-confidently. Okay, not confidently at all, but I have to tell myself something to take the sting out of being sent back to Chicago the day after Augustus's funeral, even though I offered to stay a few more days.

So I choose to repeat to myself what he told me: "I need someone back there to run interference for me at the church. And Marilyn only works part-time. And I won't have to explain anything to you, like I would have to explain everything to the elders."

Actually, though, it feels kind of like I've been demoted from girlfriend to personal assistant.

Now, for example, I'm dropping off the robes and vestments Marilyn and I carefully selected and placed flat in the backseat of my little car just a few short days ago. The garments and I have something in common: we're no longer needed (or wanted?) in St. Louis.

No! I can't think that way. I need to take Brice at his word. He's not a game-player like other guys. He says what he means, and he means what he says. He hasn't sent me home on a bogus mission to help him because he wanted to get rid of me after being with me non-stop for three days. This isn't about me at all. Maybe I need to stop thinking that everything is.

Even though I already know where the robes go, I pop into the office as a courtesy to let Marilyn know what I'm doing so it doesn't seem like I'm skulking around in places I shouldn't be.

"No, I don't know," she's saying tersely into the phone. "Well, as soon as I do, I can call you back.... No.... Yes, in the meantime, you may contact your elder or Pastor Weems, who's filling in. Hold just a moment, please."

As soon as she puts that person on hold, another line rings. I shoot her a sympathetic look, which makes her laugh. "Are those Pastor's robes?" she asks me, reaching for them.

I keep them close. "Yeah, but I'll put them away. I just wanted to let you know I was here."

The older woman's shoulders relax as she smiles gratefully at me. "Thanks. Now, where did I put Pastor Weems' number?"

While she answers the ringing line, I search the uncharacteristically-messy, paper-strewn desk for anything resembling a phone number and come up with a ragged slip of paper that says _Pastor W._ and has ten digits scrawled on it. I hold it out to her, and after she takes a message for Brice and ends the second call, she takes the proffered scrap with a harried, "Thanks!"

She gives the number to the original caller, hangs up the phone, and blows her feathery bangs off her forehead. "Oh, heavens. This is crazy. I'm not normally this disorganized, but with Pastor gone, it's been pretty hectic." She smiles and tilts her head at me. "How was the funeral? How's Pastor doing? When's he going to be back?"

I chuckle at her rapid-fire line of questioning and squint one eye as I try to succinctly answer them in order. "Uh... nice, but sad; fine; not sure." I don't think it's necessary to go into too many details. I'm certainly not about to tell her that he's angry and moody and has said more than one thing that I'd never imagined hearing from the lips of any pastor, much less _his_ lips.

Her posture slackens. "Oh. I feel just awful for him, but... I'm tired of not having an answer for people when they ask me when he'll be back."

"Sorry." I wince. "It didn't sound like he was planning to be back too soon. He has a lot to take care of for his mom."

She nods knowingly. "I'm sure he does. I was an only child, too. Thankfully, though, my parents lived close. Made it a whole lot easier."

We commiserate for a while longer about the complexities of funerals and life insurance and wills; then I lift my arm with the garment bag draped over it.

"Well, I guess I should put these away," I say. "Is there anything else I can do to help, though? I feel bad for you."

She waves away my concern. "It comes and goes. Pastor checks in a couple times a day to get his messages, but he's not chatty, and I don't want to pry... Knowing him like I do, I'm sure he'll be back as soon as he can get away. But if I think of something, can I give you a call?"

"Absolutely," I readily agree. "Yes. I'll do whatever I can. And as soon as I hear when he'll be back, I'll call to make sure you know, too."

The phone rings just as she's saying, "Thanks!"

I laugh at her eye-rolling and head for the vestry behind the sanctuary. When I'm almost to the door, though, Justine steps from one of the Sunday school classrooms further down the hall and spots me.

"Peyton!" She jogs to me, making quite a racket on the tile floor in her silly kitten heels.

I stop with my hand on the doorknob to the vestry and grace her with what I hope to be a patient smile.

"Have you seen Pastor?" she asks. Her tone is one part hopeful, one part suspicious, as if she thinks I may be hiding him somewhere. Or maybe I'm being paranoid. I don't think anyone knows for sure that Brice and I are a couple. Heck, even _I'm_ not sure. It's been a strange couple of days.

"No," I answer regretfully, "he's still in St. Louis."

She seems even more disappointed than Marilyn was at this news. "Shoot!"

I pretend to be interested. "What's up?"

"Well, he was going to help me chaperone a mixer we're having here tonight for the high school kids. Shoot, shoot, shoot!" She stomps her foot and chews on her pouty bottom lip.

I'd like to tease her about her "salty" language, but I'm not sure she'd find it funny, so I merely say, "Oh. Sorry."

"Yeah. Two of my other volunteers backed out, so it'll just be me, and it's only for a couple of hours, but it's going to be hard to coordinate the activities _and_ keep an eye on everyone. I was counting on Pastor to help! I mean, I feel really bad for him, and I understand why he can't be here, _obviously,_ but I'm in a real pickle!"

It's so tempting to repeat "Sorry," hang up the robes, and run as far away from her as fast as I can, but instead I take a deep breath and offer, "I can help. If you want."

Her eyes light up. "Really? That would be such a blessing!"

"Sure." I'm surprised to note that agreeing to help her makes me feel great. Then I notice her formal attire. "Uh... I should probably run home first and change, though. I've been traveling all day."

She grasps my arm. "Wear whatever you want. I'm just so glad you're willing to help! This night may not be a disaster after all!" With that, she scampers in the direction of the church gymnasium, where I assume the mixer will be taking place. "Thanks!" she calls over her shoulder. "See you at eight!"

Oh, boy.

Well, it's not like I have anything better to do, anyway, than to sit around, waiting for my phone to ring, while watching bad TV, missing Brice, and overanalyzing our relationship (is that what we have?). Might as well kill a couple of hours with the kids and get to know some of them before the dreaded lock-in. Plus, this is exactly what he had in mind when he sent me back here (or so he says), so it's comforting to be put to "work" so soon after returning home, like there really is a reason for us to be apart.

Right? Right?!

## 33

# Welcome Home

After two of the longest weeks of my life, Brice is coming home. (Thank you, Jesus. Really. That's not just a semi-profane figure of speech.) Since he's supposed to be back this afternoon, and since Pastor Weems, a semi-retired pastor from Naples, Florida, has been staying at the parsonage while filling in for him, I told Marilyn I'd make sure the house was clean and tidy for Brice's return. That means I'm cleaning a bathroom used by a virtual stranger for the past two weeks. Ick. I must say, I've never done this for any other man.

Not that Pastor Weems was a slob, but he didn't do any housekeeping. And two weeks is a long time for a bathroom and a kitchen to go without being cleaned, in my book, and I have a fairly relaxed idea about such things. Or so I've been told by my mother.

So I'm wearing yellow rubber gloves that reach halfway to my elbows, slinging a toilet brush, and singing along with my MP3 player, earbuds jammed into my ears, when a tap on my shoulder makes me bolt upright and fling toilet water onto the bathroom mirror above the vanity.

"Gaa!" I scream and whirl with my eyes pinched tightly closed, like some kind of novelty lawn sprinkler. I'm not particularly worried about who it may be, considering the house was locked, and I trust all of the key holders, but I _am_ worried about getting toilet water in my eyes. Gross.

Someone tugs on my left earbud, causing it to pop out and dangle over my shoulder. "This is a pleasantly domestic scene," he says.

My eyes fly open. "Hey! You weren't supposed to be home until later!" I drop the brush in the toilet and barely have my gloves peeled off before Brice surprises me again by lifting me off the floor and kissing me.

Mmmm... Well, this is definitely a "girlfriend" kiss, not a "personal assistant" kiss. At least, I don't think he's ever kissed Marilyn like this.

When it's over, he explains, "I got an earlier start than I expected."

"I guess so! What time did you leave? Four a.m.?"

"Four-thirty," he admits sheepishly. "I sped a little."

"Naughty."

"I know. But I was in a hurry to get home. And I didn't even know _this_ would be waiting for me." He sets me down.

"Yes. Well, you weren't supposed to know. It was supposed to just be nice and clean for you, like magic."

"I don't believe in magic."

"You know what I mean. How's your mom?"

He puts his hands on his hips and looks down at his feet. "She has good days and bad days. I'll probably be logging a lot of miles during the next year or so, unless I can convince her to move here, which doesn't seem likely." Looking up at me through his eyelashes, he smiles shyly. "Although you may be able to change her mind. She likes you. A lot. Wouldn't stop talking about you after you left."

I blush. "Hm. Well, I set the bar pretty low at our first meeting, so... Who says good first impressions are all that?"

"Come on." He waves for me to follow him as he steps into the hallway. "It's Saturday morning. Let's take our walk."

I gesture to the room around me. "Just let me finish up in here."

"I'll do it later," he insists. "I'm not going to stand here while you clean my toilet. I appreciate the offer, though. And the fact that you got up early on a Saturday to do it."

"Yes. Big sacrifice," I allow, grinning. I wash my hands and follow him to the door, where I jam my feet down into my shoes and quickly tie them. He tweaks my butt while I'm bent over.

"You're full of it," I observe and accuse.

He sticks out his tongue. "I missed you. A lot."

That statement is a huge relief. We haven't talked much while he's been away, and I was beginning to think I'd imagined everything that happened that day at the lake and right before his mom called him with the news. Plus, I've been trying to keep a low profile, even while I've been helping as much as I can. The last thing I want is everyone in the church knowing about Brice and me. As far as they know right now, we're just friends. And that's how I want it to be for a while.

Straightening, I say, "I missed you, too. _Maybe_ even more than the rest of the congregation did."

He raises his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Yes. But not as much as Marilyn missed you. I'm sure she asked me at least six-hundred times when you'd be back."

Laughing sadly, he says, "Sorry about that."

"Whatever. I enjoyed trying to find new ways to say, 'I don't know.' It was an entomological challenge."

"I love it when you use big words."

"Do you?" I smile at him and put my arms around his neck. As I reach up and finger comb his hair, I notice for the first time the bluish circles under his eyes.

Remembering exactly how I was feeling just two weeks after losing Secret makes my eyes well up, and the smile slides off my face. Seriously, I say, "Are you okay?"

He shrugs. "Do I have a choice?"

"Yep," I inform him, "you do. And if you're not okay right now, that's... well, okay. Don't be tough just because you think everyone needs you to be. Forget about what everyone else needs for once."

He nods. "I'll try."

"Come on." Purposefully, I lead him into his bedroom, throw back the covers on the bed I made up less than an hour ago, and say, "Get in."

"No, I have to—"

"Do it!" I demand.

Since my tone of voice leaves no room for argument, he kicks off his shoes and does as he's told. When I climb in next to him, he tenses.

"Uh... I want you to know I'm very vulnerable right now."

I sigh and roll my eyes before lying on my side next to him so that we're face to face. Then I pat my chest. "C'mere," I invite him. Sliding down a few inches, he tentatively rests his head against my chest. I wrap my arms around his head and rake my fingers through his hair.

After we lie like this for a few minutes, he relaxes and sighs.

I reveal shyly, "This is what I wish someone would have done for me."

"Ah. I see."

"I also know it's different, so I'm not trying to compare my loss to yours. Losing someone you knew your whole life and who helped shape who you are... that has to be not only sad but surreal."

Sleepily, he says, "Don't minimize what you went through."

"Shh... this isn't about me. I'm just saying that I know you're hurting in a way that makes you wonder if you'll ever feel happy again."

He's quiet for so long that I think he's fallen asleep, but then he says thickly, "I just... Everything was starting to work out. He would have been so happy for me."

"Everything?"

Sleepier still, he continues, "Patience. That's what I've been preaching to him—and myself—for years. And now, when it seems like the waiting is finally almost over... Timing's a funny thing, you know?"

"Yes," I say simply, not quite sure what else to say.

"It's easy to talk about God's plan when you're sure good things are about to happen. But this plan... well, it's a mess. And it stinks. I'm sick of being patient. I acted like I had all the time in the world to wait for God to reveal to me what His stupid plan was. Well, maybe _I_ do, but Dad didn't. Now he'll never see me get married. He'll never hold his grandchildren." Finally, he runs out of steam.

Only then do I make any noise. "Shhh. Just try to get some rest. Tomorrow, it's back to reality."

I rest my chin on top of his head as he draws me even closer so that the lengths of our bodies are pressed against each other. Then I try not to think too much about what he's said, for fear that my heart will start pounding. With his ear pressed against my chest, there will be no hiding my response.

I'm sure he's asleep, and I'm dozing myself, when he startles me by saying, "Peyton?"

"Hmm?"

His voice is just a murmur above a whisper. "I'm sure you already know this, but... I love you."

It takes me a while to recover my ability to speak, much less think of something appropriate—and honest—to say in response. Before I get even close, though, his deep, even breathing tells me I'm off the hook... for now.

## 34

# Vegas Valentine

What's one of the worst ways to spend Valentine's Day? In Vegas on a business trip, separated from my boyfriend. What's the _absolute_ worst way to spend Valentine's Day? In Vegas on a business trip, separated from my boyfriend and seemingly surrounded by ex-lovers.

Because that's happening.

The Vegas Art Expo. Where artists and gallery owners from across the country meet up to schmooze, gamble, drink, and party. Oh, and network. And in Marshall's case, see Celine Dion in concert with his boyfriend. And in my case, lurk in shadowy corners by day and hide in my hotel room by night to avoid any confrontations with Drex and Stefan, who seem to be everywhere I am. I've half-expected to walk in on one of them in the ladies' room.

To add to the ambiance, I'm staying at the Paris hotel, an Americanized facsimile of The City of Love. Of course.

After a long, foot-crippling, migraine-inducing day, as I'm plodding through the plush lobby that looks as if Louis XIV himself should be lounging in it somewhere, eating grapes from the fingers of a powdered, big-haired woman with a shelf of cleavage, a uniformed person at the concierge desk flags me down. "Ms. Stratford?"

"Y-yes?" I reply, approaching the marble counter. I recognize the guy as the same person who helped me last night when I checked in.

"We have a delivery waiting for you," he informs me with a grin. "Just sign here." He slides over a clipboard and snaps a pen on top of it.

"What am I signing for?" I ask warily. The extra business cards I asked Deanna to overnight to me shouldn't be arriving until the morning.

With a knowing smile, he answers, "If I had to guess, I'd say it was a Valentine's gift."

It feels as though my heart literally lifts in my chest cavity. I wonder if he can see it beating through my clothes, like I'm some kind of cartoon character. "Really?!"

He nods, lifting onto the counter a flat rectangular box about the size of a shirt box. It's professionally wrapped in heart-covered foil paper and has a single red rose taped to the top of it.

"Good guess," I say, laughing.

"I'm good," he says, with a wink. "Also, I'm supposed to ask you when it would be a good time this evening for the masseuse to arrive."

My eyes widen. "Masseuse?"

Referring to a notecard on the desk, he verifies, "Yes. You've been scheduled for an in-room massage." He holds up the card so I can see for myself and points to my name. "Peyton Stratford, room 1371. That's you, right?"

"It is," I confirm. "Wow. Okay, then. Uh, will 8:00 work?"

Eyes twinkling, he says, "Perfectly. I'll send someone up then."

I clutch the present to my chest, say, "Thanks!" and cross the lobby to the elevators.

Two cars arrive at the same time, so I take the empty one, where I rip into the package as soon as the doors close and I'm alone. Holding the rose between my teeth, I open the card lying on top of the tissue paper inside the box.

> _Peyton,_
> 
> _"You are altogether beautiful, my love_
> 
> _there is no flaw in you."_
> 
> _\--Song of Solomon 4:7_
> 
> _Happy Valentine's Day._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Brice_
> 
> _P.S. I suggest reading the entire book of Song of Solomon when you get a chance. My gift to you should help. XOXO_

I quickly pull back one corner of the tissue paper to reveal an e-reader and barely resist squealing in delight. I've wanted one of these forever, but I always seem to have something better or more necessary to spend my money on, so I haven't gotten around to getting one for myself. I can't wait to get into my room to play with it.

There's another note, though, taped to the e-reader box. It simply says, "Skype. 7:30."

"Yay!" I say out loud around the rose as the doors open to the floor where my room is located. The woman waiting in the hallway for the elevator gives me a strange look before taking in the gift in my arms and the rose in my teeth. Then she smiles.

As we pass each other through the elevator doors, she inquires, "Happy Valentine's Day?"

I remove the rose and answer, "Very!" as I practically skip down the hall toward my room.

Once inside, I toss everything on the bed and check the time on my phone. I have less than an hour before my video call with Brice.

Despite the tight schedule, however, I'm eagerly waiting for him after my shower, playing with my new toy while I sit in front of my laptop. In addition to having already loaded the Bible on it (of course), Brice has also pre-loaded two of my favorite classics, _Jane Eyre_ and _Madame Bovary._

As I skim through Song of Solomon, smiling quietly at many of the verses, I hear him connecting to me, so I set the gadget aside and adjust the webcam so he can see me. All of me.

I was going to sit in front of the computer nude but decided against that at the last minute, figuring it's against The Rules, so I'm wearing a tiny tank top and panties instead. I'm sure web-sex is against The Rules, too. Stupid rules.

"Hey," he says, followed by, "Oh... _hey there._ Happy Valentine's Day."

"And to you."

"I see you got my message, so that means you, uh... Wow. Uh... not that I don't like it, but could you maybe... I don't know... tilt the camera up a little? I kind of can't concentrate very well on anything."

I smile slyly. "Too bad. This is part of your Valentine's Day present."

"Hm... I see. Well, I'm in my office... at the church, so... I'm worried—"

"Nobody can see your computer from your office door. Plus it's 9:30 there. I'm sure you're alone."

"God sees," he half-jokes. "Please. You're killing me."

I sigh, but I try not to let it bother me too much that he won't play along better. I adjust the camera, as requested, so that only my head and shoulders are in the frame. "There. Better?"

He smirks. "No. But I think I can feel the blood flow returning to my brain now. Thanks."

I laugh. "Well, thanks for my presents. They were a pleasant surprise. A nice ending to a not-so-nice day."

His brow furrows. "That bad? Those two are behaving themselves, I hope," he adds, referring to the two who shall not be named.

I shake my head. "No problems from them, but it's still pretty awful. And lonely."

"I'm sorry. I wish I could have come with you, but—"

"Yeah, I know," I reassure him before he can list all the reasons again. "It was just poor timing. There are couples everywhere here this weekend. Anyway!" I shift my voice a few octaves to sound more cheerful. "Did you get my card? I wanted to see you open my gift to you, so it's waiting at my apartment. Sorry. I meant for you to get it before I left Friday, but..."

I don't need to remind him that we've hardly talked to each other since our cuddle session when he first got home. He's been frantically trying to get caught up with church business; I've been frantically trying not to think about his mention of marriage and babies. I'm afraid neither of us has been very successful, so it's been kind of a waste. We might have been less miserable if we had tossed in a couple dry humps throughout the week. Well, maybe not.

Anyway, my gift to him isn't very romantic, so it's probably best that we're not exchanging gifts side-by-side. What I got him would have come up looking lame in comparison.

Now he waves away my apology. "At the risk of sounding sexist, I'm a guy. I don't need anything for Valentine's Day. Although I'm glad I was alone when I opened your card."

"That good, huh?"

"That loud," he clarifies, referring to the song _God Only Knows_ that played when he opened it. "Clever."

"Well, it's true," I insist. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

He screws his mouth to the side. "But you don't _love_ me, right?"

My stomach drops. Oh. So, I guess it didn't escape him that I never returned his sentiment before he fell asleep last Saturday. "Not true. I _do_. It's the _in love_ part that I'm still fuzzy about."

"Of course. Silly me." He scratches his chin and takes a deep breath. "Anyway..."

"Don't be mad at me, please," I beg. "I'm sorry!"

"No, no. You're right not to say something you don't really mean."

"Just be patient with me, okay? I've never done... this... before." I'm not even sure what _this_ is. I'm tempted to adjust the camera again to distract him and get me off the hot seat. "I don't want to fight with you right now."

"Who's fighting? I'm trying to have a calm, mature discussion. I just want to know where I stand. You know, on the spectrum between friend and soul mate. I think I've made it embarrassingly clear where you fall on that spectrum for me."

"You did not just use the term 'soul mate.'"

"Well, 'lover' isn't exactly appropriate, now, is it?"

Grudgingly, I admit, "No."

"So, where am I?" he asks calmly, leaning forward, his elbows on his desk.

"Well..." I consider, "you're my boyfriend... and I'm physically attracted to you, obviously. Am I allowed to admit I'd _like_ to have sex with you?"

He nods and grins. "Please." Then his smile fades when he says, "But all that's kind of superficial, right? And stuff I already know, for the most part. I mean, what about deeper feelings? I..." he looks down for a second and back up bravely, almost defiantly. "I _love_ you, Peyton. And when I say that, it encompasses so much more than what I feel for you physically. I care about you; I'm happy when you're happy and sad when you're sad; I think about you all the time; I find myself striving to please you, to make you proud of me; I don't know what I'd do without _you_ ; you're the answer to so many of my prayers; and imagining the rest of my life without you seems impossible. And the fact that I think you're funny and smart and beautiful is a bonus." After that declaration, he immediately starts laughing and says, "Your face... I'm not sure whether you're astounded or terrified by what I just said."

"The former," I choose. "Definitely the former."

"But?" he questions expectantly.

"But what?"

"You don't feel anything like that for me? It's still more about if I have a nice butt or if I'm a good kisser or eventually, maybe, good in bed? I mean—"

"No." I break eye contact with him, looking down at my hands, partly because I'm embarrassed that I _have_ come off as being so shallow and partly because I'm stunned to find that I could absolutely repeat back to him everything he said to me to describe his feelings.

Tears balanced on my eyelids, I look up at him and open my mouth to tell him so, but I'm interrupted by a knock on my door.

"Oh, shit... The massage," I say on a tiny sob after glancing at the clock on the computer.

Anguish must not convey itself well on a glitchy web cam, because he seems oblivious to mine when he sits up straighter and grins. "Oh, good! I figured"—now he's the one who can't look directly into the camera—"well, someone should be allowed to touch you tonight, right?"

"Yes, but..." The knocking gets louder. "Coming!" I call over my shoulder. "Oh, crap. I... I don't want to hang up with you right now!"

"I don't know if I can handle watching you get a full-body massage, though," he jokes. "Answer the door. Enjoy your massage. I'll see you at the airport tomorrow evening. I love you. Goodnight."

"Wait!" But it's too late. He's already gotten so used to my noncommittal goodbyes that he didn't even wait long enough for me to say it back.

"Aw, man!" I moan dejectedly, closing the laptop and stomping toward the door. "I love you, too. Damn it!"

## 35

# Love Rules

What to do? I tap my lips with my fingers as the plane taxis to the gate. I wish I weren't the type of person who agonizes over every tiny decision. I wish I were the spontaneous sort who doesn't think things to death. But I'm not. And when I break with my personality and do spontaneous things (ahem, Stefan!), I always regret it.

So I still haven't decided what I'm going to say to Brice when I see him in a few minutes. I want to blurt out, "I love you," but do I want the memory of the first time I say that to him to take place at O'Hare International Airport? Not really. And I care about stupid things like that. Unfortunately.

However, I read the rest of _Song of Solomon_ on the plane, then re-read it, and I imagined Brice saying those things to me, and I remembered what he said on Skype last night, and I'm afraid I'm going to burst if I don't tell him as soon as I see him.

Deep breath!

The guy next to me visibly inches away from me.

I shoot him an apologetic look and uncharacteristically disclose, "Big moment about to happen for me."

He gives me a shaky "don't give a fuck" smile and deliberately looks away.

Fine. Jerk.

As long as he doesn't think my "big moment" is some kind of crazy hi-jacking maneuver.

I tap his hand, which he immediately jerks away from me as he swivels his head around, alarm in his eyes.

"Sorry. I just wanted you to know... I'm not crazy or about to do something crazy. When I say 'big moment,' I mean that I'm about to tell my boyfriend that I love him. For the first time."

"Lady, I don't care," he says testily.

"Okay," I accept, blushing. "I just thought... never mind."

He shakes his head and mutters, "Idiot," as the plane comes to a halt.

"I'm not an idiot," I grumble back when the occupants of the plane stand as one. "Just nervous."

Shooting me another dirty look as he steps into the aisle, he pulls his carry-on bag from the overhead compartment and pushes past the person in front of him in his rush to get away from me.

_Shake it off,_ I tell myself. Who cares what that guy thinks? All that matters is what Brice thinks. But is Brice going to want me to tell him I love him in the middle of an airport? I'd think he'd want something more meaningful. Probably at church, although I don't know if I'm willing to go that far (that would be too much like a... gulp... wedding). Or somewhere outdoors. The park, where we take all our walks together? The lake, where we had our first kiss?

Overthinking!

I know deep down that he won't care where we are. He just wants to hear me say it and mean it. And I want to say it to him, because I _do_ mean it. But I'm so afraid of what I may be setting in motion with those three words.

Truth is, I've never said them to any man and meant them in a romantic way. There. I've finally admitted it. I wish I felt better for having done so, but I just feel even more scared.

When I round the corner in the arrivals area, I feel like the stupid girl who's about to get the ax in a slasher movie. I'm physically shaking. And I'm annoyed with myself that my first reaction when I see him is an extreme urge to start crying.

I choke it back just long enough, though, so that I'm buried in his hug before the dam breaks. He immediately stiffens against me as I press my face into his shoulder and tremble against him.

He places a steadying hand on the back of my head. "Hey. What's wrong?" Pulling me gently aside, out of the flow of traffic, he slides his hand under my hair and palms my neck. "Oh, man. You're shaking. Tell me what's the matter."

I shake my head, pressing my forehead against the zipper of his coat. "Nothing. I'm just so retarded," I muffle into the nylon. "I mean, sorry," I apologize, for using a word I know he finds offensive. "I'm ridiculous. Just crazy."

"Did something happen on the flight?" he asks, looking around. "Do we need to find someone and report something?"

I laugh humorlessly. "No! I'm losing it. That's all. Absolutely out of my fu—stupid mind."

"Okay." He gives up trying to get to the bottom of my emotional dissolution and merely stands there holding me until my tremors subside enough that I can pull away and look up at him. Rubbing his thumb against my forehead, he says, "Zipper print. You look like Frankenstein."

Furiously, I take over the rubbing and mutter, "Great. Well, it's probably best that I look as deranged as I am so that people know to avoid me."

He smiles, but his eyes are still worried as he bends at the knee to see into my eyes. "Are you sure you're okay? You scared me!"

"Ha! I scare myself, so I can only imagine." I drag my index fingers under my eyes and sniffle. "Okay. Sorry. Again."

"You're tired," he offers as a reasonable explanation.

Since I don't want to get into it in the middle of the airport, with the magazine kiosk guy openly eavesdropping on our conversation, I take it. "Yes. I am. Very. You're right."

"Then let's get you home. Did you claim any bags?"

I shake my head.

"Good."

Once we're on the road, he keeps glancing anxiously over at me. It doesn't matter how many times I tell him I'm okay. As a matter of fact, the more I tell him that, the more worried he looks. Finally, I decide the only way he's going to treat me normally is if I pretend that nothing happened.

"I read the rest of Song of Solomon," I blurt, grasping at the first thing to come to mind from this weekend that doesn't have to do with Drex or Stefan.

He nods and glances over at me before returning his attention to the road. "Steamy stuff, huh?"

"Yeah. Who knew?"

"I did. Actually, I think it's especially fitting, because it's an interesting study in the two halves of true love: _eros_ , or erotic love, and _agape,_ or self-sacrificing love. Giving and receiving."

"What the what?" I have to tease him for being too cerebral.

He laughs. "Exactly. There are also some less-romantic interpretations of it, but you'd seriously make fun of me if I got into those, so we'll just leave it at that for now."

"Thank you. There's no use ruining a beautiful thing."

"So that's the first time you've ever read it all the way through?" he asks incredulously.

"First and second," I correct. "But yes. Why does this surprise you?"

"Because I thought if there were any book in the Bible that you'd read every single word of, it would be that one."

"Hardy-har. I'm a sex addict. I get it."

He reaches for my hand, which I readily give him. "Did you miss me?" he asks.

"Of course," I reply. "Although I talked to you and saw you more while I was in Vegas than I did the week before I left, so..."

"Yeah, but I missed this." He lifts our hands and squeezes his knuckles against mine, stopping just before it becomes painful. "How was your massage last night?"

I roll my eyes up in my head. "Oh, my gosh! I can't even begin to describe to you."

"Try."

I laugh. "Okay... Well, as you know, it was more than just a massage. Two ladies came in. One was carrying this folding table thing, and the other had a basket full of champagne and strawberries. While they set up the table, I was told to undress and put on this robe. Then one of the ladies popped open the bottle of champagne and poured me a glass. I drank that and started another, which I drank while I ate a couple of strawberries. Then I was _really_ loose, so I didn't even care when they suggested I take off the robe. I was totally comfortable doing anything at that point. I lay face-down on the table. They placed hot towels over the parts of me that they weren't massaging, and then they each took one side of my body and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed..."

"Maybe we should wait until I'm not driving for you to finish this story," he says.

"Anyway, it was awesome. Then while one lady was massaging my back, the other lady refilled my champagne and brought me some more strawberries. I ate that whole dish of strawberries!" I admit guiltily.

"Did you drink the whole bottle of champagne, too?"

"No. Too much gives me a headache. So I stopped after the third glass. It was delicious, though."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it. I, uh, enjoyed the thought of it."

I squeeze his hand. "Then after they left, I put my clothes back on and got into bed, planning to read some of _Jane Eyre_ on my new e-reader, but I didn't get past the first paragraph before I was zonked."

"Sounds like a nice night."

"It was. Thanks. What'd you do after you hung up on me?"

He doesn't deny that he did, but he's relatively closed-mouthed about his evening activities. "Oh, you know. Typical Saturday night stuff. Laundry, ironing, last-minute sermon prep. I fell asleep in front of the TV. The usual."

"Hm," I reply noncommittally. "And how'd church go today?"

Exiting the highway and turning onto the street to get to my apartment, he says, "Wait a second... Aren't you going to tease me about 'extracurriculars'?"

Playing innocent, I say, "What? Oh. I don't know. I mean, there's no need to be crass, right? I don't want to embarrass you."

"Since when?"

I smile slyly. "Since now. It's kind of mean to tease you about it just to see if I can get you flustered." When he doesn't say anything, I ask, "Why? Do you want me to ask? I guess it's only fair, since I gave you a play-by-play of the massage."

"No! That's okay. It's just slightly out of character, that's all."

"Maybe your maturity is _rubbing off_ on me."

"And there it is."

I chuckle on my side of the dark vehicle. "Sorry, sorry. Couldn't let that one get away."

He pulls into the parking lot and stops next to my car. "I'll walk you in, but then I have to get home."

My heart drops. "Why?" I ask, as I slide down from my seat and land on the pavement.

He grabs my bag from the backseat and loops the strap over his shoulder. "It's late," he answers simply.

"So what? Tomorrow's your day off. And I have the day off, too, since I worked all weekend."

Following me up the stairs, he says, "Exactly. So we'll see each other tomorrow."

"Are you mad at me for teasing you about... you know?" I unlock my door and lead the way in.

"No." He goes straight to my bedroom, where he sets my bag on the bed. When he turns around to return to the living room, I'm blocking his way to the door. He smiles tightly. "You're tired. It's obvious from the way you acted at the airport."

"I'm really sorry about that," I say quickly, stepping closer to him and putting my arms around his neck. "That was a fluke. I was just happy to see you."

"Mm-hm." He allows me to kiss him softly on the lips.

"And I _was_ tired, but now I've gotten my second wind." On the verge of pleading with him, I implore, "Stay. Just for a little while."

He walks me backwards down the hall towards the living room. "Okay. But not in there," he says, referring to my bedroom.

"Fine."

In the living room, he takes off his coat, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I toss mine on top of his over the arm of the overstuffed chair and sit next to him on the couch. He puts his arm around my shoulders, gathering me close so that my head is resting against his chest. Almost immediately, my heartbeat slows in response to the calm thudding against my ear.

I focus on a shadow on the wall in order to keep myself calm as I say, "I've, uh, thought a lot about what you said last night." He doesn't say anything, so I continue. "And I have a confession to make." I rush to add, "It's nothing bad; not that kind of confession."

"Good. Wrong denomination, anyway."

My wobbly lips produce a weak smile. "But it's something I didn't realize until you described how you felt about me."

I stop to gather my thoughts (and my nerve), so he says, "Go on."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't rush me," I snap but immediately regret it. "Sorry. This is just kind of embarrassing." I inhale and on the exhale, I say, "I've never been in love with anyone before."

His response is silence.

"Well...?" I nudge him for a reaction.

He says, "Uh... No offense, but I'm waiting for you to tell me what this has to do with me. With us."

I pull away from him so I can see into his face. "Well, I didn't know what it was supposed to feel like or how I'd know! Until you explained it. And"—I hold one of his hands in both of mine—"I realized that I could say everything about you that you said about me... and then some. And I've been an idiot with a one-track mind."

"What are you saying, then?" he asks eagerly, his eyes sparkling.

I shake my head. "Before I say it, I want you to know this is scary as hell. Okay? I mean, scarier than anything I've ever done or said before, and I've had a rough year, so that's saying something. _And_ ," I continue when he turns sideways to face me and looks like he's about to interrupt, "when I say this, I want you to know who's saying it. I'm a person who's led a life that's far from clean, I'm not a model Christian, I'm scared to death of being judged, I don't cook, and I've never knitted a single thing in my life." He cocks his head at those last two statements. "But... I love you."

He grins. "I know."

The sappy string-quartet soundtrack playing in my head scratches to a halt. "What?"

"I know you do. Well... that doesn't sound right. I mean, I've suspected it for a while. I've just been waiting for you to figure it out."

When I simply stare and blink at him, he explains, "I've been praying for God to show me how to help you discover it for yourself. The Song of Solomon was truly divine inspiration at work. It hit me after you left for Vegas on Friday." He scoots closer to me. "I was kind of pouting about how the rest of the world has so many tricks available to them when it comes to courtship, but I'm hampered by all these _rules_. And I was listing the things that are off-limits to me, and when I got to sex and... porn... The Song of Solomon popped into my head. It's like Biblically-sanctioned porn. Erotic poetry that doesn't break The Rules."

His joy is contagious. "Yes!" I agree. "Then, after what you said during our call, I realized, if this isn't love, I don't know what is."

We grin at each other for a few seconds before I ask, "Are you scared?"

He looks surprised by my question. "No. You?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

When he opens his arms, I fall into them. "I just am. It seems like everything's happening so fast..."

"Not to me," he argues. "But I've, uh, probably loved you a lot longer than you've loved me."

That statement makes me pull back so I can look at his face.

"Just sayin'..." he trails off sheepishly.

There's no way for me to refute his claim, considering I don't know how long he's felt the way he feels about me, and he doesn't seem eager to pinpoint the date.

Further defending my fear, I say, "Well, we've spent more time apart than together since we had our first kiss, and now we've said, 'I love you,' and... and... I know what the next step is, and I'm just not sure I'm ready for it. I _know_ I'm not."

"Shh," he soothes, pulling me against his chest again. Rubbing my back, he urges, "Stay on _this_ step with me, just for a few minutes."

"Really?"

"Really."

## 36

# Unlikely Chaperone

"It's 6:30. We need to get moving."

"Nooo," I moan, resting my forehead against his chest. "You just got here!"

"I know, but I'm here to pick you up for the lock-in. We got distracted." As he strokes my hair, I become more relaxed and less motivated to move.

"I had a long day at work," I inform him. "I don't want to spend my Friday night with a bunch of—"

"Careful," he warns with a smile.

"—children of God," I finish safely. "As precious as they are. And I'm sure they will be. Or Justine. Or Tracy. Or Michael."

"That leaves just me," he states the obvious.

"Exactly. Just you."

"Too bad." When he sits up, I'm forced to do the same. "You can always pretend like all those other people aren't there, but they'd probably catch on that something's going on between us." He stands and adjusts his pants, pats down his hair, and re-zips his hoodie. "I'd be fine with that, but..."

"Please. Let's go," I say in a dead tone of voice.

If we're going to have that conversation again, I'd rather go to the lock-in and make popsicle-stick crosses with Tracy and twenty teenagers who think I'm as lame as she is. I grab my overnight bag from beside the front door. He takes it from me, even though it's light, and follows me from my apartment before waiting patiently while I lock the door.

"We'll spend all day together tomorrow," he promises. "It'll be delightfully painful."

His statement makes me laugh.

"There! That's better. We have to be positive and fun for the kids tonight."

My scowl makes a comeback as we walk out to the parking lot. "You're so naïve. Have you ever been to one of these things?"

"Sure. I used to love them when I was a teenager."

"Why?"

"Because..." he thinks about it for a second. "I got to hang out with my friends away from my parents, stay up all night, and... Oh." His face falls.

"Ta-da!" I trill. "Now you're getting it. They're going to want to stay up all night. And whose responsibility will it be to stay awake to make sure they don't get into any trouble? Ours. The lame grownups'."

"We'll take shifts so nobody has to stay up all night," he suggests, tossing my bag into the backseat next to his.

"We're still going to be exhausted tomorrow," I point out, getting into the passenger seat and buckling my seatbelt.

He slides behind the wheel and sighs. "Listen. If I'm completely honest, this isn't exactly at the top of the list of things I want to do tonight. But what's the point in being a grump about it?" When I merely glare back at him, he says, "You better watch it, or I'll kiss you in front of everyone."

I'm not sure whether the butterflies in my stomach are going crazy because I'd like that or because the prospect terrifies me. I decide it's the latter. "Please don't."

"Suddenly you're a prude?" he asks innocently.

"It's not about public displays of affection, and you know it."

"Oh, that's right; you're ashamed for everyone to know that you're seeing _me_." He's smiling as he points the Jeep in the direction of the church, but I know at least a small part of him believes that, no matter how much I've tried to convince him otherwise.

"I don't want to argue with you. I'm already in a bad enough mood."

"Well, I want everyone to know," he says.

"That I'm in a bad mood?" Two can play this game.

"That we're seeing each other. I'm not ashamed of it. We're not doing anything wrong. We're in love. It's a good thing."

"It's a _great_ thing," I agree wholeheartedly and emphatically, "until all the busybodies at church find out. Then we're under the microscope. We'll never have a private moment to ourselves; people will think it's their business to know our business; they'll ask us personal questions under the guise of 'Christian concern'; and your credibility will suffer due to your association with me."

He shakes his head. "I don't know where you get some of this."

"Jesus and Mary Magdalene," I mutter.

"Don't say that!" he snaps.

His outburst turns my head. He used to be so quiet and calm, but he's been short-tempered on several occasions lately. Hardly ever with me, though. With horror, I feel the blood drain from my face and tears prick my eyes.

"Sorry!" I snipe, to cover my emotions. "You don't have to yell at me."

He's immediately contrite. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, reaching over and tapping my knee with his forefinger. "But that comparison is offensive on so many levels."

"That's how people are going to see us," I maintain. "I'm not good enough for you. And they won't be shy about saying it."

"Then I'll politely disagree with them and kindly remind them that it's not their place to point out what they perceive to be other people's shortcomings."

"They'll simply say they're being 'fruit inspectors.'"

"I'm never going to live that one down, am I?"

"Probably not," I admit. "You should have never compared me to unripe fruit."

He sighs. "Forget it."

"Yeah, forget it. You're not going to change my mind."

I'm sick of this argument. At first, when I asked him if we could keep this new _thing_ quiet, he answered, "Of course," as if I had read his mind. And I was so relieved, because I know exactly what life will be like once everyone finds out. It'll be unbearable.

Even if he's right that no one will disapprove of our relationship (and he's soooo not right about that), they'll always be ten steps ahead of us. _"Are you going to get married? When are you going to get married? How many children do you think you'll have?"_ Etcetera, etcetera, ad nauseum. Screw that.

Despite all his talk about "staying on this step," things are moving fast enough as it is. We've hardly had any time to enjoy what's always the best part of any relationship: the beginning. All I want is some time to ourselves, while this is all new. Is that too much to ask?

"But it's wrong to hide it from everyone!" he cries after a few minutes of silence.

"I thought you said to forget it."

"I changed my mind," he says stormily, changing lanes. "It's not right to sneak around. Life's too short. Plus, people trust me to be upfront and honest."

"We're hardly sneaking around," I scoff. "Sheesh. You act like you're throwing pebbles at my apartment window every night. We're showing up at this lock-in together, for Pete's sake. But I think, especially after the football jersey incident at your house, we should keep a low profile. We don't want anyone getting the wrong idea."

"If we learned anything from that incident, it's that it's best to be transparent for just that reason. If we hide this from everyone now, when they find out—and they will—they'll wonder what we were hiding." He taps the heel of his hand against the top of the steering wheel for emphasis. "So, it's inevitable that people are going to believe what they want to believe, sooner or later."

"I choose later."

He rubs his face in frustration. "You are so stubborn!"

In an effort at peacemaking (a skill I've admittedly allowed to become rusty over the past several months), I offer magnanimously, "I'll make a deal with you: if someone comes right out and asks me about us, I won't lie. I'll tell them the truth."

"That much goes without saying, doesn't it?"

It seems he's already forgotten who he's dealing with. As if I don't know how to lie or have a problem lying. Well, he can cry and stomp his feet all he wants; I'm not giving in on this one. For a while. At least until I'm prepared to answer the pesky questions the way everyone's going to want me to answer them. And I'm nowhere close.

"There you are!" Justine's face brightens when Brice walks into the Bunkhouse, a huge one-room metal building adjacent to the church. It's been part of the property for as long as I can remember. The congregation uses it as a multipurpose event venue, but most of the time, it's monopolized by the Youth Group for Bible studies, Sunday school, Confirmation classes, and—that's right—lock-ins. Sometimes, if there was a conflict with a wedding reception or retirement party, Pastor Niedermeyer would host Bible studies at his house, but this is where I spent a lot of time during my teenage years.

It still smells the same: like cheap cologne, hairspray, pizza, and glue.

"Here I am," Brice confirms. "Are we late?"

That's when Justine sees me a few steps behind him. If it weren't so sad, it would be comical how fast her expression morphs from joy to barely-disguised repugnance. "Oh. Hey, Peyton," she mutters. I guess she's finished seeing me as a "blessing" for my coming to her rescue at the mixer a few weeks ago.

"Hey," I reply, my tone as bright as I can make it without sounding completely fake.

To answer Brice's question, she says, "No, you're not late. You're a whole two minutes early!" Then she laughs at her lame joke. "I was kind of hoping for a little more help with set-up, but..."

"Where are Tracy and Michael?" Brice asks, turning in a circle, taking in the faces of the kids already there, and waving at a few of them.

Before Justine can answer, he points to a freckled kid who looks like he woke up this morning with arms and legs two feet longer than the ones he went to bed with and doesn't know what to do with them. I don't recognize him from the mixer.

"Hey, Ethan. Are we on for a game of one-on-one after Bible study tonight? Somebody told me you're a kick-butt player. I think it was your mom, but we'll pretend it was a reporter from ESPN."

Ethan grins at him, "Yeah! I'll pwn you, Pastor!"

"Oh-ho! I don't think so!"

Justine raises her voice to be heard above the two of them. "Uh, after Bible study, we're going to do some crafts. But after that, during one of the free periods, maybe."

Brice turns his back to Justine and makes a silly face at Ethan, but his voice doesn't betray him as he says, "After crafts, then."

"Pastor, would you be a dear and run down to Cozzoni's to pick up the pizzas?" Justine asks now. She holds out a wad of cash, which he takes from her and jams into his hoodie pocket.

"Absolutely. Glad to be a blessing. Peyton, you wanna come with me?"

"No!" Justine objects quickly, snagging my elbow. "I need you to stay here with me," she tells me. "I need you to sort these beads by color and size for our art projects later. They're a jumbled mess, even though I just organized them a couple of weeks ago."

On the inside, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, but on the outside, I'm all smiles. "Sure!"

I stare down at the huge plastic case of beads and feel like groaning. There must be twenty thousand of them. And they're all mixed up, despite the rectangular compartments that are supposed to keep them separated. It's like someone shook the case, opened it, decided it wasn't messy enough, closed it, and shook it again.

"Great!" Justine enthuses. "Nikki will help you."

Nikki, another new face to me, looks less than thrilled at the prospect, but like me she seems completely intimidated by Justine, so she stands at the work counter next to me and gets to work.

Brice claps his hands together once. "Okay, then. I'll just recruit a couple of the kids to go with me. Where'd you say Tracy and Michael were, again?"

"I didn't," she replies. "Tracy's coming straight from parent-teacher conferences and should be arriving any minute now. Michael... I don't know where he is, actually." She puts her hands on her hips and bites her lower lip. "Hmm. I'll give his cell phone a buzz in a few if he doesn't show up. But what we really need is the food."

"Got it," he says. "I can take a hint. Ethan! Lisbeth! Come with me, please." They exit the building ahead of him as he walks backwards and mouths, _"Sorry"_ to me before turning around to catch up with the two teens.

I hear Lisbeth say to him as they're leaving, "Hey, Pastor. I'm sorry about your dad."

He puts his hand briefly on her shoulder and murmurs, "Thanks, Bethie. I'm sorry, too."

I smile and duck my head, then try to concentrate on the job I've been given. I don't want Justine to think I'm not even capable of something as rudimentary as bead-sorting. Fortunately, as soon as Brice is gone, she moves off, clapping her hands and ordering the kids milling around to start setting up folding chairs in a circle for Bible study.

That's when Nikki says quietly, "You got a crush on Pastor, or somethin'?"

I drop a pinch-full of beads onto the work island in front of us, and they scatter, rolling and dropping onto the concrete floor. "Shi—oot," I mutter, blushing and chasing after them.

Nikki smiles to herself. "Mm-hm. That's what I thought."

Now I have to decide what, if anything, I'm going to say. I assume my promise to Brice about being honest includes minors, although we didn't discuss it. He's not the type to allow for loopholes. Since Justine's out of earshot (and too busy proving to all of us that she doesn't need a megaphone), I determine it's safe to say, "Something like that."

Now my "helper" laughs. It's a deep, throaty chuckle, the laugh of someone much older than she must be, which I estimate to be about thirteen or so. "I can't believe you're admitting it," she says, holding one hand to her mouth as she continues to sort beads with the other.

"What do you mean?" I ask a touch defensively. "He's cute!"

"I know _that_ ," she says in her best _Well, duh_ voice. "All the older girls have crushes on him, but nobody admits it."

"Like who?" I try to keep my voice casual, but I'm curious. Plus I like this girl. She's not silly and giggly like some of the others, who are currently trying to attract every dog in the neighborhood with their high-pitched squeal-talking as they gather in a small group and flirt from afar with a trio of boys that I can already tell we're going to need to watch closely as the night progresses.

Nikki looks over her shoulder, then says from the corner of her mouth, "Justine. And that Tracy chick. That one"—she nods toward Justine—"shows off in front of him and laughs a lot. And Tracy just plays with her hair and stares at him when she thinks nobody's lookin'. But I'm lookin'."

I'm disappointed she didn't mention someone less obvious than Tracy or Justine. I already know about those two. Not that I want a bunch of women drooling over him, but it'd be good to know who my competition is.

"My mom thinks he's cute, too," Nikki reveals, "which is _so_ disgusting. I'm glad she's too old for him. I'd die of embarrassment if my mom was going out with Pastor. Oh, gosh!" she fans her face at the mere thought and laughs. "Seriously." Then she makes kissy sounds. "Ohhhh, Pastor!"

"Okay!" I say, glancing around anxiously to see if anyone's paying attention to us. "I'm sure his girlfriend doesn't call him 'Pastor,' anyway," I grumble while she continues to wheeze next to me.

She wipes her eyes. "Oh, yeah. That's right; he has a real name. Bri-ice." She makes it sound like a two-syllable taunt.

"But you don't need to call him that," I warn her. "You know, out of respect, you should stick to calling him 'Pastor.'"

"You're the one who brought up his first name," she points out.

"Yeah, well, forget I said anything."

While picking through the blue beads, she nonchalantly says, "I heard Justine call him his first name one day, when she thought nobody was around."

"What are you, a secret agent?" I tease, unable to hide my amusement.

She laughs behind her hand again. "No! I just notice things. I don't know... people forget I'm around or something."

"I used to be like that, too," I confide, barely managing to leave off the "when I was your age," phrase that would surely expose me as an old fogey.

"I like it," she says a little too defiantly. "I know a lot about people that they don't realize I know." She leans even closer to me. "Like, I don't mean to hurt your feelings, but I think Pastor already has a girlfriend. I heard him talking to someone on his cell phone one day, and he was using _that_ voice. You know, the voice guys use when they think they're being cool...?"

"Flirting?"

"Yeah, like that. It was weird. Something about touching a cow." She shrugs. "Maybe that's a joke from back in the day, when he was younger."

Now I laugh out loud, drawing the attention of several people across the room. I hip-check Nikki lightly. "You should probably be careful about eavesdropping on people's private conversations. It's not very polite."

"But it's fun," she says, a twinkle in her dark eyes.

"Still... don't you think he has the right to some privacy?"

"He was the one talking so loud on his phone that everyone in the world could hear him. I wasn't hiding or anything," she says. "The point is, I wouldn't get my hopes up about him. Mom says he needs to get married before people start thinking he's... you know..." her voice drops to a whisper. "Gay."

Just as I'm cracking up again and trying to right a newly-sorted tray of beads I've nearly overturned, Brice walks in, carrying a stack of steaming pizza boxes.

He beams at Nikki and me on his way past. "Sounds like you two have the right idea. Already having fun." He balances the boxes on one hand and holds up the other one. "High five, Nikki!"

She obliges half-heartedly, but as soon as he moves on, she rolls her eyes at me. "He might be cute, but he's kind of a dork. I can tell you're too cool for him, girl."

## 37

# Locked In

Unfortunately, by eleven o'clock, the "cool girl" is stifling yawns behind her hand during the movie most of the girls have decided to watch while the guys play basketball on the half-court across the parking lot. I blink the water from my eyes after a particularly intense yawn and force myself to vacate the beanbag chair that's swallowing me. It smells like stale farts, anyway, so I make a mental note not to sit in it again. Teenagers are gross.

Cold, fresh air. That's what I need. I slip out the side door and prop my butt against the freezing metal wall. After a few deep breaths, I feel more awake, and I don't have that rank smell stuck in my nostrils anymore, but I still don't know how I'm going to stay up all night to keep an eye on these kids.

Michael was a no-show, so there are only four grownups for eighteen kids. It's not overwhelming when everyone's gathered in one place, but when they start to scatter and wander the property in their cliques, it's nerve-wracking. The four of us are constantly doing head counts and taking turns looking for the wanderers. I can't help feeling some pride at the fact that I'm the fastest at finding them. I know all the hiding spots from when I was in their shoes. They think they're so clever, too. Ha!

I'm just about to go back inside when I hear approaching voices, voices that have only recently deepened and still occasionally crack when their owners get excited, like now.

"You can't do anything without fouling!"

"That's called defense, doofus!"

"Hey," Brice interjects lightly, "no name-calling, guys, all right?" To soften the scolding, he makes his voice break on the last word, which gets the boys laughing as they turn the corner and come into view.

Ethan sees me first. "Oh, hey, Peyton. Whatcha doin' out here alone?" he asks, befuddled.

"Just getting some air," I answer. "Who won?"

"The cheaters!" a smiling boy named William yells. "That's right!" he says to their objections. "All y'all are cheaters!"

Brice opens the door and holds it as he waves the boys inside. "Shh... the girls are watching a movie. Get something to drink quietly."

"Are you one of the cheaters?" I inquire of him as the last boy passes between us and into the building.

"Absolutely not." He peeks inside to see if anyone's paying attention. Obviously seeing no one, he closes the door. "I don't need to cheat. I still have about half a foot on most of those guys."

"Except Ethan."

"Except Ethan. That kid's going to be a giant." He towers over me as if demonstrating. "Not enjoying the movie?" he asks, nudging my forehead with his cold nose.

"I was falling asleep," I admit. "And my beanbag smelled bad."

He pulls his head back. "What?!"

"The blue beanbag chair. It reeks. I recommend Febreeze."

"I recommend you stop stinking it up," he counters.

When I slap at his chest, he snickers, grabs my wrist, and kisses my palm. "Other than the stinky furniture and being tired, are you having a good time?"

"Surprisingly, yes."

"Told you so."

"Don't," I order him, putting my finger against his mouth. He grins. I have to fight an overwhelming urge to suck on his lower lip right out here in plain view of anyone who comes through the door or around the side of the building. I whisper, "You wanna go somewhere and make out?"

He laughs. "Uh, yeah! But... it's probably not a good idea."

"Nobody'll miss us for five minutes," I persuade him. "I know the perfect place..."

"We should get back in there," he states, glancing quickly around us but then nuzzling my ear.

I back away from him. "Meet me in the storage shed in five minutes. You go check on the guys, then quietly slip away when no one's looking. Or tell everyone you need to get something in the shed. It's the truth."

Nodding his head once, he opens the side door. "Okay," he whispers to me, shooing me in the direction of the shed. As he steps into the building, he bellows, "WHO'S FALLING ASLEEP?!" which results in some shrieks and a few "Pastor!"s, including a flirty one from Justine.

It ends up being more like ten minutes, but when he finally slips into the shed, he doesn't waste time grabbing me around the waist and pulling me against him, placing his lips eagerly on mine. I put my cold hands on his neck.

"Mmmphh!" he muffles against my mouth, but he doesn't break away. On the contrary, he tugs me tighter to him and thrusts his tongue into my mouth.

_Pace yourself,_ I silently coach, trying not to get too carried away. This is as far as it goes, and I know it.

Finally, we separate a millimeter. "What are you supposed to be getting in here?"

"Pottery paint," he answers, reaching onto a shelf over my head and pulling down several plastic bottles. He tosses them into a laundry basket on the floor near our feet and repeats the process, all the while placing light kisses on my cheeks, eyelids, nose, and lips. When the shelf is empty, he puts his arms around me again and resumes his previous deep kisses.

"I'm really excited about tonight," he breathes next to my ear after a few more minutes.

I shiver and ask, "Why?"

"Because we get to spend the night together. I'm thinking of having a lock-in every Friday night."

I plant a kiss on his jaw. "People might start to catch on."

"So?"

Instead of answering him, I push him gently away. "You'd better take that paint before someone comes looking for you and finds us."

He steps back. "Not yet," he mutters. His baggy basketball shorts aren't as baggy as they were a few minutes ago.

"Oops. Sorry," I say, tittering into my hand.

Stiffly, he bends over and picks up the laundry basket. "It's okay." He holds the basket in front of him. "I should be fine by the time I get back there and have to set this down."

We laugh about that for a minute before he reaches up and pulls the string to turn off the single light bulb in the middle of the shed. "See you in a few."

After he leaves, I stand in the darkness, feeling like I'm lit up from the inside.

When I get back to the Bunkhouse, Tracy, meek as ever, approaches me.

"Hey, I was wondering if it would be okay if I took the first sleep shift. Justine and Pastor are okay with it, but Pastor said you might want to rock, paper, scissors me for it. Rough day?"

He did, huh?

"No, I'm fine," I say, actually meaning it. There's nothing like a good make-out session to get the blood pumping. "You're the one who hung out with kindergartners all day and had parent-teacher conferences before coming here. You should sleep first."

She smiles shyly. "Thanks. I'm beat."

"Don't mention it."

For what it's worth. I don't think she's going to get much sleep. I pat her on the shoulder and rejoin Justine, Pastor, and the kids.

"What're we doing?" I whisper to Nikki as I take a seat next to her on the floor.

She leans over and murmurs, "Bible charades."

"I thought we were going to paint pottery."

"Kiln's busted."

"Peyton!"

At the mention of my name, I look up sharply. Brice waves me over. "You're on my team."

He and Justine take turns choosing teammates until we have slightly even teams. She argues that she should have an extra team member since we have two adults on our team, one of which is an expert in the Bible (hint: it's not me).

Brice readily agrees, saying, "I'll go easy on you," which makes her giggle like an idiot.

Nikki nudges me as the other team gets to work on their first answer. "Told ya," she says, nodding toward Justine.

I smile down into my lap. "Yeah, she's not very subtle."

"Does that mean, 'smart?'" Nikki asks, which makes me laugh out loud.

"Peyton, Nikki, pay attention!" our team captain implores us. "If they can't get it, we have a chance to steal a point."

"Who came up with the answers?" I ask, continuing to ignore the action up front.

"Tracy," he answers shortly, without looking at me. "Shh!"

"Mm-mm. He did _not_ just shush you!" Nikki mutters.

"Yes, he did," I say, pretending to be insulted. I grab a napkin from a nearby table and start tearing it into pieces, scrunching the paper into tiny balls, and tossing them at his head. Soon, Nikki gets in on it, but she's a much better aim than I am, so she lands a few. When he turns to glare playfully at us, she hides the napkin in her lap and innocently looks up at the ceiling.

"If you don't want to play..." he begins warningly.

"I don't," I reply. "But no one asked me before recruiting me."

"Me neither," Nikki agrees. "This is boring."

It beats another session of Bible study, though, so I tune back in. Finally someone guesses, "Noah's Ark," to which Brice says, "Darn! I had it! And you were almost out of time!"

"Dork," Nikki proclaims.

"Shh," I hiss while I laugh at her.

"I think Peyton wants to go first for our team," Brice says loudly. "Wooo, Peyton!" He gets the other people on the team, Nikki included, to start clapping and chanting my name.

I stand and make my way to the front, where the bowl of paper slips awaits. "Traitor," I grumble, and narrow my eyes at Nikki as I grab an answer.

I unfold the paper and sigh. _The Apostles' Creed_. It's all I can do not to curse under my breath. I have no idea how I'm going to act this out, so I immediately say so.

Brice encourages, "Just start with the basics. You know, how many words, blah, blah, blah..."

"Time starts now!" Justine trills annoyingly.

I signal for "three words," then stand there.

"Well?" Brice prods.

I shrug. "I honestly have no clue."

"You don't know what it is, or you don't know how to act it out?"

I shoot him a dirty look. "I don't know how to act it out," I say through clenched teeth.

"No talking!" Justine scolds us gleefully. I want to hit her. "Do you forfeit?"

"NO!" Brice immediately answers on behalf of the entire team. "Come on! You're not even trying," he accuses me. I think his intent is to be encouraging, but it comes off more like a lecture.

The rest of our team is just watching the two of us go back and forth.

Finally, I signal that the first word is a small word, and he shouts, "A! The!" So I point to him.

Then everyone starts chiming in. "The Ten Commandments!" "The Lord's Prayer!" "The Lord's Supper!" "The Last Supper!" As if I couldn't act out any of those. Der!

"We need another word!" Brice states the obvious.

Nikki says, "You think?"

He grins at her and pushes her shoulder, then sticks out his tongue.

"Time's up!" Justine's more than happy to announce.

I throw my hands in the air and bat the slip of paper away from me. "The Apostle's Creed! How the heck?"

Brice slaps his forehead. "Oh! Well, you could have—" My expression stops him cold, though. "Never mind. Good try. At least no one on the other team knew it, either."

"She didn't give us a chance to guess," Ethan points out. "I think we should get the point, anyway."

"He has a _point_ ," Justine cracks.

"Oh, come on!" I object. "You guys didn't know it any more than my team did!"

"How do you know?" she maintains. "We should have at least gotten one guess. We might have gotten lucky!"

"That would be a first for at least one of you," I say under my breath.

Brice steps in. "All right, all right! It's a game; it's supposed to be fun!" He holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Since we technically didn't follow the rules, we'll forfeit the point. That makes it two-zip."

"Whatever," I grouse, retaking my seat. Stratfords don't like to lose. Especially to perky, bossy, blonde, holier-than-thou flirts.

For the rest of the game, I sit in silence. I can tell it's irritating Brice, particularly when it's his turn, and he knows I know the answer, but I refuse to participate. It's a stupid game. And Tracy stinks at coming up with answers that are fun to act out. The kids are getting tired and cranky; some of the girls are downright emotional. The only two people really into it are Brice and Justine. They're laughing and giving each other suggestions for the ones that have everyone else stumped.

When it's clear the game is breaking up, since half of our players are wandering off or burrowing into their sleeping bags, I roll my eyes and stand up, turning my back to Brice and Justine. I can't watch them another second.

Nikki's right there with me. "Those two need to get a life," she states definitively. Then she yawns. "Unless something really good happens really fast, I'm goin' to bed," she says.

While we pick at a fruit tray on one of the tables, her eyes twinkle, and she flashes me a secretive smile. "A cat fight between you and Justine would be interesting."

"This is a church event," I reply before catching myself. "I mean, why would I even want to?"

Nikki's hand moves in front of her mouth as she snickers. "Cuz she's trying to steal your boyfriend."

By the look on her face, I realize, _She knows_. Now I have to figure out how and how much.

I'm just about to play dumb, despite knowing I'm caught, when she reveals, "I saw you two outside earlier. I thought Pastor saw me too, but I guess not. Or else he wouldn't have been cuddling up to you so close."

"You were _spying_?" I ask, but I can't even muster the proper level of indignation. I'm too tired. And annoyed that my big secret lasted a measly month. Isn't that just the way, though? When I _want_ to be found out, nobody gets it. When I don't want all to be revealed, it's like some huge conspiracy to flush it out.

Nikki defends herself, "You guys were right out in the open. Coming around the corner of the building and minding my own business isn't 'spying.'"

Thankfully, she's keeping her voice down. And a couple of loud boys playing air hockey are providing enough audio cover that nobody can hear us unless they're standing right next to us.

"I didn't _want_ to see you guys smooching, okay? Guh-ross. Plus," she continues, "I swear Pastor saw me. He looked right at me before I ducked back around the building."

"Okay. Just... keep it down."

"Why is it a secret?" she whispers, biting into a wedge of pineapple.

"It's not a _secret_ ," I protest, and when she raises her eyebrow at me, I explain, "It's just not something I want everyone to know yet."

"So, a secret, in other words?" she presses. "Does your mom know?"

I pick up a grape and roll it between my hands. "No..."

"Then it's a secret."

Shit! I can't imagine talking to a grownup like this when I was her age. I didn't say anything more than, "Hi," half the time, even if one of them tried to engage me in conversation.

"I thought you said you were going to bed," I hint, popping the grape into my mouth.

"Why? So you and Pastor can go make out in the shed?"

My eyes practically pop out of my head as I suck the grape down my throat. I gag for a few seconds but manage to dislodge it myself and swallow it whole without any embarrassing Heimlich intervention, as Nikki looks on in amusement. After a couple of subtle coughs that I hope don't draw too much attention to me, I look around, then hiss, "You know about that, too?"

"I do now," she wheezes behind her hand.

Ah, fuck. I just fell for the oldest trick in the book. A favorite with TV cops: guess, and see what kind of reaction you get. Well, I gave her one, that's for sure.

I close my eyes. "Well played.{" I try to ignore the knot in my stomach. Or maybe it's just that grape, sitting down there like a stone.

"Is he a good kisser?"

"Hey!"

I jump like a popcorn kernel as Brice comes up behind me and puts a hand on my shoulder. He laughs. "Gosh. Didn't mean to scare you. Did you see that?" he asks Nikki. They laugh at me. Finally, he remembers what he came over here for. "Oh, listen. Since so many of the kids are actually going to sleep, you can hit the hay if you want. You seemed... tired during the game."

Why does he always have to put the best spin on everything? Why doesn't he just call me out, like a normal person would, and accuse me of pouting like an immature brat? No, he has to be all diplomatic about it. Because everybody has a good excuse for bad behavior. _"She must be tired."_

I dismiss his offer. "Tracy hasn't been given much time to sleep."

He waves me off. "Justine and I can handle this."

"Uh oh," Nikki says softly, dismissing herself from the table and our presence.

"Was it something I said?" he asks playfully, before sniffing his underarms. "I don't _think_ I stink."

"Cute."

"What?"

"Why don't you send Justine to bed?" I question him.

He looks like a man who knows he's stepping into a trap but doesn't know what else to do or say when he answers, "Because she said she's not tired?"

"I'm sure she's not."

When he puts his hands on his hips and just stares down at me, waiting for me to explain, I sigh and mumble, "Never mind." I don't want to argue with him and risk being overheard. Louder, I say cheerfully and as if I'm reading a cue card, "Thanks, Pastor. I _am_ tired and would like to go to bed now. Goodnight!" I pivot on my toes and stalk to my overnight bag, which I pluck from the floor and take into the girls' bathroom.

Let me just make myself clear here. I'm _not_ threatened by Justine. I'm not jealous of her looks, her dorkiness, her bossiness, or her know-it-all-ness. I am, however, aware that she and Brice can relate to each other in a way that he and I can't. They're kindred abstaining adults (voluntary or not) in a world that takes a view more similar to mine on the issue (lighten up!). They're both dedicated to the church and its mission and proud of their roles in it. She'd make an awesome pastor's wife. I bet she knows how to make every kind of Jell-O salad under the sun and even delights in inventing new ones in her spare time, of which she has precious little, because she's so devoted to the church and its youth.

But he's already told me she makes him uncomfortable, so I believe that he wants to be with me, not her. Otherwise, he would have been with her a long time ago. Lord knows she's given him plenty of openings.

While changing into my fleece shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, I think, _Enjoy it while it lasts, Justine._ Because it's not going to take long before Nikki's knowledge hits the church newsstands.

## 38

# Bracing for Disappointment

We're both exhausted, but at least I got _some_ sleep. In a sleeping bag. On a concrete floor. But it was something. When Brice wakes me up by nudging at my shoulder with his foot, most of the kids who had slept are beginning to stir. I smell pancakes and sausage (Justine's work—the woman is a freaking machine), but I'm too tired to eat. Brice's eyes are so bleary, it looks like he's been crying. I don't think he's having fun anymore.

The last kid is barely seated in his parents' car before Brice is behind the wheel of his. I think he'll drive me home without _me_ if I take a second longer to get in. That's when I realize how stupid it was for him to have taken me to the lock-in. Why didn't I drive my own car? I feel awful that he has to take me home and drive all the way back to his own house on zero sleep.

So when we get to my place, I say, "Hey, why don't you come upstairs for a while and get some shut-eye?"

He slumps over the wheel and laughs weakly. "Good one."

"What?" I put my hand on his back. "I'm seriously worried about you driving home."

Reclining his seat, he lies back, his arm across his eyes. "I'll just take a quick catnap out here, then go home."

"You're not sleeping in your cold car in a parking lot twenty feet away from my apartment!"

"I'm halfway there already."

"Are you that afraid of me?"

He moves his arm and cracks a red eye at me. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm not going to do anything naughty to you while you're sleeping. You can even have my bed all to yourself. I'll crash on the couch for a few hours and watch TV."

"That never even crossed my mind, but now I _am_ worried that you thought of it. And that you thought I was worried about it."

"You're delirious." I unbuckle his seatbelt and take the keys from the ignition. "Come on. Consider it payback for when you came to rescue me downtown."

His brow furrows. "Are you sure? Frankly, I do kind of want to puke at the thought of driving home right now, even if it's only twenty minutes away."

"Then get your butt upstairs. The sooner you stop sitting here debating what the _proper_ thing to do is, the sooner you can be asleep."

We trudge into the building and up the stairs, jokingly supporting each other and laughing at how lame we are that we're incapable of pulling a simple all-nighter. When we get inside, he says, "Now, at my place, you got a shower, a bed, pajamas, and laundry service. Am I going to get the same treatment here?"

I grab a towel from the linen closet and toss it at him. "Sure. If you don't mind sleeping in really tight, short clothes. I might even have something lacy for you to wear."

He hands the towel back to me as he passes me in the hall. He affectionately pats me on the head. "Never mind. I'll shower after I sleep. And I'll just wear whatever I'm wearing." Practically lunging for the bed, he sits on the edge of it as he takes off his shoes. He gives it an experimental bounce. "I can tell I'm going to like this bed."

"I like it," I confirm, trying not to let my mind go _there_. "It's soft."

He crawls up to the pillows and buries his face in one of them. "It smells good too," he muffles into it. Then he grudgingly asks, "Do you want your pillow?"

"You've earned it," I assure him. "I don't think I've drooled on it too much since I washed my sheets last."

"Don't care, either way," he slurs sleepily, as he clutches it to his chest.

I pull the covers back and over him.

"This is definitely what Heaven is like," he states confidently with his eyes closed. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Less than a minute later, he's out.

I know it's creepy, but I stand there a long time watching him sleep. It's not like I often get the chance. I realize it may never happen again, especially after everyone knows. They'll be scrutinizing us, waiting for us to do something indecent. But these are extenuating circumstances. If he had gotten a single minute of sleep last night, he would have found a way to make it back to his own house, for propriety's sake, if nothing else.

As it is, I'm not sure how long he'll let himself snooze before he feels honor-bound to retreat to the parsonage. But I definitely like how he looks in my bed. Even fully clothed.

Finally, I force myself to stop tracing the lines of his face with my eyes, to stop picturing the warm, firm skin under his hoodie, and to exit the bedroom, closing the door softly behind me.

I take up residence on the couch, where I fall asleep watching what passes nowadays for Saturday morning cartoons.

The sound of the shower wakes me. My first thought is, "Oh, crap! I hope none of my bras were hanging up to dry in there." (It's amazing how things that I never thought were a big deal with other guys suddenly carry a lot more weight). Then I mentally slap the side of my head for caring about something so trivial when something so sexy is happening just on the other side of that door.

If that were any other boyfriend, I'd be stripping right now, leaving a trail of clothes behind me as I hurried to join him in the steamy shower. But alas. Because despite his humble statements to the contrary, he's more than just a guy with whom I'm romantically involved. He's an office. A symbol. A role model. A moral leader.

I think back to what Nikki said to me before she got into her mom's car. She flashed me a smile and said, "No pressure."

Nobody else knew what she was talking about, but I knew exactly what she meant. Brice had wryly remarked, "You two really hit it off. You already have inside jokes?"

I nodded and watched her ride off. "Just one big one."

"It's nice to see her come out of her shell a bit," he said as he walked away.

But thinking of Nikki reminds me that I need to talk to him now that he's not loopy with sleep deprivation. I'm sure the first thing she told her mom was, "Pastor's not gay, Mom; I saw him making out with Peyton Stratford," or something equally irreverent, as is her style. And tomorrow at church, Nikki's mom will say something in passing about "his girlfriend" to him when she shakes his hand on the way out, and the people nearby will hear her. They'll think—or even say—"Peyton Stratford? Kent and Peg's daughter? The chubby one?" (Once a chubby girl, always a chubby girl.)

Then they'll start to think more about me and remember things. "Didn't we have prayers for her a few months ago? She had a baby, right?" "Yeah, but the baby died." Then whispered, "She wasn't married, you know." "Pastor's dating _her_? What happened to Tracy Plucker?" "Not Tracy; Justine. Now, _she'd_ make a lovely pastor's wife! But Peyton Stratford? I don't think so." "Must be after one thing, if you know what I mean." "He better not be!" "Well, what else could he see in her? She's certainly not marriage material!"

"Hey, storm cloud. It's not morning anymore, so you can cheer up."

Aw, darn. I thought he'd at least do me the honor of parading in front of me with only a towel wrapped around his waist, but he's dressed when he emerges from the bathroom.

I unclench my jaw and smile at him. "How do you feel?"

"Like a new man. I hope you don't mind, but I snooped around and found a new toothbrush in a bathroom drawer. I didn't want to wake you up to ask."

I sit up and stretch my arms over my head. Around a yawn, I reply, "That's fine. I'm going to freshen up. Then I need to talk to you about something."

He wipes at some toothpaste in the corner of his mouth. "Sounds scary."

I pat his butt on my way past. "Not scary. Help yourself to whatever food you can find, if you're hungry."

After a quick shower, shave, and lengthy session with my own toothbrush, I emerge to find him sitting backwards on one of my dining chairs. He's eating a Pop Tart and watching TV.

"What _is_ this?" he asks, crumbs spraying from his lips.

I squint at the screen. " _Real Housewives of..._ someplace stupid."

He chews and swallows. "It's crazy!"

"Yeah. I don't know how people can watch that stuff. I feel dumb just being in the same room with it."

He takes the hint and turns it off. Brushing crumbs from his hands, he asks, "So, what's up?"

I plop into the large armchair nearest him and drape my legs over one arm. "Nikki knows about us. She saw us."

Unable to contain his smile, he confirms what I've already suspected. "I know. I saw her see us."

"Did you do that on purpose?" I ask what I've been wondering since Nikki told me.

He regretfully shakes his head. "No. Didn't think of it, but it worked out okay."

Of course he's glad. He's convinced the church will throw a freaking love parade for us. He has no idea what he's opened himself up to.

"Are you happy now?"

"About us? Very. Never happier," he answers.

After I finish smirking at his intentional misunderstanding of my rhetorical question, I stop and think about it. "Really? Never?"

He nods. "Definitely."

I will myself not to get sidetracked. "That's nice, but—"

His laugh cuts me off. "That's your reaction to my statement? 'That's nice, but'?"

I laugh at myself but try to recover a stern tone. "I'm trying to make a point here. Stop distracting me."

"Stop being so focused on making your point," he retorts. "Why don't you just enjoy what we have? It's pretty amazing, if only you'd allow yourself to experience it without worrying about things you can't control."

"It's not going to last," I say quietly, looking intently at my foot.

He stands, swings his leg over the seat of the chair, and places the chair under the table. Holding his hand out to me, he pulls me up when I take it. He brings me to his chest and gazes down into my face.

"All the more reason to enjoy it while it does. Stop trying to brace yourself for disasters that may never happen."

"They always happen, though."

"There are a lot of things in life to be sad about. But what's happening now, right this second, you and me together, was just a prayer a few months ago. And now it's a reality. And I'm thrilled." He kisses my knuckles. "I don't want to ruin it by thinking about how it could be better or what could happen to make it worse. Does that make sense?"

"Yes, but..."

He drops his head back and makes a frustrated, gurgling sound in his throat.

"I wish you'd stop preaching at me like one of your catechumens and just kiss me."

Lowering his head, he says, "Oh. That _is_ better," and obliges me.

## 39

# Authority Issues

Fuzzy socks? Check. Fleece blanket? Check. Shapeless, baggy pajamas? Check check. Mopey face? I consult the mirror. Check, as well. I'm ready to settle in for a night of staring at my cell phone.

It's Monday night. I should be hanging out with Brice on his night off, not waiting for him to call. I could call him, I suppose, but if he's too busy to call me, then I don't want to bother him by calling him. This twisted logic somehow makes perfect sense to me.

I'm feeling utterly vulnerable. It's a vulnerability brought on by neglect. Brice has been distracted and consumed by work lately. The petty—and not-so-petty—issues that he's used to dealing with as the pastor of a moderately-sized congregation are getting to him more than they ever used to, and he's not handling it with his former diplomacy and calm understanding, which I had always assumed were ingrained personality traits but now know are skills he's developed and honed over the years. They're not coming as easily to him nowadays. And people are noticing.

He's also been displaying an impatience that previously didn't exist or had lain dormant in his disposition for long enough that I'd never noticed it. He has a vision for what he wants the church to be, and he's becoming frustrated that the people who can help make it happen—namely, elders like my father—aren't cooperating or sharing that vision. When I try to console him and explain that traditional people (as Lutherans tend to be) are slow to come around to new ideas, he mutters about "the Dark Ages" and feeling powerless. I've told him he needs to make it seem like his ideas are their ideas, and even then it'll take them a while to adjust, but he doesn't like that answer, either.

Tonight, he's at an impromptu elders' meeting, where he's trying to convince them that the answer to the church's recent cash flow problem could rest in rehabbing foreclosed homes and renting them to low-income church members. If they agree, it will have to go before the other church governing bodies and a vote before the entire congregation. In other words, this is the beginning of a marathon that I've noticed he's treating like a sprint and, therefore, setting himself up for more frustration.

Church business isn't the only thing frustrating Brice right now with its slow progress. Our relationship is moving at a maddeningly sluggish pace, in his view. He hasn't come right out and said so, but it's in the set of his jaw and the restlessness in his eyes when the weeks continue to pass without anyone else catching onto us, and I continue to refuse to take out a billboard on the topic.

So tonight I sit alone. I've already caught up with Jen and Mitzi on the phone, where I made sure we focused on their lives and studiously avoided the subject of my own love life. They both know that Brice and I are spending a lot of time together (or were), but I haven't revealed the depth of our relationship. They think it's just more of the same companionship we shared when I was pregnant with Secret. I feel like once I tell one person, even someone very close to me, I'll have no leverage with Brice when it comes to keeping it from the rest of the people we know.

After hanging up with Mitzi, I cross to my desk, where I grab my sketch pad and a nice, sharp pencil. Wooden, not mechanical. I take a seat at the dining table and aimlessly doodle on the first blank sheet I flip to, which is not necessarily the first blank sheet in the pad. I'm extremely unorganized that way. Paper producers love me; environmentalists sneer at the mere idea of me.

On this blank, random page, fairly close to the end of the pad, I incorporate my initial haphazard hash marks into a sketch of the Gerber baby. Her little rosebud lips make me smile. Until they make me cry.

I hurl my pencil at the wall and put my head down on my arms. Sobbing, I sit like that until one of my hands falls asleep. Then I sit up and wipe my eyes and nose on my pajama sleeve. I shake the pins and needles from my hand.

Pointing at my phone, I yell, "Ring, damn it!" Then, in case I don't already feel crazy enough, I tear the picture of the Gerber baby from the sketchpad, wad it up, bite down on it as hard as I can, and throw it at the front door, shouting, "FUUUUUUUUUUCK!" at the top of my lungs, making sure to drag it out for as long as I have breath.

When Brice's ring comes from my phone almost immediately after I've closed my mouth, I flinch.

I clear my throat and my sinuses before answering as normally as I can, "Hello?"

"Uh, is everything okay?"

Wary, I ask, "Why? Are your Pastor Senses tingling?"

_Someone's using profanity... to the sacristy!_

He chuckles. "Not exactly. I'm standing outside your door and just heard something terrifying."

Of course he did.

"Oh."

"So? Are you going to let me in?"

I'm so emotionally drained that I can hardly move. I wish I had keyless entry for my front door.

"I guess," I sigh, mustering the strength to stand up, but only because I'm so glad he's here. I just wish he had arrived at a better time. Like an hour ago, before I had transformed into a crazed freak wearing men's pajamas and leaking from all the mucus membranes on my face.

A glance in the mirrored coat rack next to my front door confirms that I look like a psych ward escapee, so as soon as I open the door, I turn my back to him and hurry toward the bathroom. His reflexes are too fast, though. He grabs my arm and spins me around.

"What's— Oh! What's the matter?!" If he weren't directing that horrified look at my face, I'd laugh.

I drag one of my sleeves under each of my eyes to try to remove the displaced makeup. "Nothing. It's nothing. I'm just having a bad day."

"I'll say." He drags me to the couch, where he sits and tugs me down into his lap. "What happened?"

I shake my head. It's not going to translate into words, sentences, and paragraphs. There's too much raw emotion feeding it. "Never mind." I lean my back against his chest and rest the back of my head on his shoulder. "I'm glad you're here." I want to ask him what he heard out there (besides the obvious last word), but I'm afraid to know, so I simply close my eyes and try to breathe myself back to normal. When I feel almost completely composed, I turn sideways and ask, "Do I still look scary?"

He smiles. "Somewhat."

I get up and move toward the hallway. "I'll be right back." In the bathroom, I soak a washcloth with hot water, wring it out, and place it on my face. It feels great. My pores open wide, soaking up the steam. The cloth cools, and I scrub the last of the makeup from my eyes and cheeks, creating my own personal Shroud of Turin on the white square of Egyptian cotton.

When I return to the living room, Brice is no longer on the couch. He's standing behind it, holding the now-un-crumpled Gerber baby picture. He looks from the picture to me, his eyes asking more questions in that one second than he could possibly pose aloud in an hour.

"That's... Anyway..." My face starts to collapse again, but I quickly choke it down. "I always pictured her that way," I explain quickly and matter-of-factly.

"She's cute," he comments, flattening the paper against his thigh.

"It's the baby from the baby food commercials."

"I know. You drew it perfectly."

"I've drawn it about a thousand times," I admit. "On everything. I throw away about fifty Post-It notes a week with that face on them. The cleaning crew at the gallery probably thinks I'm insane."

After folding the paper into eighths, he shoves it into his back pocket and holds out his hand to me. I step over to him and take it. "You're not insane," he promises. "Trust the former prison chaplain when he says that."

"Okay." I put my head against his chest and listen to his thumping heart. "If you say so."

"I do. And"—he takes a deep breath—"I told your mother and father as much when I talked to them yesterday."

"What?" I breathe. "You talked to Mom and Dad yesterday? About me?"

"Yes. After church, they confronted me about some 'rumors' they've been hearing. About us."

Chagrined, I ask, "Really?" Because of what happened at the lock-in, I've been on high alert for knowing looks at church, but I haven't seen any, so I've assumed Nikki's kept our secret. Neither one of my parents has asked _me_ about it.

He wraps his arms around me and squeezes. "Really."

"What did you say?"

"I told them the truth." He hastily adds, "Which is what we agreed to do if asked, remember? And when your mom said she was worried about you, I tried to reassure her. I told her you use profanity and lying and sarcasm as defense mechanisms, and that maybe if she and your dad stopped treating you like a leper, you'd open up to them more."

"You said that?" I swallow painfully. Shamefaced, I admit, "I _am_ a profane, sarcastic liar. But," I tack on sulkily, "you're a blunt, tactless goober. Sometimes."

"Guilty."

"Did you yell at them?"

"Did you want me to?"

"Yes. They're being jerks lately." I don't elaborate, because he already knows about the specifics, the latest of which was a family gathering for Jason's birthday that they "forgot" to invite me to.

"Then, yes, I yelled at them. I shouted so loudly that people crowded in the hallway to try to see what was happening."

"Good."

"And the very best part is," he says lightly, so lightly that it makes me look up at him, knowing he's trying to sell me something I may not want to buy, "they're happy for us."

Standing in the middle of the room soon becomes tiring and awkward, especially when I can tell he's leaving a lot out. This is going to be a long conversation, I'm afraid. I lead him to the couch.

"Happy. As in hugs and kisses, slaps on the back? That kind of happy? Or, 'Oh! We're so happy for you!' fakey-fakey happy?"

He taps his chin and purses his lips. Finally, he admits, "I couldn't tell. It would have been handy if you'd been there to interpret for me."

I ignore his reference to my absence from church yesterday. I was tired. Everyone needs a day off now and then, right? I haven't missed a Sunday since mid-February when I was in Vegas, and that doesn't count, since I didn't have a choice then.

Instead of acknowledging my laziness, I interpret my parents' reaction for him. "If you can't tell, then it was fakey-fakey. I told you— Wait a second." I search his face harder. "Brice Augustus Northam, you're _lying!_ "

He looks down into his lap.

"Why are you lying? Oh, my gosh! It's that bad!" I cover my mouth with both hands to keep from gasping.

Without looking up, he says unconvincingly, "It's not that bad."

"You're such a bad liar! What happened? I want to hear the whole thing, from the minute they got there until the minute they left." When he doesn't begin, I tug on his hand. "Now."

Sullen, he says, "I left first, so I can't tell you everything that happened up until the minute _they_ left."

"You walked out on them?!" This is even worse than I thought. I can't imagine someone doing or saying something so horrible that Brice would walk out on them. "Tell me what you know, then."

Wretched is the best way to describe his expression when he finally looks up at me. Like a doctor who has to give someone a terminal diagnosis.

Bravely, I promise, "I won't cry. Or even get upset. I can take it. Just tell me."

"No."

"What?!"

"I refuse to repeat what was said. Suffice it to say, they... they don't think we're a good match."

Oddly enough, I don't have a strong reaction to that statement. He seems offended enough for both of us. I'm more interested in getting the whole story before I decide if I should be upset.

"Wait, wait, wait. Back up," I say. "How did this whole conversation begin? Really. Not in your pretend version that keeps you out of trouble."

"I told them about us."

"Unsolicited?"

He considers for a second. "Well... yeah. It kind of slipped out after I pulled them into my office to talk to them about you."

I bristle at the entire picture he's painting, but I let him continue uninterrupted... for now.

"I thought I'd take advantage of your not being around to... have a word with them about some things I've noticed that have been bothering me. You know, their excluding you from things and... I just don't think they've given you the kind of support you need. You've been through a lot! But they act like it's nothing and that you should just get over it and go back to being who you were before... _way_ before Secret."

"I've told you, that's how my family works. We pretend everything's okay until, eventually, it is."

"It never is, though! Not when you ignore the problem."

_Oh, now I'm a problem?_ I let that go, though, so he can further explain his meddling.

He looks like he's seriously regretting saying anything to them, anyway, so I'm trying to see this as a learning experience... for him.

"Anyway, I was advising them to be more considerate of your feelings. By the way, I didn't actually yell at them. That was a joke."

I roll my eyes. "Duh. Get to the part about letting it 'slip out' that we're together. What was the context?"

He sighs. "I said something like, 'It would probably be a good idea if everyone, including Peyton, stopped trying to pretend her pregnancy and Secret's stillbirth never happened. I love her so much, and I know it hurts her that nobody wants to acknowledge what she's been through.' Again, that's not verbatim, but it's close enough."

"Oh, gosh." The pinstripes on my pajama bottoms squiggle and blur.

"Your dad didn't even visit you in the hospital!" he cries. "Which I was polite enough not to point out to him, even after he _laughed_ at me."

"He laughed?!"

"Well, not in a 'ha-ha' way. More like an 'I-know-you're-kidding-or-you-mean-"love"-in-a-Jesus-loves-you-kind-of-way' way." He gulps. "So I was more explicit."

"Yes, we wouldn't want there to be any ambiguity," I mutter, tugging so hard on one of the buttons on my pajama top that it pops right off in my hand.

"No, we wouldn't," he says firmly. " _I_ wouldn't. You know, it's fine that you don't want the whole congregation to know our private business, even though my private business sort of _is_ their business—"

"No, it's not!"

"—but I don't feel comfortable sneaking around behind your parents' backs like a couple of stupid teenagers from feuding families! There's no logical reason for them to disapprove of our relationship. And I told them that. I also told them that I love you and respect you and that my intentions with you are pure," his voice rises, "unlike _some_ people you've been with in the past. And that's when—" He stops abruptly.

"What?! Tell me!"

He shakes his head, his mouth clamped shut like a little kid refusing to open wide for the spoonful of peas.

"If you don't tell me now, you need to leave," I say, making a move to stand. My hands are so tightly clenched that I can feel the pajama button leaving its impression in my left palm.

He holds me in place. Eyes closed, he takes a deep breath and reveals, "That's when your mom very sympathetically told me..."

While he pauses, seemingly unable to go on, I finish the deal-breaking sentence in my head in so many ways:

_"...that you ate your boogers when you were little."_

_"...that you didn't vote in the last Presidential election."_

_"...that you saw_ Mamma Mia _at the theater... and liked it."_

_"...that you can't cook."_

_"...that you sent away for an autographed picture of Charlie Sheen when you were thirteen."_

When I can't take it anymore, I practically shout, "What did she tell you?"

He opens his eyes. "She told me that someone like you could never make someone like me happy." He rushes on, "That's when I walked out. I... I couldn't trust myself not to say something that could, um, have lasting consequences."

Numb, I clarify, "She told you, basically, that I wasn't good enough for you?"

Instead of confirming what I already know is true, he says adamantly, "She's wrong! You _do_ make me happy."

"What did I tell you?" I demand, hardly hearing him over the roar in my head. "What did I tell you people would say when they found out about us? I told you that they would think I'm not good enough for you. Didn't I? Didn't I?!"

He nods. "Yes. Although you made your point more offensively by comparing us to our Savior and Mary Magdalene."

"And what did you say? In essence, you told me, 'You're paranoid; people won't think that; blah, blah, blah...'" I collapse against the back of the couch and throw the button across the room. "My own mother! My _mother_ was the first of many people to say it. What do you think everyone else is going to say?"

"I don't care!"

"But they will!"

"And I'll say, 'Screw you!' to anyone who dares to say it to my face. Or anyone that I suspect is saying it behind my back."

I stare at him. He stares back defiantly.

Taken out of the moment, I point out, "Uh... you just cursed."

"I know."

"It sounded really wrong, coming from you."

"Yeah, I've always sounded like someone who's trying too hard when I use profanity."

"It's not your style. You probably shouldn't do it again."

"I probably won't."

Neither one of us says anything else for a while. I'm not sure what he's thinking about, but I'm back to marveling that my mom would say what she did as tactlessly as she did.

After several minutes, he miserably says, "I shouldn't have told you. Why couldn't you just believe me when I told you they were happy?"

He leans back, taking both of my hands in his and rubbing the backs of them with his thumbs. "They will be, eventually. They'll see that I'm not some phase you're going through, a novelty, something you're sampling just to see what it's like. Right?"

I'm not sure if he's seeking affirmation about my parents' feelings or my intentions. Either way, the answer is an unsatisfactory, "I don't know."

"What don't you know?" he presses, cocking his head and closing one eye like he's sizing me up.

"Forget it," I evade the question. I can't have this conversation right now. "You're right. It'll all work out. We'll show them."

He won't let it go, though. "You're about as natural at optimism as I am at spouting obscenities. What do you mean, you don't know? You don't know if they'll come around, or you don't know if I'm more than a flavor of the month?"

"I don't want to be a pastor's wife. Okay?" It's the only thing I know for sure, so that's what comes out.

His jaw works back and forth one, two, three times. Ooh. An extra jut. Not good. "I don't remember asking you," he says coolly.

I laugh nervously to cover the hurt caused by his statement. "Okay, then. That's settled. What's on TV tonight?"

He pulls the remote from my hand before I can even hit the "power" button. "What do you object to more, being a pastor's wife or being _my_ wife?"

"These are awfully tough questions to put to a girl after such a shit-ass day," I joke.

"Be serious," he implores. "Please."

"They're one and the same, okay?" I start to talk with my hands, trying to get him to see where I'm coming from without making him feel personally rejected. I know too well how that feels, and I _never_ want to bring that on him. That being said, it doesn't change the facts.

"Being a pastor isn't like being a... a... CPA. You _are_ your job. Twenty-four-seven. It's as much a part of you as being a man. You've said it a hundred times: it's a calling, not a job. And the church is your first wife. Always. As it should be."

"What would you know about it? Other than what little I've told you and what you've assumed and what you've gleaned from stereotypes? How do you know what kind of husband I'd be? Or how I'd balance it all?" He tosses the remote into the chair across the room. "Why don't you trust me enough to let me worry about it?"

"Oh, is there a proposal on the table now?"

"No. Still not." Angrily, he runs a hand through his hair. "Still speaking hypothetically. Stop getting ahead of yourself, okay?"

That stings. "What's the goal, then, Brice? Huh?"

"I don't consider our relationship as part of my five-, ten-, or twenty-year plan, so there's no _goal_ , __ per se."

Agghh! I hate "per se!"

"Please, don't 'per se' me," I beg him. "In other words, there _is_ a goal, but you object to describing it as such."

"Of course, if things continue between us, I'd like to marry you. Maybe. Someday."

"Take my breath away," I mutter at his lackluster declaration.

Defensive, he cries, "You don't want to get married anyway, so why are you offended that _I'm_ not more definite about it?" When I don't have an answer for him, he continues, "You date to find someone to marry. Isn't that what everyone does?"

"No. That's not what everyone does. That's what _pastors have to do_ , though."

"What am I missing?"

My head falls back against the couch. I can't believe I have to explain this to a grown man, but....

"Marriage isn't always the objective with dating. People meet, they date, they fall in love, they screw—not necessarily in that order—and they break up and move on to the next person if and when they're not in love anymore. But for you, an important part of the falling-in-love process is forbidden."

That gets the vein in his forehead to protrude and throb. "Oh, I see. Why didn't you just come right out and say we were talking about sex? Again." Throwing his hands in the air, he cries, "Sheesh! You act like it's the end-all and be-all of... of... everything!"

"It's kind of important," I insist.

"Well, too bad!" He points from me to himself and back to me again. "That's right. Unless we're married, sex is not part of our relationship. Period. It's non-negotiable."

"I don't like other people telling me what I can and can't do."

Now he levels me with a look that clearly conveys he's rethinking his earlier statement that I'm not insane. "Are you hearing yourself?" he asks incredulously, trying to catch his breath.

When I don't defend myself, he quietly declares, "God is not 'other people.' You have a problem with God telling you what to do, then... yeah, _we_ have a problem."

He stands. "And I'll tell you another thing, Peyton. I don't need to have sex with you to know that I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you. They're completely separate things." Snatching the remote from the chair, he drops it into my lap on his way to the door. "Goodnight."

After the door closes firmly behind him, I yell at it, "So, the proposal's back on the table now?! Make up your damn mind!"

## 40

# Uncharted Territory

I'm so sick of being treated like a criminal—or worse, a horny teenager—because I'd like to have sex with my boyfriend. Most guys think it's a good thing when their girlfriends want that. Leave it to me to find someone who's not "most guys." Oh, he's glad I want to have sex with him, but he wants to take a long walk down an aisle first.

Anyway, it's not like I don't understand why we have to abstain. Have I ever pressured him otherwise? No. But it would be weird and unnatural if I acted like I could take it or leave it. I'd choose "take it" every time. And I wish he would just acknowledge that it's a major sacrifice to leave it.

Maybe it's been such a long time for him that he's forgotten what sex is like. Well, I haven't forgotten. And I miss it. This isn't the longest dry stretch I've ever experienced, by any means, but I don't think I've ever had a serious boyfriend since college I've not been intimate with, in the Biblical sense (ironically enough). I'm not sure what that says about me (okay, deep down, I _know_ what it says about me), other than that I'm a modern girl (a.k.a., "morally loose") who enjoys intimacy (a.k.a., "potential nymphomaniac").

I'm also a masochist, so at work today when I can't keep my mind on my job and find myself wondering what Drex has been up to (the Stefan front has been strangely quiet lately), I rashly log onto Facebook and connect to his profile page. I'm surprised and relieved that he hasn't de-friended me. Maybe he _doesn't_ hate me. Or maybe, like me, he's been busy and hasn't been on Facebook enough lately to manage his account, so he just hasn't gotten around to it yet. Whatever the reason, I'm ashamed at how glad I am that he hasn't completely written me off. If things don't work out with Brice, maybe there's still hope for Drex and me.

Immediately, I feel sick with guilt for having the thought, but my mom's words keep ringing in my ears, even though I didn't hear her say them firsthand. I might as well have. I can picture her saying it: _"A girl like Peyton—as much as I love her—can never make a guy like you happy, Pastor."_

Yeah, I'm more equally-yoked with Drex, right? Tattooed, pierced, godless, imperfect Drex. That's what she meant, although she was probably smart not to mention his name directly to Brice. I'm actually more offended for Drex than me. I'm used to her low expectations of me, but for her to imply that Drex was only good enough for someone who's never good enough isn't fair to him. He was a good friend and boyfriend: funny and sweet and fun. And good in bed, too. I have half a mind to call her and set her straight on that. I would, too, if it wouldn't prove her point about me.

The first thing I notice on Facebook is that Drex has a new profile picture since the last time I was on here weeks ago. It's of him and an elfin woman with short-cropped black-cherry highlighted hair, and they're grinning cheek-to-cheek as Drex holds the camera at arms' length in front of them to take the picture. As I'm wondering with mild jealousy, _who's that?_ my eyes zoom down his status updates on the page and land on a red heart and the line, _Drex is in a relationship with Siobhan O'Donnell_.

Oh. Well. Good for him. I mean, _them_. They look happy. Just to make sure they are (and to make sure I'm getting the full effect of this torture session), I access the rest of his profile pictures and albums to see overwhelming evidence of it. I also notice that this new girlfriend is adorable. And tiny. She makes Drex look like a big, strapping guy.

Back to the status updates, I scroll for a while to see what else I can learn.

Four weeks ago: "Free at last. Who says waiting tables isn't fun? Plus, I'm highly qualified: I have a lot of experience with unreasonable demands."

Oh. Well, good for him. I'm glad he's broken away from Stefan, that toxic waste of space. I scroll some more, skimming over the usual observations about human nature and pictures of plates of food, and I'm just about to close my browser when I see something that makes my finger freeze: a thumbnail photo of the painting of me. Above it sits one word: _SOLD!_

That sums it up quite nicely, I think as I blink away tears and navigate through the pages of my own profile to get to my list of friends. Next to Drex's name and the profile pic with him and Siobhan, I click the tiny x, and when it asks me, I verify that I truly do want to remove him.

He's already removed me, no matter what Facebook says.

I feel so sorry for Brice's Jeep. And I'm glad I don't have to pay for the maintenance and repairs on it. He's really put it through its paces this afternoon, but he's having such a good time, so I'm just sitting over here, holding onto any handle I can find and trying to enjoy the ride. Frankly, my brains are starting to feel rattled from all this bumping around. I'm also getting the idea that off-roading isn't a team sport. It's kind of a one-man (emphasis on the "man") thing.

After splashing through a rocky, shallow creek bed, he pulls up onto the bank and grins over at me. "Huh? Kind of a rush, isn't it?"

I smile supportively. "Totally."

He consults his Valentine's present from me, a GPS unit that's stuck to the dash (told you it was un-romantic). "Okay. Let's see. We're here." He points to the red arrow. "If I go that way," he nods up the steeply-graded hill in front of us, "that should put us fairly close to the highway. I think."

"Hey."

His head turns my way.

"Can we take a break? Just a few minutes to get some fresh air, maybe?"

He puts the Jeep in park. "Oh. Sure. Watch your step when you get out, though. It's pretty muddy out there."

Freedom. I step down and walk along a flat rock to get to the back of the Jeep, where there's more stable ground on which to stand. I stretch my arms over my head. My muscles are tight and stiff from being tensed-up for so long. As I'm bringing my arms down, my elbows make contact with solid warmth behind me.

"Why, hello," I murmur, my breath hanging in the chilly air in front of me.

He wraps his arms around my waist and rests his chin on my shoulder. "Hi." After a soft, goosebump-raising kiss to my neck, he says, "This is the most fun I've had since... last night."

Amused, I reply, "Hm... you have a twisted idea of fun."

"You're not having fun?"

"Yes," I fib (because that's what you do when you love someone but not necessarily their hobby), "but I was referring to last night. Not so much."

He looks hurt when I turn to face him. "I thought it was fun."

Last night, when he showed up at my apartment, looking as miserable as I felt after a chilly post-fight week of zero communication with each other, he stepped in and without preamble asked me, "We've been together for how long now? Three months?"

"Roughly," I confirmed.

"Yeah. Well... a little longer, I guess. Anyway, that's not important. What _is_ important, or so I thought, is that we've been conducting ourselves appropriately and properly and morally, which hasn't always been easy, but it's the _right_ thing to do, so that's what we've done."

I nodded to encourage him to go on.

"And yet, now that everyone knows—that didn't take long, by the way—I'm starting to hear things... speculation... behind our backs. Gossip. Outright lies."

"Like what?" My heart rate picked up. _All this abstinence torture better not be for nothing_ , I thought as my blood pressure rose.

He held my eye contact. "I'm sure you can figure it out."

He was right; I didn't want to know specifics.

"Well, screw them!" I snapped. "It's none of their damn business, anyway."

"That doesn't matter, though, does it?" he pointed out.

"I don't care what they think," I lied, angry at how hurt I was at the idea of my church family assuming the worst of me, as usual. "Do you?"

When my voice broke on those last two words, he hugged me tightly. "I, unfortunately, have to care."

"Don't give them the satisfaction," I ordered him. "It's not fair for them to distrust you. You've given them absolutely no reason to."

"Yet."

I blinked at him as that word sank in. But the moment quickly passed as he sighed, and we both said at the same time, "I'm sorry."

Then we laughed and kissed. Kissing led to stroking, which led to rubbing, which led to... nothing, as usual. I mean, it was intense, but it ended, like always, just as things were starting to get interesting. But still PG-13.

Recalling the frustration it ultimately led to, I say now, "It could have been a lot better." Any night that ends with a cold shower is automatically disqualified from my list of Top Ten Good Times.

"That goes without saying," he admits.

I touch the tip of my nose to his; he nips at my lips with his teeth.

Now, he presses his forehead to mine as the spring breeze whistles around us. "I've been thinking..."

"Danger, danger!" I tease, but he doesn't smile or laugh like I expect him to.

He remains disconcertingly serious when he continues, "I'm killing myself, trying to be what everyone wants and needs me to be, trying to make everyone happy, but in the process, I'm driving myself crazy. I'm holding myself— _us_ —to a standard that I don't hold anyone else to. And why? They all believe what they want to believe, no matter how 'good' I am. And I'm starting to think I'm making a huge mistake."

"Brice—"

The kiss he lays on me now is remarkably different than any he's ever given me before. When he ends it, I'm horribly disappointed, but when I lean forward for more, he tugs on my arm so I'm clear of the Jeep's hatch, which he lifts open.

"What are we doing?" I ask, even though the sex kitten inside me who's been clawing to get out for months is hissing at me to shut up and not ask too many questions.

He gently pushes me down onto the flat surface of the cargo area. "What does it look like?" he retorts huskily.

"Uh..." I lie underneath him and let him nuzzle my ear. My eyes close as hormones flood my system. I've fantasized about this for a long time. Longer than I'm even willing to admit to myself.

He presses the lever to make the backseat collapse so we'll have enough room to close the hatch for privacy, even though we're out in the middle of nowhere and haven't seen another person for hours. After another lengthy kiss that doesn't leave much to the imagination, I run my hands up the inside of his shirt. His muscles twitch under my fingers. Then he kisses my neck.

I look over his shoulder at the interior light and wonder if I'm going to have the gumption to stop this. I've just decided that the answer's no, and I'm okay with that, but when I close my eyes, faces from the youth group pop into my head. Nikki. William. And Ethan. Then Justine. And Tracy Plucker, Marilyn, and Mrs. Hanson. And soon, there are pewfuls of church members in my head, staring at me expectantly, waiting for me to do the right thing.

Easy solution: open my eyes. Then I just see Brice again. And that determined look in his eyes.

And it's not like we've taken off any clothes. I should at least give him the benefit of the doubt, right? He knows where the line is and has never crossed it before, despite plenty of opportunity. I'm trusting he won't let us do anything that would get him into trouble.

I've hardly finished thinking that when, quick as a flash, he unbuttons and unzips my pants, then his. He slides his jeans down past his hips and over his butt.

When I make the mistake of blinking, Mrs. Hanson's eyes almost pop out of her head. I'm afraid the poor woman's going to stroke out on me.

"Whoa," I finally manage to utter. "Uh, I'm pretty sure The Rules state that the pants have to stay on." I'm hoping humor will make this pill easier to swallow, for both of us.

He pauses but eventually gives his head a half-shake and continues undressing me. "That's just it; I'm sick of The Rules. I've followed them faithfully for years, and what has it gotten me?"

I push his hand away from my pants. "Um, a congregation full of people who look up to you and depend on you? A lot."

"Shh," he demands, covering my mouth with his. Against my lips, he says, "I don't want to talk about them. Or anything."

My lips agree that all this talking is overrated and frantically seek his. I mean, no one can say I didn't give him the opportunity to reconsider. My obligation has been met.

He moans into my mouth, which almost makes my clothes fly off all by themselves.

"Oh," I breathe when he breaks away from my lips to kiss my neck. I rub my hands on his chest.

He lifts my shirt the tiniest bit and places tender kisses on my belly, inching lower and lower until his lips graze the waistband of my panties.

"Oh, God..."

Now he's hovering over me, devouring my mouth, sliding his hand up the inside of my shirt.

This is new. This is new! _This is new!_ I silently scream, arching my back so he can unhook my bra. That accomplished, he hastily removes my shirt and pushes the undergarment up so that it's resting on my chest, just below my collarbone. I'd remove it completely, but I don't want to stop long enough to do so. I content myself with kissing him back and enjoying the feel of his hands, then his tongue, against my nipples.

It's not long, though, before I can't suppress the moans of pleasure welling up inside me, and my hands are begging for something to do. I slip them down the back of his underwear and...

[Time Out! These are _not_ the underwear of a respectable pastor. I mean, I was expecting grayish, threadbare boxers or—possibly— boring tighty whities, but these... I've always been a sucker for boxer briefs. Especially ones that leave little to the imagination, like these. Time In!]

...grasp his butt as hard as I can, pressing him closer to me. He thrusts his hips, grinding hard against my pubic bone.

"Oh, God!" I repeat, but this time I really am praying, not taking His name in vain. Because dread and guilt and a heretofore missing moral fiber are working together to drown out the lust and desire and horniness that typically motivate my every move.

Why are You putting the burden on me to stop this? You know I'm weak. And depraved. He's the good one. I know You know that. I break The Rules; he keeps them. When the roles are reversed, You won't like the results. Trust me. I can find ways to justify anything. This is a piece of cake. We love each other. End of story. Who needs a marriage license to have sex? You know I don't. So. You're going to have to remind Brice that he does. Because You and I both know this is about to reach the point of no return.

Someone—I think it might be me—cries, "Okay!"

Yes, it _is_ me. I sit up and push his face away from... my two besties. "You have to stop now." I button my pants and scoot so that I'm almost in the front seat.

"Why?" he questions belligerently, still reaching for me.

"Because," I say lamely as I turn as much away from him as the close confines will allow and rearrange my bra so that it's back where it's supposed to be. I don't actually know why we have to stop; I just know that _he_ does. I'm not even sure of all the ramifications and consequences of him having sex with me right now. But I know there are some. And they can be serious.

"You'll regret it," I promise vaguely.

He pulls on my leg, sliding me toward him again. The rough texture of the carpeted platform creates friction against my jeans, making my pants hotter than they already are. "No, I won't. We won't. It will be wonderful."

"I'm sure it would be. But now's not the right time. And you know it."

Who is this person saying these things? Because it can't be me. I kind of hate her, as a matter of fact.

Dejected, he rests his forehead against my shoulder. "Everyone thinks we're doing it, anyway."

"That's their problem."

"It seems so pointless to wait," he grumbles. "I could be dead tomorrow. You, too. And to never have... experienced... you that way... It would be tragic."

Now that's a line! And it almost works. But I merely bring my hand up and ruffle his hair. "If you die tomorrow, that's all the more reason for you to keep your vow to God today. I mean, talk about a fresh sin to reconcile with Him when you get up there... Awkward!"

He manages a weak laugh.

"You're under a lot of stress, and you're not thinking clearly. Don't be a numbskull."

Suddenly, it feels as if all the air has been sucked from the vehicle. After a few seconds, he says, "Why did you call me that?"

Based on his reaction, I can tell I need to apologize, so I quickly do, even though I'm not sure why I have to do so. "I'm sorry. I don't know. It just kind of popped into my head. I've never called anyone that before." It's true. It was out of my mouth before I even realized I was thinking it.

"You never heard my dad call me that?"

"No! I think I heard your dad say a total of twenty words. Ever."

He props himself on his elbow and stares into space. "He called me that all the time. Usually affectionately. But sometimes when he was mad at me."

"He did?"

He nods. "Uh-huh. The last time he said it—" Abruptly, he stops talking, shivers, and pushes up to a sitting position. "Oh, my gosh. I'm sorry. I'm so, so, so, so sorry." He hands me my shirt and starts trying to help me on with it before I take it from him and shrug him off. Then he grabs the waistband of his jeans and pulls them up over his hips.

"It's okay," I assure him, using every ounce of control I have to avert my eyes from his adorable underwear and its occupants. _Goodbye, old friends. I will miss you._ "Really. You just had a brain fart."

"No. Not acceptable. I... I almost compromised both of us."

"I had it under control," I state coolly, as I rebutton my pants and throw my shirt on. "Relax. The little devil on your shoulder was no match for the angel on mine."

Cautiously, almost as if he thinks it's going to send him over the edge again, he kisses my lips. "Apparently."

"Well, no harm done," I say way more positively than I feel. "C'mon. Let's go see if we can find our way back to the highway."

Forty minutes later, when we're well on our way back to civilization but still not saying anything to one another, he interrupts me as I'm pretending to read my _Jane Eyre_ ebook.

"You know, we should just end this torture and get married," he semi-jokes, blushing as if he regrets saying it as soon as it's out, not because he doesn't mean it but because he's worried that I'll think it's a dumb idea.

I think I give him the shock of his life when I say, "We totally should."

## 41

# Reintegration

It goes without saying that no one from church can ever know about what happened out in the woods, but I have to tell _someone._ Someone needs to know that I'm good enough, and I've proven it.

On our lunch breaks over salads at a new all-salad deli downtown, after I've told them nearly everything, Mitzi and Jen both just stare at me. Even Jen is speechless for a few seconds. Then she says, " _You_ put on the brakes? You. Put on the brakes."

"Me," I say proudly, as if I've just told them I invented the cure for cancer.

"So how serious is this thing with him?" Mitzi finally recovers enough to ask.

Jen shakes her head and closes her eyes as if trying to summon enough patience to be in the same room with her. "Isn't it obvious?"

"But this is the first _we're_ hearing of it," she accurately points out in her own defense.

Somewhat abashed, I say, "Yeah, I know. I don't talk about it. To anyone."

"Is that supposed to make us feel better?" Jen asks as she stabs a piece of romaine lettuce.

"Yes?" I reply unsurely. "Listen... I'm sorry. This is a totally new thing for me, and I'm probably making a big mess of it, which _isn't_ a new thing for me, unfortunately."

After slurping some iced tea, Mitzi says, "What do you mean, this is a new thing for you? You've had lots of boyfriends."

"But I've never been... in love." I blush at the sappy declaration. "All the other guys have just been flings."

"Listen to Ms. Cosmopolitan over here," Jen teases.

"Well, I've never been engaged, either," I try to say as casually as possible, looking through my eyelashes at them.

"Holy shit."

"What?!"

I grin at the two of them and wiggle my shoulders. "Sorry. Didn't I mention that earlier?"

"You know you didn't!" Mitzi squeals, drawing looks from the herbivores around us.

After we've celebrated some more, I've explained my naked finger (we haven't had a chance to pick out a ring yet), and Jen's declared she won't wear anything pastel as one of my bridesmaids, she asks more seriously, "So what's the deal with all the secrecy lately? You never used to be that way. Even when you were... you know... you told us right away. Now, it's like we have to resort to"—she gestures at the restaurant around us—"roughage interrogation to get you to tell us the tiniest details about your personal life."

"Those are hardly tiny details I just told you," I object, but then I concede, "I get what you're saying, though." Now I look down at the artichoke hearts on top of my "salad art." "Honestly? I didn't want to tell anyone, because I was sure I was going to screw it up, and when I did, nobody would have to know, for once, as long as I never told anyone what was going on to begin with."

"You have issues," Jen states.

Now it's my turn to give her the _Well, duh!_ look she's perfected for Mitzi's statements.

Mitzi laughs. "And there we have it, folks: the understatement of the year."

We all chuckle about that for a while as we pick through our food in silence. Finally, Mitzi sets down her fork with a sigh. "Salads are a lot of work," she complains.

I nod but persevere, spearing a slippery cherry tomato on the end of my fork. "Things that are good for us usually are."

_Well, this is definitely the most nerve-wracking thing I've done in a while,_ I think as I absentmindedly tap my index finger in a random beat against the large present in my lap.

"'Onward, Christian Soldiers,'" Brice randomly blurts into the quiet Jeep.

"Huh?" I look over at him as we pull onto my sister's street.

"I'm just trying to guess the song you're playing on that box over there," he explains, trying to smile but not quite making it.

I manage to laugh. "No. But that would be appropriate. Maybe I'll sing it to myself right now." The closer we get to Nicole's house, though, the harder it is for me to breathe, much less sing.

"Everything's going to be fine. We're all here for Sadie, so I'm sure everyone will be on their best behavior."

Unfortunately, it sounds more like he's giving himself a pep talk than me. He's too nice to put me in the middle by going into a lot of detail, but he's briefly mentioned that he and my dad have been butting heads on a lot of things at church lately.

Knowing he's just as nervous as I am prevents me from pointing out that large family gatherings have never kept us from behaving badly before. After all, he's been a witness to that, so that information would be extraneous. I just nod and pretend he's right.

Bright side: this is the first time I've been invited to a family get-together in months, and the first time ever I've attended one without knowing at least half-a-dozen things that I'm not allowed to share with someone else who will also be attending. That's slightly __ less pressure.

Of course, it's sort of offset by the fact that this will be the first event Brice and I attend as an official couple.

All these worries disappear, though, when we pull into the driveway, and Sadie runs to us from her perch on the wide brick front porch steps.

"Auntie Peyton! You came!" she shouts excitedly, crashing into me when she can't stop her momentum fast enough in her patent-leather Mary Janes.

I hold the present high enough that she can wrap her arms around me until Brice helpfully takes the box off my hands. Then I fiercely return her hug and pick her up, despite the fact that she's gotten too tall for me to hold comfortably. She wraps her tights-clad legs around my waist and gives me a loud kiss on the cheek.

"Of course, I did!" I work valiantly to swallow the emotion so my voice sounds normal. "Would I miss my favorite niece's birthday?"

"I'm your only niece, Auntie Peyton," she points out in a grown-up tone.

"That makes you that much more important," I say, blinking furiously as we walk toward the house.

Solemnly, she declares, "Like I told Mommy, I promise not to talk about babies if it makes you sad."

"Oh!" The lump in my throat returns. "That's really sweet," I manage to squeak out. Quickly changing the subject, I nod toward Brice. "Do you remember Brice from Christmas?"

She looks around my head. "Oh, yeah. Pastor. I see him all the time, Auntie Peyton," she says as if I'm being silly.

I look over at Brice to see if he'll confirm this new information, but he shifts the position of Sadie's gift so it's conveniently obscuring his face.

"You do?" I can't help but ask.

"Yeah! When he comes over to talk to Mommy and Daddy!" Now she lets go of my neck and hops down, grabbing my hand and leading me through the front door. "Come on! You gotta see the cake Grandma made for me! It's shaped like a Barbie head!"

My head feels like it's about to explode, but I have no choice but to follow her. I make all the right noises about the cake and the pile of presents on the kitchen island and the shiny helium balloons, but my mind is racing.

What could Brice be doing here, at my sister's house, "all the time"? Lonnie and Nicole aren't members of our church, so that leaves only one thing they have in common: me. Are they talking about me? _Why_ are they meeting in secret to talk about me?

This wouldn't be the first time he's talked about me behind my back to family. I thought his experience with Mom and Dad that Sunday a while back, though, would have taught him that it's best to just let everyone treat me the way they've always treated me. It's not like he's going to change their minds or their behavior, anyway. And it just makes things awkward if he's always fighting my battles for me.

Or maybe he's getting advice from Nicole about how to deal with me. My mood swings, my touchiness, my outright paranoia... Am I paranoid? Is that what everyone thinks?

Mom's hurried entrance into the kitchen interrupts my panicked musings. She stops in her tracks when she sees me. "Oh! Peyton. Honey. You're here."

This typical state-the-obvious greeting is comforting in its normalcy. "Yep. I am. Brice is—" I look around, but he's nowhere in sight. Our present to Sadie is with the others, but he's obviously decided being in the same room with me isn't a good idea right now. "Here somewhere..." I trail off.

"Good." She pats my arm and gives me a faint smile. "I'm glad you could make it." Talking more to Sadie than me now, she says, "It's going to be the best party ever. Right, Sades?"

Sadie nods vigorously. "Yep! I just showed her the cake you made, Grandma."

"It's an awesome cake," I affirm, also talking more to Sadie than my mom.

"Well, I just came in here to get some serving utensils. Nicole put out all the food with nothing to use to dish it out." She mutters as she scans through immaculately-organized drawers, "Big spoons, big spoons..." Finding the mother lode of serving spoons, she says, "Aha!" and clutches several in her hands. Then she asks Sadie, "Aren't you going to come outside with all the other kids and play in the bouncy castle?"

"Yeah. I just wanted to wait for Auntie Peyton to get here."

We follow Mom through the house and out to the backyard, which looks more like a public festival than a seven-year-old's birthday party. There are just as many alcoholic beverages in hands (probably more, since most of the kids are busy playing) as sodas or punch cups. It's good to see nothing has changed in my family when it comes to parties.

I scan the crowd for Brice and see him standing with Lonnie, supervising the giant purple-and-pink Barbie bouncy castle. Sadie makes a beeline for them, trying to take off her shoes before she's stopped running. Brice gives her a hand up into the inflatable apparatus, which is already jiggling from all the jumping bodies inside.

Yeah, he and Lonnie look like old pals, sharing a couple of beers, talking about sports, or whatever else two guys with absolutely _nothing_ in common—or so I thought/hoped—talk about. They're even smiling and laughing together! What's so funny? Well, I'll be damned if I'm going to give everyone here the satisfaction of making yet another scene at yet another family function. I'll just take a page from my mom's book and pretend like everything's dandy. I can do that for a few hours, surely.

I feel two hands grasp my upper arms from behind and hear, "Yay! You made it!" in my sister's best "entertaining" voice.

I turn around and submit to her hug, reminding myself that this is part of playing Happy Families, the Stratford family's favorite game.

"Hey. Absolutely," I say almost as brightly. "I've been looking forward to this for weeks." _And fighting chronic diarrhea at the prospect_ , I add silently while I grin at her.

"I think you ranked higher on the list of Sadie's birthday wishes than anything else... Well, except for maybe the Barbie cake. But that's normal, right?"

She looks as if she's actually waiting for an answer, so I say, "Oh. Yeah. The cake is important. And I'm touched that Sadie wanted me here so much."

"We all did, silly!" she quickly qualifies in a way that falls just shy of believable. "We've missed you!"

Instead of saying, _"Well, maybe someone should have invited me to something,"_ which is what I'm just dying to say, I mumble something about, "I've been sort of busy... helping out at church and stuff."

It's true, too, so at least I don't have to feel guilty about telling an outright lie. It's a full-time job running interference for your boyfriend, when he has a profession that requires him to be diplomatic, and he seems to have forgotten what that means, especially when it comes to the things that he feels strongly about.

She smiles blankly at me as the moment stretches into something beyond awkward and bordering on intolerable. Finally, something over my shoulder catches her eye, and she calls into the yard, "Lonnie! Make sure there aren't too many kids in that thing at once!"

More quietly, to me, she adds, "I had to pay a fortune to rent that damn thing, not to mention put down an enormous deposit that's non-refundable if it gets damaged. I will be pissed beyond all measure if I don't get that deposit back because Lonnie can't count." Then she catches herself, pasting the smile back on her face. "I mean, you know how guys are. They get distracted so easily. Lonnie!"

Thankfully, she decides to stop screaming two feet from my face and boss around her husband at a more personal range, so she stomps away from me and toward Lonnie and Brice, who now look like they're bracing for a physical attack. For a moment, I forget my irritation and hurt at finding out that Brice is keeping something (or some _things_ ) from me and chuckle sympathetically at the scene, especially the borderline-terrified look on his face.

As Nicole appears to be giving Lonnie an earful and pointing out the warning on the side of the equipment, Brice discreetly side-steps away, sipping nonchalantly on his beer as he searches for a safer place to stand. He glances at me before turning to head in the opposite direction.

Coward.

And the irritation is back.

I see Jason tossing a football with our nephews down on the lawn and wave to him while wrapping my jacket more tightly around myself in the slight spring chill. He waves back, says something to Caleb, and trots over with the football still in his hand.

"Hey, Sis. Long time, no see."

I feel comfortable enough with him to say, "Yeah, it's funny... when no one invites you to anything, you don't know to show up."

He looks confused. "What are you talking about?"

I suddenly don't feel like getting into it. "Never mind. It's not a big deal."

It's obvious he's not going to let it go, though. "Come on, now. What about _my_ birthday? Mom told me she invited you, but you said you were too busy."

I laugh, even though it's far from funny. It's actually really sad. "I had no idea about your birthday gathering until Mom let slip about it at church a week after the fact."

"You would have known if you'd called me on my birthday, because I would have invited you myself."

"Since when do we call each other on our birthdays? Or just to chat?"

"You have a point there."

Still trying to act like it's no big deal, I explain, "When I didn't hear from Mom about any plans, I bought a card and mailed it to you, thinking you had plans with friends, or something."

He chews the inside of his cheek, his eyes shifting angrily from side to side. Before he can get too upset, I put my arm around his shoulders and squeeze. "Hey. It's okay—"

"It's _not_ okay. I'm fucking sick of the fucking bullshit that goes on in our family sometimes."

"Shhh." I look around to make sure nobody's within earshot. "I'm sorry I missed your birthday. But I'm _not_ sorry I didn't come to some uncomfortable party where nobody wanted me around."

"I wanted you around! I was super-hacked-off that you wouldn't even drop in and make an appearance. The way Mom said you were 'busy' made it sound like you were really just pouting about some sort of petty disagreement between you and her and Dad."

Thinking back, I might have been, but that wouldn't have kept me from coming by to give him a card and have a beer with him on his birthday, and I tell him so. "You have to stop thinking the worst of me," I half-tease.

"I need to stop listening to Mom, in other words."

"About some things, yes. You should probably still listen when she tells you to drive safely and eat your vegetables, though."

He nudges me with his elbow. "Aren't you mad? If I were you, my feelings would be really hurt, and I wouldn't want to talk to our parents ever again."

I can't help smiling at the pity in his eyes. "I'm sick of being angry and hurt, Jason. I've given them lots of reasons to feel and act the way they do toward me. If they're going to stop doing that, I have to change their perceptions. I have to show them that I've moved on, that I don't hold grudges, and that I've grown up."

"Is that something your boyfriend's taught you?"

Now I _am_ sort of hurt that he thinks I'd need someone else to enlighten me about this, but I laugh. "No! I figured it out all by myself. I'm a college-educated woman, after all."

The tension is finally broken. "Well, I'm glad you're here, and I'm glad you let me know what's been going on. From now on, I've got your back when it comes to this family."

"Good. I think I can use all the help I can get," I say distractedly, as Dad and I make eye contact through the multitude of guests for the first time. He's the first to look away.

## 42

# Brice's Secret

When I get to the church, it's nearly eight o'clock, but I know that he'll still be here, doing God knows (literally) what he does late into the night most nights. Of course, some of those nights, he might be at my sister's house. Or somewhere else. And I've just always assumed he's here at his desk, toiling away. But now I know he probably does a lot of things I'm not aware of. And that bothers me.

The area where Marilyn sits is dark, but Brice's office light is on, so I walk around her desk and through his door. The room is empty. I assume he's just stepped out for a minute and take a seat on the sofa that I sat on all those months ago when I first came to him for advice, pull my e-reader from my cavernous tote bag, and settle in to read while I wait.

But I can't concentrate on the words on the screen. I'm too nervous about the confrontation ahead. Not that I'm planning for it to be ugly. I simply want an answer. I _deserve_ an answer. And since it's obvious that Brice isn't going to volunteer it (I've given him three days to explain what Sadie said at her party), then I guess I'm going to have to come right out and ask.

I hear him humming a Lady Gaga song a few seconds before he comes through the door. Not seeing me right away, he actually starts singing about writing bad romances when he thinks he's alone in his office. "Ohohoh—Oh. Hey," he says after turning around and seeing me. He blushes. "I was just... I've had that song in my head all day."

"Mm-hm," I murmur, amused. "Try giving that one a Christian spin."

He shakes his head. "Lady Gaga has me stumped. So far. But I'll get it eventually," he promises. "Her songs sure are catchy."

"Apparently." Tucking my e-reader into my bag after turning it off, I uncross and re-cross my legs.

He segues smoothly, "Well, I guess you're not here to talk about Miss Gaga, so... what's up?"

"Why are you at Nicole and Lonnie's 'all the time?'" I ask bluntly.

He perches on the edge of his desk and rubs the side of his face. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to ask. The anticipation has been killing me."

I don't appreciate the sarcasm. That's my specialty!

"Why wait then? Why not just explain it without making me ask?"

Blowing out the breath he's been holding for a few seconds, he answers, "Because it's not right for me to tell you."

"But I'm your... your fiancée!" I bluster, using the word that still tastes so foreign and old-fashioned. "You can tell me anything."

"Nope."

Something—possibly the murderous look in my eyes—compels him to put his desk between us. He sits in his chair, rests his elbows on the surface, and holds my eye contact for a while before chuckling and saying, "Sorry."

"She's my sister!"

"Good for you," he replies with infuriating calm. "But if she hasn't told you about it, then she obviously doesn't want you to know. So it's not my place to tell you."

"If you're talking about me, I deserve to know," I insist.

His brow furrows. "And what makes you think that?"

"What else am I supposed to believe?"

"When was the last time you had a real conversation with your sister?" he counters.

"Uh... never," I tell him. "It's mostly just her talking to me about her problems or criticizing me for not being more like her and Mom." I bounce my foot, then bend over to retrieve my shoe when it slides off and hits the thickly carpeted floor with a muffled thump.

"Call your sister," he says simply, busying himself with piling some scattered papers on his desk. "I can't tell you anything else."

Guilt about not being a better sister and anger at being dismissed make me lash out. "Is this how it's always going to be? I'm only going to be privy to half the things in your life? How am I supposed to support you if I don't even know what you're dealing with?"

He blinks mildly at me. "I didn't say it'd be easy. Just know I'm dealing with a lot, and that's all you need to know."

"That's bullshit."

"It is what it is."

"I don't appreciate your flippant attitude."

"Getting a taste of your own medicine?"

I stand up and loop my bag over my shoulder. "You're being an asshole. Which I don't think is proper pastor protocol."

"Good thing I'm not talking to you as your pastor right now, then, huh?" He stands, too, but he doesn't come around the desk when he says hotly, "I have people all over my case all day, and I don't need it from you. I expect more understanding than that."

"I will _never_ understand being left in the dark."

"People count on me to keep their confidences, Peyton. _You_ did! What if I had told someone _your_ secret, just because I liked them or felt like they were trustworthy enough? Or what if I thought they had a right to know? It doesn't matter what I think or feel! I have to keep my mouth shut, unless someone's life is in danger."

I hate him throwing my history in my face. But more than that, I hate that he feels he's still alone in all this.

In the doorway, I turn to face him before walking out. Feeling sadder than I've felt in a long time, I say, "Let me tell you something, in case you haven't already figured it out: keeping people's secrets all the time sucks. Hardcore. And I'm not just any random person that you like. I'm supposed to be your life partner. Your help mate, to use a more Biblical term. But I'm sorry you feel like I _am_ just another person in your life that's giving you heartburn. And I'll call my sister. Thanks for the tip."

"Peyton—"

"Goodnight," I cut him off. "Try not to work too late."

When I get home, I take my time soaking in the tub, getting into my most comfortable pajamas, fixing myself a frozen dinner, pouring myself a glass of wine, drinking said glass of wine, then drinking one more glass before pulling my BlackBerry from my bag and palming it. I stare at my sister's name on the screen for a while, hit the button to dial, and sink into my favorite overstuffed chair while I listen to the rings.

Just when I think it's going to go to her voicemail, she answers breathlessly. "Hey, Peyton. Can I call you back in about thirty? I'm on the treadmill."

"Sure!" I say, at first not sure why I feel so relieved, but feeling it nonetheless. Then I realize that another half hour to myself sounds perfect, actually. I don't feel prepared for this conversation, but it's good that I'll have a finite amount of time to get there. Knowing that she's going to call back in less than an hour will help me focus on thinking about exactly what I need to say and how I'm going to say it.

Unfortunately, I think more about Brice than Nicole while I wait. He seems so unhappy lately. He's not at all the same person I got to know almost a year ago. Then, he was optimistic and enthusiastic, accepting and peaceful. Now, he's worried and stressed, sad, impatient, and morose. I have a good idea about what's causing the change, but I wish I knew what to do to help. And if I'm part of the problem—which I have a sinking suspicion might be the case—what can I do to change that? I can't do anything about his dad's death or difficult congregants (even if one of them is _my_ dad), but I _can_ do something about my role. I just have to figure out what that role is.

I miss my _friend_ , Brice.

Sooner than it seems possible, Nicole's calling me back. I've hardly thought about her at all in the past thirty minutes, so when she asks, "What's up?" in a cheerful voice, I blurt, "Why does Brice come to your house to talk to you and Lonnie? And what's going on with you and Lonnie, anyway?"

Her laugh is brittle. "Uh... what makes you ask all this?"

Heat wafts from my face as I realize how tactless I'm being. "I'm sorry. It's just, well, Sadie mentioned at her party that Brice—or 'Pastor,' as she calls him—is at your house, quote, 'all the time,' to talk to you and Lonnie. And that's the first I've heard of it. So... what—or who—do you guys talk about?"

"Why don't you just ask Brice?" she retorts.

Not as embarrassed as I probably should be, I respond, "I did. But he said he wasn't at liberty to tell me."

"He said that?" Her laugh bubbles in my ear.

"Well, in a few more words, but yes. He refused to tell me."

She chuckles. "What a sweetie. He didn't have to do that!"

"He seems to think he does."

"Oh. Well, it's not a big secret or anything. He's been counseling Lonnie and me once a week since right after Christmas. I can't believe he hasn't told you!"

This puts me on the defensive. "It's a confidentiality thing, Nicole. He can't tell me other people's private business."

"That's nice of him, but—"

"He's not doing it to be nice; it's his job."

"Anyway, that's all there is to it. Except that he's really helped us a lot. Way more than that other counselor _our_ preacher referred us to a year ago."

Even though I was in the dark about it, I feel proud when she says how much their sessions with Brice have helped.

She continues, "He's so calm and non-judgmental. I mean, he probably thinks we're crazy—some of the things we come out with—but you'd never get him to admit it in a million years. Nothing seems to faze him."

She probably has me to thank for that. Okay, maybe not. I'm sure he came in contact with a few inmates down in Florida who were crazier than me, but I've definitely had my moments in front of him.

"He's obviously brave, too," she carries on singing his praises. "I mean, even after spending all this time with me and Lonnie, he still doesn't mind marrying into our family."

I can't help laughing at that one. "You have a good point there. Maybe he's just as nuts as the rest of us; he just hides it better."

"Nah. He's a keeper, Peyton. I mean, I am just _floored_ that you didn't know about the counseling. I'm really touched that he kept it private, even though it wasn't necessary."

I've never heard her sound so genuinely grateful for anything before.

"So everything's better between you and Lonnie?" As soon as I ask it, I regret it. "Never mind. I'm sorry. That's personal. I just meant... you two aren't splitting up?"

She sighs. "Looks like we're in it for the long haul... for now." I can hear the smile in her voice.

"What brought you to see Brice, though?" I'm still puzzled about that.

"I actually have you to thank, partly."

"Me?" Unless I've taken up drunk-dialing or sleepwalking, I don't remember recommending him to her in any way.

"Yep. After you exposed our marital problems at the dinner table at Christmas—"

"Oh, my gosh. I was half out of my mind." Just thinking about it makes me want to hang up, run away, and hide somewhere.

"No, no, no. I mean, yes, you had definitely gone off the deep end, but after you left, I was upset and went into the backyard to get some air. Brice came out there after a few minutes and gave me one of his business cards, told me to call him if I ever needed to talk, or if Lonnie and I would like him to take a stab at helping us. Then I remembered your saying a few months earlier that he was a good listener. But taking him up on his offer was actually kind of a last-ditch effort."

"Your final lifeline."

"Exactly!"

"Yeah. I know. He was mine, too."

She giggles. "He's going to get a complex."

"If he doesn't have one already, I think he'll be okay."

Now she sobers. "Anyway... I think our sessions with him are over."

"What? Why?"

She sighs. "Oh, he said something to Lonnie at Sadie's party about it being a slight conflict now that he's going to be a member of the family."

I'm quiet for a few beats as I process this information. Why do I feel so responsible? "I'm sorry," I finally mutter.

Brightly, she replies, "No biggie. I mean, I think we're going to be okay. He's given us a lot of tools to work with. And... we're thinking about joining your church."

This perks me up considerably. "Really? Wow."

"Yeah. We like him so much, Peyton. He's saved our marriage."

This statement brings me a peace that I haven't felt in a long time. Because I know she's talking about my future husband, the man who will be responsible for half of _our_ marriage. Saving a couple like Lonnie and Nicole from divorce is a decent way to show off what you're capable of in that department.

"I'm so happy for you." It's been a long time since I've been able to say those words to my sister, so long that I've forgotten how good it feels.

She giggles. "Ditto."

## 43

# Converging Secrets

The damn phone will not stop ringing. When it starts up again as we're about to leave Brice's office to head over to the park for our Saturday morning walk, I place my hand on top of the receiver.

"Do _not_ answer that," I say through gritted teeth.

He sighs. "But—"

"It's your day off. It was a mistake to even step foot in this building," I repeat what I told him when he said he wanted to run in to get the sunglasses he'd left on his desk the night before.

"It'll just take a second," he insists, echoing his earlier response as he firmly but gently removes my hand and lifts the handset to answer the call.

Like the other two calls I've already sat through, it's obvious this one isn't going to "take just a second." When he sits down in his chair, I widen my eyes at him and point while mouthing, _"Get up. Do not sit down!"_

He sticks his tongue out at me and says to the caller, "Really?! Well, that's just great, Justine! I'm so happy for you. That's wonderful news... Absolutely...! Uh-huh... Uh-huh... Yeah... Yeah...! No, that's no problem at all. Let me just run out to Marilyn's desk and see where she keeps those pamphlets. I'm sure the phone number's on there... No, I don't mind."

I'm sure the look on my face could curdle milk, especially now that I know it's Justine keeping us from enjoying our rare alone time.

He presses a button to put her on hold but deliberately avoids eye contact with me and says as he jogs through to reception, "Two seconds. Just need to find something."

I hear him opening and closing drawers and cabinets, then he picks up the phone on Marilyn's desk.

"You still there? Good. Sometimes I don't know how to work these phones.... Huh-huh, you'd be surprised. Okay. Here's the number." He repeats the number several times, until I'm ready to take the receiver from him and say, _"It's called a phone book, Justine. Or the Internet."_

Just when I'm reaching my maximum annoyance threshold, something on Brice's messy desk catches my eye: a piece of paper that looks different than anything else around it. It's not the color or weight of the paper that makes it stand out; it's the texture. Like it's been crumpled up, folded, and flattened out again, several times. While he's still making chit-chat with Our Lady of Righteousness, I take a giant step toward the desk and pinch the sheet between my thumb and forefinger, as if I'm afraid to get fingerprints on it.

Before I even turn it around, I know what it is, and it makes my face heat up while my heart palpitates. Staring up at me is my Gerber baby sketch. I can still see a couple of holes where my teeth punctured the high-bond paper during my temper tantrum that night. That was the last time I drew a picture like this one.

I can't believe he's had it all these months.

He's making wrap-it-up sounds on the phone—finally—so I fold the paper along its well-worn creases and tuck it into my shorts pocket so that it's safely hidden from view when he pokes his head around the doorframe and playfully says, "Run!"

We do just that, until we hit the wall of heat on the other side of the doors. It's shaping up to be another scorcher. The heat radiating from the asphalt in the church parking lot actually snatches my breath from my lungs when I take my first steps toward the park.

"Oh! Gross!" I complain.

He puts his sunglasses on and grabs my hand. "Ah! Toasty."

Not far into the park, I make a beeline for a sprawling tree with plenty of shade underneath it. I don't even care that the dew hasn't completely dried on the grass when I plop down and lie on my back.

"Really?" Brice questions, looking down at me over the tops of his sunglasses. "It's not _that_ bad."

"I just don't feel like walking." I crane my neck to try to see the expression on his face, but it's unreadable thanks to his sunglasses. Patting the grass next to me, I say, "Take a load off."

He obliges me, but he doesn't recline like me. Instead, he wraps his arms around his knees and watches the geese chase each other by the pond in the distance. After a few seconds, he says, "Justine's going to adopt a baby."

"Justine Heideker?!" I sit up so fast that it makes me dizzy.

After a glance over his shoulder at me, he answers, "Yeah."

"Wow."

I don't know what to say to that. Well, a few snarky things come to mind, but they don't seem appropriate, and they're born out of old insecurities that I'm trying hard to forget.

"Yeah. I think she'll be a good mom."

"Hmm," is all I choose to say. I actually think she'll be one of those parents who tries too hard, but I guess that doesn't necessarily mean that she'll be a _bad_ parent. Just embarrassing. Poor kid.

"I'll tell you who'd be a good parent," I edge cautiously onto the topic I truly want to discuss. "You would."

His shoulders lift and fall as he snorts at what he seems to perceive as shameless flattery.

But I'm serious and tell him so.

"I notice you used the word 'would' rather than 'will.' Are you trying to tell me something?" The set of his jaw lets me know I better not be telling him what he thinks I am.

"If you're asking whether I want kids someday, I've already told you the answer is yes, so stop being so touchy."

I slide my shoes and socks off so I can feel the cool grass on my feet. I pluck at the blades that shoot up between my toes. "If I can have kids, that is," I add quietly.

Now he turns more to face me and takes off his sunglasses. He dangles them from one of the earpieces, twirling them in absent-minded circles. "Your doctor said there's no reason you shouldn't be able to."

I merely shrug. I refuse to get my hopes up on that front. It's premature to be talking about it anyway.

Grabbing my hand, he says, "I'm sorry."

"What? It's not your fault."

"No, I'm being a jerk, taking everything you say the wrong way. It's like I'm stuck in 'argue' mode and don't know how to turn it off."

"I blame my dad," I half-joke.

He chuckles. "Yeah, well, he's not making my life easy, but it's not just him. And anyway, it's my choice how to react to these things."

"Let's not talk about church, okay?"

"Deal," he readily agrees.

But his grin fades when I flatten my body so I can gain access to my pocket and pull out the sketch that crinkles and pops every time I move. Initially he seems surprised I have it, but that emotion lasts only milliseconds before sadness replaces it.

"Ah."

"Yes. Let's talk about this."

I carefully set it on the ground between us and try not to stare at it. Of course, that leaves me with nowhere else to look but at him, with his downward twitching mouth and rapidly blinking eyes. I squeeze his hand.

"What has compelled you to keep this for so long?" I want to know.

He inhales as if he's going to say something but stops. On the third try, he finally manages, "I know she was your secret, but she was mine, too, in a way."

I nod my agreement. "Yeah. I kind of didn't give you a choice."

He hastily shakes his head at me. "No, that's not what I mean. She... she was the answer to a lot of my prayers."

When it's obvious I'm not following, he goes back to watching the geese and says, "Before you ever came to me with your secret, I told my parents about you. I said, 'this girl—woman—is different from any other woman I've ever met.' So I prayed that God would give us a chance to get to know each other."

I put my fist against my mouth so I won't make any noise. I want to hear this. I _need_ to hear this. But I don't know if I can hear this.

"When you came to me and told me that you were pregnant, I thought, 'This isn't exactly what I had in mind, God.'" He half-smiles. "But I trusted Him and kept my mind open."

Self-consciously rubbing his neck, he continues, "Well, you already know I fell for you. Fast and hard. But what you may not realize is that I loved that baby almost as much. I thought of her as the miracle that brought us together, even when we weren't actually together yet. Because I was so convinced that we would be."

The tears fall unchecked down my face, but when he stops as if he thinks this is too much for me, I nod briefly and say, "Go on."

He waves away an insect and focuses on the pond again. "When Secret died, I realized that if I allowed myself to console you the way I wanted to, it would freak you out, because I had built something up in my head that wasn't necessarily real to the rest of the world. I had begun to think of us—the three of us—as _us._ I imagined we were a family, and we were happy. I dreamed of a day when I could hold her and sing to her and tell her how she brought us together. I pictured strapping her in a car seat in the back of the Jeep and all of us going to visit my parents."

Now he chokes up. "I saw my dad telling her all the same stupid stories he'd told me a million times..."

He clears his throat and says, as if he's admitting something truly depraved and horrible, "That's why I had to keep my distance. It wasn't about what I thought you wanted or needed. It was purely selfish."

Well, it's refreshing to know he _is_ human, but I'm too overcome to tease him right now. I just confirm, "Yeah, I would have run for the hills if you had let me know you were feeling a tenth of that. You were right to play it conservatively."

"But then I played it _too_ safe. And it seemed like you were moving on."

He yanks at the grass.

"I hated that the only thing that seemed to bring you close to me was when you were hurting about something. That thing with Drex was the final straw. I thought, 'If she has to be in pain to be in my life, then I'd rather she weren't in my life.'"

He chuckles at the memory. "My dad thought I was crazy. I just kept saying that God had a plan, and if it was meant to be, it would be. But Dad wouldn't shut up. He said I was hiding behind God's will so that I didn't have to take any chances. And he was right. God gives us free will for a reason, but I was letting mine go to waste."

Looking over at me for the first time, in several minutes, he takes a deep breath.

"When I took you to the lake that day—" He stops suddenly and restarts. "The reason I couldn't sleep and showed up so early at your place was... I knew that that was the day. For better or worse, I was going to make my move. And when it paid off, well, I knew the minute I got home I'd call Dad and tell him he was right."

A sob breaks loose from my chest at that sad detail. It makes my insides squirm to look at him, so I avert my eyes. I can't speak to comfort him, due to my own emotional state, but I move closer to him, thread my arm through his, and rest my head against his upper arm. He strokes my hand.

After a while, he exhales loudly through his nose. "Yeah. And then he was gone. Just like Secret."

Abruptly, he looks at me. The sudden movement brings my focus back on his face. I'm surprised at how dry his eyes are.

"I want to trust God again," he states. "I _really_ do. I feel like my life was so much simpler and less stressful when I did. But it seems like the longer I wait for God to reveal His plan, the more _my_ plan slips from my grasp. So I've started to take more control. But that's not working, either. I'm only alienating everyone around me. I just don't know what to do."

If he's waiting for the Queen of the Screw-Ups to give the pastor advice, he's going to be under this tree a long time. I do know one thing, though.

I point to the Gerber baby sketch. "Well, that's not her."

"I know."

"And neither is that baby in all your fantasies. Or in mine. She had a purpose, and although her mission was a short one, it was a lot more elegant than I ever realized until you told me all this." I kiss his shoulder and brush my face against his t-shirt sleeve to blot my tears away. "Thank you."

He sniffs. Wrapping his arms around me, he says, "I've wanted to tell you that for a long time, but it just never seemed like the right time."

"Hey." I pull away from him so he can look at my face (my red, blotchy, swollen face). "You should go back to being the way you were before, when you trusted God a little more. I miss that guy."

A humorless laugh escapes. "Yeah, I miss Him, too. So much has happened, though. I'm not sure I even know if He exists anymore."

I have a good idea how to find Him.

## 44

# Daddy's Girl

Dad and I haven't talked much the past nine months. Tonight, that's going to change. I could probably go the rest of my life with things the way they are between us, if it were just about the two of us. But it's not. Now someone I love more than myself—is that even possible?—is affected by this weird thing that's festering in our relationship, which used to be a good one, not too long ago.

When I get to my parents' house, I'm relieved (in a guilty way) to find out that Mom's lying down, fighting one of her occasional migraines. Dad barely glances up from the television when he tells me this. His favorite military drama is on. It doesn't matter that it's a summer rerun; it easily wins the competition for his attention since I'm the only other contestant.

I nonchalantly pluck the remote from the wide arm of his recliner, point it at the television, and press the button to make the DVR record the rest of the program before turning off the set altogether.

"Hey!" he objects hotly. "I was watching that!"

"And now you're not." I may seem cool, but my internal organs feel like they're running around inside me, crashing into each other as they panic and try to escape a body that seems to have been invaded by an alien with a death wish. Still, my voice remains amazingly level when I say, "We need to talk."

"What's so damn important?" he grumbles while peering down into his empty beer glass. "Am I going to need a refill to hear this?"

I ignore his question and launch right into my spiel, before I lose my nerve. "I know you're pissed off at me, for whatever reason—I embarrassed you, I became someone you didn't know, whatever—but it's not fair to punish Brice for a beef you have with me."

He smirks. "I assure you, darling, those steaks aren't even from the same cow."

Well, at least he's not going to deny he has a problem with me. Or Brice. That'll make this easier. I hope.

"Okay, then. Let's just focus on the problems you have with Brice, then, since I'm not interested in whatever you feel is wrong with me."

Lies, lies, lies. But I came here with one goal in mind, and it wasn't to patch things up between Dad and me. My goal is loftier than that. Much loftier.

"If and when I have something to say to Pastor Northam, I'll say it to him myself, thank you very much. I don't need you to be my messenger."

Okay, maybe this won't be as easy as I thought. I perch on the edge of one of the sofa cushions and angle my body towards him. "Good. Private emissary isn't a service I'm offering, anyway. So, now that that's out of the way... Why are you making life miserable for him?"

"He's making his own life miserable by trying to change everything! Years of tradition—gone, if he has his way."

I snort and wave dismissively at him. "Screw your traditions. You and the rest of the old farts at church are just terrified to hand over the torch. You're scared that the new ways will be better and that people will judge you for hanging onto the old ways for so long."

"Please," he says derisively.

"What you don't realize is that you're screwing with a genuine, caring man's potential. And if you think I'm going to allow that, you're crazy."

"It has nothing to do with—"

"Spare me!"

Oh, my gosh! I just interrupted my dad in the middle of a thought! Blaaaaaghhhh! Is the world still turning? Why isn't there any air in this room?! Why did I eat Thai food for dinner before coming over here?!

All these thoughts tumble over each other in my head, but what actually comes out of my mouth next is frighteningly coherent. "This is how it's going to go down: you're going to stop bucking him at every turn. Got it?"

"I'm not bucking him!"

"I've read the treasurer's reports, and they're not good. Things can't continue the way they are now for much longer. Brice has good ideas, and they're the only viable ideas anyone has. So you're going to set aside whatever petty grudges you have against him because he didn't come to you to let you know about my problems or because he dared to see something in me that no one else in this family has ever tried to see, and you're going to get behind him. Because if _you_ do, the rest will follow."

"And if I don't?"

A voice from behind us butts in, "You'll have to answer to me."

We both flinch like guilty kids caught looking up dirty words in the dictionary.

While I've been channeling my inner bad-ass, Mom's crept into the dark adjoining dining room and has been listening to us. I'm not sure for how long until she says, "Peyton's right, Kent. This ends now. I've enabled it for long enough, because I knew you were hurt and disappointed and confused. We both were," she directs at me, readjusting the ice bag strapped to her head. "For a while there, it was like we'd lost our little girl; you were a stranger. Still are, in some ways. But good ways lately."

Turning back to Dad, she says, "It was one thing to agree with you not to invite her to family functions for a while, in the interest of keeping the peace, but if you don't support Pastor— _Brice_ , your future _son-in-law_ —in his efforts to get the church back on track, you could be losing a whole lot more than a place to worship on Sundays."

My mouth drops open at this unexpected show of solidarity from Mom and the information that she was just going along with Dad's wishes all this time.

I recover quickly, though, so as not to lose momentum, and swallow, tossing back my shoulders. "That's right."

Dad asks wearily, "You've heard these ideas of his? Adding a more contemporary service? More programs for the youth and for young singles? Fundraisers and workdays for elderly members and shut-ins? This whole rent-to-own program for low-income members? He wants to sell the parsonage to raise the capital for that!"

"Of course I've heard his ideas. They're brilliant in their simplicity."

"They'll mean a lot more work for him... Which'll be less time with you."

Unfortunately, he's hit a nerve. But I'll be damned if I let him know that.

I bravely counter, "Maybe at first. But if they work, the church will be able to hire an associate pastor to take some of the pressure off him. It'll be worth it in the long run." Maybe if I say it confidently enough, it'll be true.

Dad looks at Mom fleetingly and sees she's not going to budge on her position. After an eye roll that's more befitting of someone Sadie's age, he sighs. "Fine," he caves. "But don't blame me if none of this ends up working."

I ignore that and continue, "I'm not finished." He and Mom exchange glances but neither tries to interrupt me when I say, "This conversation never happened." Now I look pointedly at Mom, who puts her hands up in front of herself and makes appeasing noises. " _Nobody_ hears about it. Not Nicole, not Jason, nobody."

"Okay, okay! I get it!" she cries, trying not to smile. "I'm on your side, remember?" She winces at the pain her talking is obviously triggering in her head.

Looking squarely at Dad again, I say, "And when you talk to Brice tomorrow at church _—_ I suggest inviting him to a friendly round of golf on his day off, Monday—you tell him you've been thinking prayerfully about his ideas, and your prayers have led you to the decision that the church is ready for the changes he's been pushing for. On the golf course, you tell him he has your support and that you'd like him to arrange a special elders' meeting as soon as possible to discuss these plans and to schedule a time in the very near future to call the entire congregation together to announce them."

"Anything else?" he snipes, rising from his chair, his beer mug in hand.

"Yes. The wedding is October twenty-first." More quietly, but still confidently, I add, "I'd love for you to be there to give me away."

He freezes on his way to the kitchen.

Mom pulls in a sharp breath. "October twenty-first? But that's—"

"I know, it's soon. But it's not going to be a big, frilly affair."

She steps forward and puts a hand on my shoulder. "No. I mean... that's... _her_ birthday."

"Yeah," I say quietly, surprised that she's aware of that. "We want to honor Secret on what would have been her first birthday—" But I can't finish.

Staring down at my shoes, I compose myself enough to say, "She's a big part of our story. And we don't want anyone to forget that."

Mom's expression softens as she tilts her head and says, "That's a nice idea, sweetie." In addition to the haze of headache-induced cloudiness, I think I see pride in her eyes.

This would be the perfect time to set the record straight, to tell her what I've been wanting to say for months, to inform her that I _am_ good enough, but I can tell that she already knows. Whatever she may have felt when she implied otherwise to Brice that horrible day what seems like forever ago isn't what she feels anymore. And I recognize that. I understand what it feels like to realize how wrong you were about something you once felt so strongly about. The last thing you want at a time like that is for someone to say, "I told you so."

Pursing my lips and shrugging my shoulders up around my ears, I end the slightly-awkward silence that's landed on the room like a skydiver's parachute by standing and saying, "Well, I guess I'll see you both at church tomorrow."

Then I give hugs to my shell-shocked dad and my new ally and head home, where I can collapse after my adrenaline rush wears off, and it hits me what I've just done.

## 45

# Bright Future

The after-church crowd is finally thinning as people wander off to their late-summer Sunday afternoon activities: gardening, lounging by the pool, or sitting on the couch with the white noise of the baseball crowd and the soft susurrations from the announcers lulling them into a sleep only interrupted by the sighing of their wives at finding them passed out—again—in front of the TV. I've just said goodbye to the last newcomer who's stopped by our small visitor's center, a rolling counter island set up in the entryway just outside the sanctuary, when Nikki sidles up to me. She and her mom, Tabitha, are the last two stragglers. Tabitha's chatting with Brice about the upcoming Lutheran Youth Summer Retreat.

The teen leans against the counter and sighs. "Mom's flirtin' with Pastor again."

"Do I need to be worried?" I joke.

Hand in front of her mouth, she giggles. "No-o! How'd you end up having to do this?" She gestures to the counter and wrinkles her nose.

I smile as I stack the multi-colored flyers that contain announcements about upcoming events and programs at the church and stash them on the small shelf inside the island.

"Goes with the territory," I answer. "If there's a job that needs doing, and you're the pastor's wife-in-training, you're the first volunteer."

"Ugh!"

I laugh at her. "It has its perks, too."

"First in line for Heaven?" Her eyes twinkle.

I push on her shoulder. "You're a dork."

"At least I'm not marryin' one."

Our laughter draws her mom's attention. "Nicolette, you better be behaving yourself over there," she warns with a smile as she and Brice approach us.

"Can we go home now?" Nikki begs in response.

Brice grins at her and sticks his hands in his pockets. "Got a hot date, or something? What's your hurry? I'm sure there are a few things around here that you could help me with this afternoon." He pretends to search the area for a suitable chore.

Before he can come up with anything, however, Nikki pulls on her mother's arm. "Please! I told Carrington I'd be able to come over to her house after church."

With just a bit more teasing and torture from both Tabitha and Brice, the teen gets her wish, and the mother and daughter walk arm-in-arm from the building, giggling together all the way to their car.

A look of self-satisfaction on his face, Brice plunks his elbows on the counter between us and announces, "Your dad approached me before the service," as if this is breaking news.

I put on what I hope is a noncommittal expression. "Oh?"

"Yep. Says he wants to play some golf tomorrow. With me."

Now I do my best impersonation of Nikki as I wrinkle my nose. "Ew... sorry."

He laughs. "Yeah. Well, it wasn't the most appealing invitation, until..."

I raise my eyebrows expectantly.

"He mentioned he'd like to discuss some of my ideas for the church... and he didn't sound like he wanted to tell me—again—how horrible they are."

"Hmm."

He joins me behind the counter, his eyes sparkling. "Do you think he's finally coming around to my way of thinking?"

"You're adorable," I reply.

"What?"

"Nothing. You just are." Since we're alone, I move close enough to him so I can smell his aftershave and feel his body heat through his dress shirt.

He puts his hands on my waist and rests one on the small of my back. "Well, what do you think he wants, then?" he challenges. "Miss Smarty-Pants."

"I think he wants to play a round of golf."

After a tiny chuckle at my typical pessimism, he counters, "Well, I think this means something."

"Yeah, it means he doesn't like to play golf alone. Jason must be busy." I still get a kick out of tormenting him; his reaction is always so gratifying.

He doesn't disappoint this time, either. My dad's offer has obviously made him very hopeful... and happy. "Doubt all you want, but I think he's ready to listen."

I squeeze his face with my hand, scrunching his mouth into fish-lips. "So cute." I kiss him. Then I give him half a break as I let go of his face. "I hope you're right. But knowing my dad..."

He rolls his eyes and admits sheepishly, "What can I say? I'm a hopeless optimist." Then he grabs my hand, and we walk toward his office, where I'm sure a mountain of work awaits. "I know you see that as a huge weakness."

With a sneaky reach behind us, I pinch his bottom and laugh when he jumps.

"Don't worry, Pastor; your secret's safe with me."

# Chapter 1 of The Secret Keeper Confined

Peyton and Brice's adventures continue in Book 2, _The Secret Keeper Confined_ , currently available in both paperback and ebook.

### Chapter 1: The Wedding Planner

I need to touch a cow. It's not something I'm proud of, but there it is. I think it's the only cure for this constant desire to scream until the veins pop out in my neck and the blood vessels in my eyes burst. And if touching a cow doesn't work, I'm not sure what I'm going to do.

Never considered myself a control freak, but my panic at the current lack of control in my life is hinting at a personality trait that may have been lurking undetected my whole life, like some sort of latent cancer. Or maybe all brides-to-be feel like this. I'm starting to experience a scary affinity with those detestable women on that _Bridezillas_ show.

What started out as a simple plan for an understated Lutheran wedding with family, close friends, and the members of our church (you can't really get away with not inviting the congregation when you're marrying their pastor) is turning into—frankly—a cluster-fuck. And it happened without my even realizing it was getting so out of hand.

It started with the dress. When I showed my mom what I had in mind in a bridal magazine, she looked up at me as if she thought I was kidding. After it was apparent that I was serious about the ivory, simply-cut garment, she smiled across the dining table at me like I was a simpleton.

"Oh, honey. You can't wear _that_ dress."

"Why not?" I asked.

"That dress says that you're getting married because you _have to_ get married."

I grabbed the magazine from her hands and practically pressed my nose to it so I could examine the size-zero model wearing the dress. Neither she nor the dress was saying that to me, but... what do I know? "What are you talking about? I think it's nice."

"Ivory? Really?" Again with the patronizing smile.

Though now I understood what she was getting at, I didn't agree with her. "Oh. Well, Mom... I mean, everyone _knows_ about... you know..." I fumbled around, trying to get her to understand where I was coming from without spelling it out. When she unhelpfully blinked blankly at me, I sighed. "Everyone knows I'm not a virgin."

"Those are old-fashioned rules!" she insisted. "If everyone followed that convention, nobody would get married in white anymore. It's not like the wool's being pulled over anyone's eyes. But ivory! It's just so... yellow."

The irony of her talking about old-fashioned rules while worrying that people would think that I "have to get married" wasn't lost on me, but I didn't bother pointing it out to her. Instead, I sighed and gave her the magazine. "What do you suggest, then? And just so you know, I won't consider anything with puffy sleeves or cascades of tulle or bows or anything like that."

Eagerly, she flicked through the pages, licking her thumb occasionally to obtain better traction. Finally, she stopped and pointed to a long-sleeved, off-white lacy dress on a model about five sizes (at least) smaller than me. "There. That would be perfect. Understated, elegant, not bright white. But you'll look like a princess."

That's probably because it looked almost exactly like the dress that Kate Middleton wore when she married Prince William. As a matter of fact... I looked more closely. It _was_ pretty much the same dress.

"Mom, I don't know—"

"Oh, come on! It's perfect. Timeless and classy."

_I do love that dress,_ I thought wistfully as I stared at the glossy picture.

She noticed my weakening and said, "Oh, come on! You only get married once—well, at least I _hope_ you do. Especially you."

"No pressure."

" _Yes,_ pressure! As it should be." She grasped my hand on top of the table. "Too often, people go into marriage with divorce in the back of their minds as a safety net. But when you marry a pastor..." She smiled shakily. "Well, you're going to be a role model for all couples at the church."

I could tell that the idea filled her with trepidation but tried not to take offense.

I gulped. "Yeah, well, I'm not worried about that. Brice and I, we're solid."

"Oh, I know that!" she said, squeezing my hand. "But it's not just about the two of you. You'll have to remember to find time for each other and put each other first, even when everyone around you is vying for your attention and telling you that their needs are more important. Plus, Brice is already married—to the Church."

My chair squeaked on the hardwood floor as I pulled my hand from her grip and abruptly stood, but I was still relatively calm when I said, "Mom, I know all this stuff."

Unfortunately, it's a topic I've avoided discussing with my future husband, because I don't want him to think I'm worried that he won't know how to balance everything. Even though I do worry. A lot. I wasn't going to tell her any of that, though.

"Okay. Well, then. Cake tasting! When are you and Brice available to do that?"

Which brings me to the next issue: the reception. Originally, Brice and I envisioned a cake and some champagne in the church fellowship hall. Maybe coffee, too, if we felt like going wild. But when Mom heard that, she said, "What about your first dance as a married couple? What about the father-daughter dance?" On this occasion, we were talking about it on the phone, but I actually heard tears in her voice when she posed the question.

I told her we weren't planning on doing any dancing. I may as well have told her we weren't getting married at all.

"A wedding is supposed to be a party, a celebration! Celebrations involve dancing and laughing and plenty of eating and drinking," she said. "Plus, Brice's friend, Vince, is coming all the way from Florida to perform the ceremony for you two."

"So?"

"'So'?! You have to show him a good time."

I hadn't really thought about that, but I said, "Mom, I don't want this to turn into one of our family's drunken parties where people get out of control and say and do embarrassing things."

She snapped, "You make it sound like we're a bunch of white-trash drunks!"

"Who said anything about 'white trash'?"

"You need to relax." In her best realtor tone (probably the same one she used in her prime when describing a dump as a "sweet fixer-upper" to prospective buyers), she wheedled, "Why don't you just leave the reception to me? I'll find a venue that can accommodate plenty of people and has room for dancing and a nice open bar area."

"Mother."

"Your father and I will pay for everything."

"It's not about the money!"

Well, that's not completely true. Things are pretty tight with the church budget right now, and Brice thinks it'd be in poor taste if we spent a boatload on our wedding, so it is _sort of_ about the money.

She knows it, too. "I don't want you worrying about that. You guys deserve a good time, and your dad and I will do whatever it takes to make it happen. So stop worrying and have some fun!"

Honestly, until Brice, I didn't really think of myself as the type of person who ever wanted any kind of wedding to anyone. So when we initially agreed as a couple to do something low-key, I was all for it. The thought of being the center of hundreds of people's attentions makes me itchy, anyway. But when Mom started mentioning all of her ideas, she woke a sleeping bear that I didn't even know existed in me. And that bear wants to be a princess. Go figure.

Every time she calls with another one of her extravagant ideas (the four-tiered chocolate fondue fountain, the cross-shaped ice sculpture, the adorable miniature wedding cake-shaped petit fours, the string quartet, the live deejay, just to name a very, very few), I have to conjure a picture of Brice listening to me tell him the latest detail so that I don't immediately and enthusiastically agree to whatever it is (except for the ice sculpture, which I vetoed on the grounds that it's not only tacky but dorky). Most of the time, the expression on the fiancé in my head is one of dismay, so I politely remind her of our "no frills" policy. (I couldn't resist the petit fours, though. I love cake of any size, and you can never have too much cake.)

Now, in her latest call, practically in the middle of the night, I've once again rejected the string quartet in favor of having the church organist, Carol, provide the accompaniment, and I'm trying to talk her down from a ledge regarding another of her incorrect assumptions.

"What do you _mean_ you're not serving a meal?!"

I thought "We're not serving a meal" was a pretty unambiguous statement.

Impatiently, she says, "Peyton, we don't have time to argue about every detail, if you want this to happen on October twenty-first."

Oh-ho! This thinly-veiled threat immediately makes me clamp my teeth together. "That's your deadline," I say firmly.

I'll wear the dress she wants me to wear, eat the cake she wants me to eat, dance to the songs her deejay plays, drink all the alcohol she pours down my throat, and do it all with a smile, but we're getting married on the twenty-first, so help me God.

"I know it's important to you, since it would have been her first birthday and everything, but—"

"No buts." I ignore her reluctance to say Secret's name and resume the role of hard-ass, one in which I've found myself quite a bit lately. "That's the date."

"That's a Sunday, though," she says, as if it hadn't occurred to me before now.

"Yeah. I know. I've looked at a calendar a few times recently."

"That means we'll only have a couple of hours to decorate between the late service in the morning and the wedding in the afternoon."

" _Late_ afternoon. Nearly evening. It's plenty of time. We'll have lots of helping hands." Too many, in my opinion, but that's not worth getting into right now.

"And how are you going to keep Brice from seeing you before the ceremony if you're sitting out in the congregation that morning?" I can tell by her tone of voice that she thinks she has me on this one.

"We're not worried about stupid superstitions like—"

"Peyton!"

"We're not! But anyway, it's a moot point, because I won't be at church that morning. I'll be too busy packing and—"

"You're going to skip church? Does Brice know this?"

After counting to five and taking a very deep breath, I answer, "Yes, Mother. I have his permission."

Actually, the conversation with Brice went like this:

Me: "I won't be at church on the morning of our wedding."

Him: [intent on taping a frayed wire on the small lavalier microphone he wears every Sunday] "Yeah. I kind of figured. Makes sense."

[End of discussion.]

Mom snipes, "You don't have to be snide."

"You don't have to treat me like I'm an idiot kid who can't think for herself," I fire back. "The wedding date is October twenty-first. We know it falls on a Sunday. There's plenty of time to decorate the church. I won't let Brice see me before the ceremony, even though it's a dumb tradition. Did I miss anything?"

Grudgingly, she replies, "No. I don't think so. But with so little time, I can't promise you the perfect place for the reception."

Sigh. "I don't care," I say bravely. Not even a disappointed Princess Bear is going to make me back down on this point.

"Well, at least let us serve beef tenderloin at the reception. I know a caterer that can cut us a really good deal. I just think it'll look chintzy if we don't have a meal. Beef tenderloin isn't too fancy for your no frills policy, is it?" she asks with a side of extra snark.

Not for mine, but probably for my husband's-to-be. Life's about compromise, though, so I say, "Fine. Whatever. On the twenty-first. Of October. That's next month."

"Yeah, yeah. Sure. Okay, I'll call the caterer first thing in the morning." Then, as if she's breaking bad news to me, "It's probably too late to call them tonight."

You think? It was too late for her to be calling _me._

We say our goodnights, but I'm awake now. And I need to touch a cow.

Despite the ungodly hour, I immediately dial Brice's number after hanging up with my wedding planner.

I wait through the sounds that signify he's dropped the phone and is having trouble relocating it. When he answers groggily, I announce without preamble, "I need to touch a cow."

Silence, then, "Pardon me?"

"I need to touch a cow. Tonight."

"O...kay... But it's—"

"Please. I need this. You. Me. Cows. Be here in twenty."

I end the call and then redial when I realize I need to tell him, "'Here' is my place. In case you didn't know. Bye."

Nineteen minutes later, I'm waiting next to my door with my purse when my doorbell rings. I swing the door open to the hallway to reveal my hubby-to-be, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

I'd have to be a real jerk not to feel a little guilty, so I say, "Aw, you really _were_ sleeping."

"Yep," he replies, blinking hard. "I tend to be when it's the middle of the night, and I have an early-morning meeting with your dad and the other church elders the next day, but let's go touch some cows."

As we're driving away from the heart of Chicago, the highway lights intermittently backlight his profile. Neither one of us says a word, until he pulls his red Jeep onto the shoulder near the spot where we stopped months ago on an impromptu road trip that eventually led to our first kiss.

There's not an udder in sight.

"Oh, man! Where are the cows?" I whine, jumping down from the SUV and searching the dim pastures.

Brice hangs back, leaning against his vehicle while I climb the fence to make myself taller.

"Must be in for the night," he mutters. "And before you make me drive all over northern Illinois and into Wisconsin, that's probably going to be the case everywhere. It's nearly 1:30 in the morning."

I hop down from the fence and put my back to it, wrapping my arms through the rails. "No, I won't make you do that. It just would have been nice to touch one tonight. I needed it."

There's something about a cow that's calming. Until one tries to lick you with its long, sticky, purple tongue. But their general demeanor is one of patience and complacence and ease. They seem content with life, content with people telling them what to do: go here, eat this, graze there, come here. I guess it helps that they're not big thinkers. But neither am I, so why can't my life be as simple as theirs? Why can't I be just as happy with everyone else taking control of my life?

Crossing his arms over his chest, Brice looks down at his feet. "So, what's up?"

The darkness out here away from the city is dense. The Jeep's headlights and taillights are the only illumination except for a tiny sliver of moon that darts in and out of the clouds. I know he can't see my eyes from where he's standing, so I have no choice but to speak.

"You're going to be mad."

When he doesn't say anything, I take the initiative. "It's just... our wedding's going to be a _little_ fancier than we originally discussed." I think about that for a second and backtrack. "Actually, a lot, come to think of it."

"Peyton."

Quickly, I say, "I know that a wedding isn't the same thing as a marriage."

Nodding, he jams his hands in his pockets and continues to study his running shoes, but he says nothing to my statement.

"And I know the wedding doesn't set the tone for the marriage." I think about it for a second. "It really means nothing, except for two little words."

His head snaps up. "Actually, it's a very important ceremony in our culture and as part of our faith. It's a way for the bride and groom to express their love and devotion to one another, a way of _publicly_ committing, in front of God and everyone, that they will always put each other first, after Him, and their love will never waver." Slowly, he walks over and stands next to me, leaning on the fence, gazing out into the dark field.

"Okay. What you said." I chuckle at his intellectual analysis while stepping up onto the lowest fence rail to bring my face up to the same level as his.

He half-smiles. "I just don't want to send the wrong message to the rest of the church. We're talking about budget cuts and financial restructuring, and I think that if my wedding— _our_ wedding—is some kind of celebration of all things material, they'll be understandably put off by that."

"But it's my mom and dad's money. Not yours or mine or ours or the church's. My parents'. And they want to do it. For us." I examine his closed-off face while he keeps his eyes on the empty pasture in front of us. "And anyway, it's not going to be a 'celebration of all things material.' We have some tasteful ideas." I ignore the little voice in my head that's taunting me about the petit fours and continue resolutely, "They're just pricey. Some of them." Still holding to the rails, I lean over and kiss his temple.

He blinks. "If that's what you want..." I'm surprised by the amusement in his eyes when he turns his head to look at me. "You know, I'm not trying to be a killjoy."

He's normally a happy-go-lucky, fun-loving guy, so I safely tease, "Yeah, it comes naturally."

"Lately, yes. And I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing to me?" I turn around so my back is to the pasture. "I'm the one who woke you up in the middle of the night and dragged you out here to talk about wedding shit. I feel so caught in the middle, though! I know what you want, and I know what Mom wants, and they're nowhere close to being the same thing, so

it's—"

"I bet they're closer than you think." When I shake my head and smirk at how disparate their visions are, he stands in front of and leans into me. "We both want you to be happy. Period. So which wedding do you want? It's your choice. I'm showing up, no matter what."

I laugh, but really I want to cry with relief, so I keep my head down. "Really?"

"Heck yeah! You're not getting rid of me that easily."

Through my eyelashes, I check his eyes for sincerity before saying, "Okay. 'Cause I kind of want the princess wedding."

Trapping me between the hard metal fence rails and his firm chest, he nuzzles my neck and mumbles against it, "Done."

"You know what I really want?" I ask, closing my eyes and shivering at the feel of his warm breath against my throat. "I want this wedding to be over. All this planning is driving me crazy. And all this _waiting_ is making me irritable."

He laughs and straightens. I open my eyes and look up into his face as he says, "I've been really crabby, too. I snapped at Marilyn the other day. But somehow I ended up the one nearly in tears. I've been a mess."

The thought of him in a showdown with the church secretary makes me smirk. But my mouth is quickly covered by his. I let go of the rails and twine my metal-chilled fingers in his hair. When our lips separate ever-so-slightly, I say, "I love you."

Breathlessly, he replies, "I love you, too," and goes right back to kissing me.

Eyes closed, hands roaming, tongues seeking, bodies aching, we're startled out of our own little make-out bubble by a squawk from above. "Move it along, you two!" a State Trooper commands through his megaphone before shining a huge spotlight on us.

Brice freezes and turns to look over his shoulder. "Absolutely, Officer," he calls back respectfully while I hide my face against his chest and laugh. We scramble up the slope to the shoulder of the road and scamper into the Jeep, giggling and blushing like teenagers.

Once inside, I say, "Take me home, Reverend Naughty."

He turns the key in the ignition and waves out the window to the trooper, who's pulling around us and back onto the road. "I refuse to apologize for kissing the bride."

Click here for links to the different stores that sell _The Secret Keeper Confined_.

# About the Author

Brea Brown's irreverent romantic comedies feature a roster of unlikely but believable characters that will keep you turning pages late into the night--or laughing in public! She draws her inspiration from her wacky family, her Midwest upbringing, the dimestore novels she devoured as a kid, her own mishaps, and her overactive imagination. She believes in making her characters work for their dreams, but she's a sucker for a happy ending.

She lives in Springfield, Missouri with her husband and three rambunctious sons.

  Facebook

  Twitter

# About the Publisher

Thank you for your time and attention! If you enjoyed this book, we hope you will leave a short review on the site where you purchased it to let other readers know of your experience.

To be notified about new titles and special contests, events, and sales from Wayzgoose Press, please visit our website at

<http://wayzgoosepress.com>

or sign up for our mailing list by clicking here. (We send email infrequently, and you can unsubscribe at any time.)

THE END

# Also by Brea Brown

The _Secret Keeper_ series:

  * _The Secret Keeper (Book 1)_
  * _The Secret Keeper Confined (Book 2)_
  * _The Secret Keeper Up All Night (Book 3)_
  * _The Secret Keeper Holds On (Book 4)_
  * _The Secret Keeper Lets Go (Book 5)_
  * _The Secret Keeper Fulfilled (Book 6)_

The _Underdog_ series:

  * _Out of My League (Book 1)_
  * _Rookie of the Year (Book 2)_
  * _Opportunity Knox (Book 3)_

The _Nurse Nate_ series:

  * _Let's Be Frank (Book 1)_
  * _Let's Be Real (Book 2)_
  * _Let's Be Friends (Book 3)_

Stand-alone novels:

  * _Daydreamer_
  * _The Family Plot_
  * _Plain Jayne_
  * _Quiet, Please!_

