Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
“Cody wasn’t kidding,” says Pete through a chuckle. “I mean, I guess when you got a gay reverend, and both the mayor’s sons are in relationships with men … one of them with kids …”
“No shit? Guess I can see why they swore I’d fit in this place,” I mumble, referencing our chat last night. The four of us hung out on the cozy back patio when we got home from Tumbleweeds and chatted late into the night. Trey usually tries to get all the z’s he can so he’s at his best every Sunday morning, but figured a nice exception with the present company was worth it. Cody told him to relax, that he can do his sermon blindfolded, to which Trey said, “Well, obviously, I don’t need my eyes to speak.” We laughed.
But what was more obvious to me was the tension between the two of them, even while we hung out at Tumbleweeds, then at the house on the patio. Trey and Cody have unresolved business, and now that Pete and I crashed their cozy living space, they may be putting their personal issues on the back burner until we leave. I expected to hear hushed arguing when everyone finally went to bed, but everyone just fell asleep, and my spot on the couch was as quiet and peaceful as I could have wanted. After my jog, everyone woke up, we quickly gobbled a light breakfast, and here we are.
“It’s a wonderland, this town,” murmurs Pete in awe. Then he nudges me. “You didn’t answer my question.”
I shrug. “Jog was alright.”
“Nah, don’t go bullshitting a bullshitter. Something’s been off with you all morning.” I look at him. “Usually you’re all zenned out after your jog. But this morning, you seem … off.”
“I’m all on. Nothing’s off. Maybe your eyes are off.”
“Wait a sec.” Pete grabs my arm. “Are those their parents?”
I follow his line of sight through the archway leading into the chapel, where Trey is near one of the back pews, and standing in front of him are a man and woman. The man is obviously Trey’s father, practically looking like his older brother considering how handsome and youthful his face is with just a sprinkle of salt and pepper at his temples for any indication of his age. The woman is next to him, a smidge close, short and sweet-faced with a curvy body, big hair, and bigger glasses. And from where I’m standing, neither Trey’s dad nor Cody’s mom seem to indicate they’re a couple. Not holding hands. No sidelong lovebird glances. It is as casual and relaxed between them as can be. Despite that, I see Trey’s eyes flick back and forth suspiciously between the two as he appears to hold a calm dialogue with them, likely about the week, the weather, totally banal and inconsequential stuff, yet secretly playing the role of detective to sniff out the truth.
I think that’s a role he’s gonna be playing for a while.
My attention is pulled away when the church doors fly open. It’s a wonder why my eyes go straight to them at this particular moment, because people have been entering the whole past hour, one by one, sometimes groups, families, people and more people, none of whom I’ve bothered to glance at the doors for. But this time, maybe because I’m distracted by Trey and Cody’s parents, or the fates have gotten a hold of my head and twisted it around at this exact moment, my full attention is on the front doors as they swing open, and through the near-blinding veil of fiery morning sunlight someone stumbles in.
Honestly, I don’t recognize him at first.
Generic white dress shirt, baggy in places but fitting where it counts at the shoulders, blue tie with black diagonal stripes, and khaki pants. His hair is parted, surprisingly combed, with a few strands splitting from the rest and cutting down his forehead, the wind likely having gotten to them. His eyes are sunken like he didn’t sleep more than five minutes last night, dim raccoon circles around them, which I hate to admit deepen the whites of his eyes and make his blue irises shine like the mesmerizing heart of a sea-blue crystal geode.
It’s Anthony, yet nothing like the Anthony from yesterday.
That is, until the bastard looks my way.
He recognizes me at once. But other than a flicker of sourness, he doesn’t give me a second of his attention—I guess too tired for his usual antagonistic antics—as he looks away, marches straight through the wide archway leading into the chapel, and that’s the beginning, middle, and end of it.
I didn’t take the guy to be much of a churchgoer.
Also, he cleans up more than I expected. I mean, sure, he can tuck in his shirt better, particularly in the back where it sticks out like a duck tail. Maybe with a good night’s sleep, his face wouldn’t look so much like pretty-blue-eyed roadkill. But he still looks a lot better than I would have bet money on him looking so early in the morning, especially after how hard he went last night.