Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 122097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
She blushes as she smiles, then shrugs. “It’s just… a really nice room.”
I chuckle and look out the window again. Only this time, I’m not thinking about those asshole parents of mine. I’m not thinking about the past at all.
I get out, walk around to Lowyn’s door, open it up, and offer her my hand. “Come on. Let’s get some fuckin’ meatballs.”
My God. I cannot believe this is even happening. I mean, Collin showing up at my motel while I’m on a trip? That’s… that’s the daydream. That’s how you picture a reunion in your mind.
It wasn’t a lie when I told Collin that I haven’t been sitting around pining for him. I am nothing if not a multitasker. I pined for him while I was busy doing other things. And no, I don’t go in his room and sigh over his things. Not often, anyway. On the every-once-in-a-while occasion though… yeah. I have.
And now we’re sitting a picturesque little restaurant that’s all decorated like a vintage cabin. And when the waitress took our order, he looked at me with one squinty eye, like he was making a determination, and then ordered me the spaghetti and meatballs. With wine. Red. And how does he even know I like red? We didn’t drink when we were kids. We didn’t even want to. That’s not what our lives were about. We were Disciple kids.
Not that we don’t have an errant teenager every now and then. Amon Parrish, exhibit A. Rosie Harlow, exhibit B. But, for the most part, Disciple kids did Disciple things. We ran the Revival nine months out of the year. Of course, it was most busy in the summer and we only did once-a-month revivals from September through Christmas Eve.
The Revival was our life.
The McBrides were in charge of souvenirs. My daddy died when Bryn and I were small. He was not from Disciple, he was from ‘over the hills’—that’s where all strangers come from as far as we’re concerned. Before my daddy’s death, the McBrides were in charge of tent construction and maintenance. After, of course, we weren’t able to do that anymore, so we got the souvenir booth and the Harlow family—Rosie had four brothers and a daddy—took over the tent stuff.
Most of the things for our little tent my mama bought, of course. Custom-made crap with the logo on it. But each family was expected to contribute a certain amount of high-dollar handmade items for the booth. Some people made quilts. Some people made soap. My sister and I made folk art. Little collages of images we’d cut out of magazines and stick on flower pots and such. It was a lot of découpage, and it was nothing fancy, really. But we had a good eye for things and people liked our stuff.
Still do. We still make it. I collect all kinds of vintage magazines in McBooms and the ones that really aren’t worth much Bryn and I use for our crafts.
Now that Amon and Collin are back, I wonder if they will have to take part again?
“My Lord, Lowyn. The look on your face right now, is that bliss?”
I take a sip of my wine so I can chuckle into my glass. “You wanna know what I was picturing in my head?”
“I’m positively dying here.”
“You, in the Revival tent, standing up at the lectern, preachin’.” Which is a little bit of a lie. I didn’t get that far in the daydream, but it was coming.
He guffaws. People turn and look at us from a nearby table. “That’s not gonna happen.”
“But you’re gonna do something though, right?”
“No. That’s the whole reason we bought outside city limits. Well, not that the city limits had any compounds for sale. But no. We’re not gonna play a part in the Revival.”
“You’re in the triangle.”
“Trust me. It’s not gonna happen.”
“But you talked to Jim Bob, though, right? Told him that? Because if not, they’re gonna expect you to contribute.”
I wait for an explosion. His vehement denial that he will not participate. But he sits back in his chair across the table from me and smiles. “What do you do to contribute?”
“Same thing.”
“Your little crafty projects?”
“Yep. They’re a bit more complicated these days, but I am nearly thirty now, so that’s to be expected.”
He presses his elbows onto the table, clasps his hands together, and leans forward. “Lowyn, can I ask you something?”
“You may.”
“Where is your husband?”
I am just about to take another sip of wine, but thankfully it hasn’t hit my lips yet or I might’ve spit it out. “What?”
“You must be hiding him somewhere. It’s the only logical conclusion. Else, what the hell is wrong with the men out here? Why are you still single?”
I take a deep breath and smile. “Well, I have had my share of men. And I do have that once-a-year one-night stand in Bishop on Mama’s birthday.”