THE SUN IS BRIGHT, birds chirping, grass still dewy as I make my way from the parking lot of Holy Hills Church to the front steps. Scanning the gatherings of people scattered in front of the brick building, I don’t see anyone I recognize. That’s both good and bad.
I wasn’t going to show up here this morning. I made plans to meet Delaney for brunch just so I wouldn’t. But when I woke up at six, I changed my mind.
I try to settle my nerves by reminding myself this is a means to an end. I’ll sit through a short service, probably one my soul needs more than I care to admit, give the money I owe Walker to Peck, and then go back home and plot my escape from Illinois. Easy as pie. Except part of me wants to hear what Walker has to say.
Lying in bed last night, tossing and turning, I kept telling myself it didn’t matter. My feelings are wounded, my pride is injured, so what do I care what he wanted to say?
Because what will it hurt?
The pastor stands by the front door step, shaking hands with each person as they enter. The air has a melody about it as the light breeze dusts across the steps. Laughs, stories about grandchildren, and talks about potluck dinners drift about, soothing my nerves like a warm balm.
My heels click against the steps, my hand guiding up the shiny black rail as I near the top. The pastor extends a hand, a warm, welcoming smile on his aged face.
“Welcome,” he says, his voice passive and kind. “Are you new here?”
“I’m visiting for the day. A guest of . . . Nana? I’m sorry. I’m not even sure what her name is. How awful is that?”
“Quite the opposite, actually.”
“How do you figure?” I take his hand and give it a shake.
“Well, you know her as Nana, a very important title. That tells me you met her through a memorable experience that left an impression on both of you.”
“I don’t know about that.”
He pats the top of my hand before steering me inside. “We’re glad to have you today. Please, make yourself at home.”
“Thank you.”
Stepping inside the sanctuary, most of the patrons are sitting in wooden pews. They form two rows with a walkway in the center that leads to an altar and an elevated platform behind it with a plain podium. A vintage piano sits in the corner and a lady with silver hair sits at the keys, playing an old hymn I remember as one of my grandfather’s favorites.
Tucking my clutch under my arm, I scan the pews. My mouth is dry and I sidestep people, feeling like I’m just in the way of their normal weekly routine. Like I don’t belong. Like I should just go home.
Left to right, I glaze over old folks, babies, toddlers, and middle-aged men and women all chatting softly until I get close to the front on the right.
Walker sits between Machlan and another guy, the one I saw with them the night of the bat-to-truck fiasco. A navy and brown plaid shirt stretches across Walker’s wide shoulders, his dark hair combed to the side and shining in the bright morning sunlight streaming in through the windows. Machlan and the other guy chat around him, leaning behind so that Peck, who’s sitting in the pew behind them next to Nana, can join in.
My feet want to march their way to Walker, to stand in front of him and try to gauge how he’s feeling. Not that I should care. I shouldn’t even give a crap but there’s something about the man that I want to break open, to hold, to fix whatever it is that’s so tarnished in him that he can’t even smile a true smile without feeling guilty. That has to always keep everyone at arm’s length. That he has to be so miserable.
Sucking in a breath, I head towards them, pausing every now and then to thank different parishioners as they welcome me to the service. With each step, I second guess why I’m here and wonder if I could just slip the money to Peck and bolt.
The journey to their position in the church takes exorbitantly longer than it should. Everyone wants to introduce themselves, say hello, ask me if I want a coffee or donut from the lobby. As considerate as they all are, as grateful as I am for the warm reception, each second that goes by is another opportunity for my nerves to warp into a tighter, more confounding knot.
“Good morning,” I say, gripping the edge of the pew to keep from falling over as Walker’s cologne whips me in the face. It’s not that it’s strong or that he’s the only one fresh out of the shower. It’s that his is the only one that I pick up out of all the body washes and aftershaves on this Sunday morning.
At the sound of my voice, all heads in the Gibson clan turn to me. Walker’s eyes are wide and a little bloodshot and I wrangle mine away before he can see inside them. Plus, I’m not sure now I’m here that I want to see inside his.
Machlan smirks, exchanging a glance with the man on the other side of Walker. He’s a lighter, thinner version of Walker but with a self-assuredness I can recognize as something I usually see in myself. Not today.
Peck stands from his seat behind them, effectively blocking me from Walker’s line of sight. “Good morning,” he says. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”
“I probably shouldn’t have,” I say, feeling a little relief in his simple smile.
There’s something about the way he’s looking at me—head cocked to the side, playful grin painted on his lips—that has me curious. As if to drive the point home, whatever point he’s trying to make, he lobs me a wink before turning to Nana. “Look what we have here.”
“Well, good morning, Sienna,” she says, nudging the man next to her to move down a bit. “Here. Grab a seat by me.”
“Peck’s sitting there,” I say, the collar of my dress feeling tight, as I avoid Walker’s stare. “I can just sit in the back. It’s not a problem.”
“Nonsense. There’s room for all of us. Patrick will move down, won’t you, hon?” She glances beside her as the old man wearing a ruby-colored tie makes room. “Here. Sit right here.”
Peck moves so I can pass him and take the spot between him and Nana. Walker is turned in his seat, his cuffs rolled to his elbows, and watches me like he might blink and I’ll be gone.
“Have you met all my handsome grandsons?” Nana asks. “That’s Machlan, of course you know Walker. That’s Lance and Peck. They’re all good boys,” she says, patting my leg. “And so is their sister, but she’s outgrown us by now.”
Walker’s gaze follows her hand to my thigh, letting it linger, before he blazes a trail back to my eyes. “Mornin’.”
“Good morning,” I say, shifting in my seat. My heart thumps so loud I think Nana can hear it as she rambles to Patrick about her morning glories.
Squirming in my seat, I situate my purse on my lap. Peck nudges me with his shoulder and I nudge him back, a playfulness between the two of us that takes the edge off my nerves.
“I’ve heard a lot about you.” The man I know now as Lance settles against the back of the pew, a smirk playing across his features. He resembles his brothers handily, his face clean-shaven though, instead of the scruff Walker and Machlan sport. There’s an air of refinement about him that’s a stark dichotomy to the almost barbarianism that swims just below the surface of his striking hazel eyes. “I’m Lance.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say politely, noting the scowl on Walker’s face out of the corner of my eye that might include a twinge of jealousy. “Walker and Peck have Crank, Machlan, Crave. What do you do?”
“I teach history at the high school in Carlisle.”
“He’s the resident nerd,” Peck jokes.
“I love history, actually,” I tell them. “American history, mostly, but I had classes on European history and Russian culture in college.”
He seems impressed. “Meeting a woman who likes history doesn’t happen often.”
Walker fidgets in his seat, catching Lance’s attention. He glances at Walker, his smirk deepening. “What’s your story, Sienna?”
“She doesn’t have one,” Walker almost growls. I look at him, his gaze capturing it immediately and holding it hostage. It freezes me to my seat, causes a bead of sweat to line the back of my neck. I could easily sit quietly and just have this silent conversation, the one that makes me feel like no one else is in the room, but I don’t. Because that’s what he wants.
Clearing my throat, I tear my gaze away from Walker and settle it on Lance. I think, if not seated by his brother’s side, Lance would be hard to look away from.
“How sweet of Walker to speak for me,” I say sweetly. “Actually, I don’t have much to share that wouldn’t bore you to death.”
“I doubt that,” Lance mutters. “I seriously fucking doubt that.”
Nana leans forward, swatting Lance in the side of the head. “Don’t you think about using that language in here, Lance Miller Gibson.”
“Sorry, Nana. Won’t let it happen again.”
“Better not let it happen again,” Walker warns him, his tone so low that I find myself gulping. Lance doesn’t seem fazed, just laughs. But he does turn back around towards the front.
The pastor taps the mic attached to the podium. Walker’s eyes drag over me, leaving a scorched trail in their wake, before he, too, faces forward.
Shuddering in my seat, trying to remain unaffected, I feel a nudge at my rib. Looking at Peck, I’m met with a set of twinkling blue eyes. “Thanks for coming,” he whispers. “He was an ass all night.”
“Walker?” I whisper back as the pastor begins to speak.
“Who else? Did you see his eyes? Drinkin’ like a fool since you drove off.”
Staring at the back of his head, I wonder if he’s trying to forget what happened. Trying to forget me. The idea causes my heart to ruffle in my chest. Turning back to Peck, I whisper, “I shouldn’t be here.”
“Hell yeah, you should. Listen,” he says, leaning his head so he’s almost whispering straight into my ear, “I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but he needs this.”
“Needs what?”
“Please stand and join us in the singing of Amazing Grace,” the pastor says. A piano strikes the first notes of the beloved tune. I join the others in singing from memory.
Nana’s voice is soothing and I find myself relaxing into the lyrics. I make a concerted effort not to watch Walker, to block out the whiffs of his cologne and the way my body feels a tingle every time I hear his voice cut through the others.
“Do you trust me?” Peck interjects as we take a breath before going into the second stanza.
“No, I don’t trust you,” I hiss. “I don’t know you.”
“That’s your second mistake,” he chuckles.
“What’s the first?”
“This is a house of God, Sienna . . .”
I can’t help but giggle at the look on his face, a move that gains me a glance over the shoulder from Walker as we take our seats. I flash him a forced smile, a move that seems to confuse him more than anything. Machlan bends and whispers something in his ear. Whatever it is causes Walker’s scowl to come parading back and Nana to swat at Machlan.
He doesn’t look at me for the rest of the service. I just stare at the back of his head and feel my anxiety creep up with every tick of the clock. I replay things in my mind that should require some sort of Confession, but all done in the spirit of trying to figure out what happened with Walker.
As the pastor has us stand for a final prayer, I hang my head and say a prayer of my own for guidance. When I open my eyes again, as the entire room says a somber “Amen,” Nana switches gears.
“Dinner is at two at my house,” she says, picking up her pocketbook that looks like it could hold an entire casserole. “The boys usually come on over after church and you’re more than welcome to drive over—”
“Oh, Nana, no,” I say, placing a hand on her arm. “That’s not necessary.”
“Yeah, she’s riding with me.” Peck takes my elbow. “We’ll be over in a second.”
Nana readily accepts this bit of information and engages Patrick in a conversation about the library.
“Say that again?” Walker is facing us completely, his hands wrapped along the back of the pew.
His tone skirts over my skin, like a shot of adrenaline being injected in to my veins. My mouth opens slightly to keep from losing air as I look up at Peck.
“She and I will be at Nana’s,” he says easily, like he’s completely unaware that Walker wants to rip his throat out. “Just letting Nana know.”
The pastor comes up to Walker, Machlan, and Lance, forcing Walker to turn away but not without a final look planted straight on me.
“I’m what?” I ask, following Peck into the aisle. “Are you crazy? I’m not going with you.”
“Shh,” he whispers, looking to see if Walker is listening. “Trust me.”
“I thought we went over this?”
He rolls his eyes and sighs. “Answer one question.”
“Fine.”
“Do you like him?”
“Like who?” I ask like I don’t know.
“Walker,” he scoffs. “Do you like him? If he wasn’t a complete dick, would you like him?”
His tone sends a note straight to my heart, the goofiness of Peck gone and replaced with a sincerity that’s beyond sweet.
“That’s answer enough,” he notes. “Give me this afternoon.”
“Whether I like him or not doesn’t matter, and for the record, I don’t,” I tell him. “Not anymore.”
“Don’t lie in church. We aren’t Catholic. You just can’t head to Confession and be absolved of your sins.”
Blowing out a breath, I change tactics. “I’m not going to your Nana’s and making a scene. It’s Walker’s grandma’s house, Peck. Not mine. I have no business being there.”
“Except she invited ya,” he points out.
“Not knowing her grandson fuc . . .” I clear my throat. “Not being apprised of all the facts.”
“Do you want to go home alone?” he asks.
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“Come to dinner with me,” he almost begs. “Hang out with my cousins. Have some good food. When’s the last time you had a home-cooked meal?”
“Peck . . .” I whine.
He leans in, his eyes searching mine. “Walker is coming this way. Just go with me, Sienna. You can leave if you hate it. I’ll even take you, but . . . trust me.”
As Walker walks by, not stopping to chat or even glancing at me, his fingertips brush my hip. That’s all it takes. That simple contact not lasting more than a microsecond is all it takes to pull the trigger on the flood of emotion ripping through my veins.
To anyone looking, it would seem like an accidental brush, if they noticed at all. To me, I felt what he was saying. I just don’t understand it.
“Fine,” I say, heading towards the door. “But if he’s an ass, I’m leaving and you’re going with me.”
“Fair enough, Slugger. Fair enough.”