Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“I’m disinterested. Not lost.”
“Well, you’ll always be my son, and you’ll always be a child of God, whether you acknowledge it or not.” He nods to the piano. “That gift you got, you used to believe that was God-given.”
“I’m not exactly sure what I believe anymore, but I know most of what I learned growing up ain’t it. Church folk always sending everybody to hell till one of them makes a mistake. Then they deserve grace.”
“I’m not asking if you gave up on church,” he says, his expression grave. “I’m asking if you gave up on God.”
“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. “I don’t think about it.”
“Maybe you should.”
We stare at each other, at an impasse, the same stubbornness setting his jaw that I know sets mine. When it feels like the moment pulls so taut it might snap, he clears his throat.
“So you, uh, you seeing anybody?” he asks, steering us to what should be safer ground.
Verity’s face flashes in my mind, and my eyes wander over to the phone turned screen-down on the piano.
“No,” I say, and then shrug. “Maybe. Not exactly.”
Daddy’s brows lift, curiosity replacing the awkwardness. “Who is she?”
“A girl I dated in college. You wouldn’t rememb—”
“Verity?”
I stare at him. “You remember Verity?”
“She was the only girl you ever mentioned the whole time you were at Finley. Wasn’t hard to work out. You two dating again?”
“It’s complicated.” I sigh and thrum my fingers on the piano bench. “She cheated on me. Back then, I mean.”
I didn’t intend to say that. Daddy used to be able to get me to confess anything I did wrong with a glance. Mama always said that look was as effective as a shot of truth serum.
“I caught her kissing this other guy. We broke up, she left Finley within days, and we’ve barely seen each other the last twelve years.”
“So why now?” he asks, eyes narrowed as if he’s trying to work out a problem.
“She’s a screenwriter. A really good one, and we’re working on a movie together.”
“Dessi Blue?”
I lean back to rest my elbows on the piano. “How’d you know?”
“Saw it in Variety.” He looks slightly embarrassed, which is completely incongruous on my father’s face. “You don’t tell me about your life, so I have to read about it in the papers, watch it on TV and stuff.”
“Ahh.” I crush a kernel of guilt. “Well, yeah, it’s my friend Canon’s film. He’s the director and we’re both on his team.”
“And you realized you still have feelings for her?”
“Is lust a feeling? If so, yeah.”
“I wonder if you’re fooling yourself, ’cause you for sho ain’t fooling me. It’s more than lust and I think you know that. I’ve been the one to let you down before. You don’t forgive easily when you love.”
“I never said I loved her.”
“True,” he concedes, though he looks like he thinks he could win the argument if pressed. “So you’re considering… something with her again?”
It feels weird discussing our situationship with my father, the pastor, but it’s also oddly freeing. I haven’t talked to anyone about the havoc Verity has wreaked on my peace of mind since she reentered my life.
“We were taking the Thanksgiving break to think about it.” I shrug with deliberate nonchalance. “It’s not like it will be a serious relationship, but it could get messy, especially since we’re working together for the next few months.”
“You’ve always had a way of figuring out what you want,” Daddy says, smiling. “Maybe God will give you a sign.”
“So you saying God is thinking ’bout my hookups?” I laugh.
“I think He’s still involved in your life even if you don’t believe it. He has a way of showing us the way to go.”
“Like a sign?” I shake my head. “I’m not in the habit of looking for those.”
“You don’t have to look for signs,” he says, smiling in that way that used to reassure me when I was young, when I believed he could be counted on. “They have a way of finding you.”
THIRTY-TWO
Verity
“How about another slice of pecan sweet potato pie?” Aunt Roz yells from the kitchen. “Or some of this turkey? We got plenty. I could make you a sandwich.”
From my near-catatonic state on the couch, I groan.
“I can’t eat one more thing.” I rub my tight stomach, grimacing at the thought of putting anything else in my body. “Stop trying to feed me.”
Grabbing my phone, I fire off a text I hope I don’t come to regret.
Me: Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. Bellamy. Hope you’re eating me.
When I reread the text and spot the typo, my grin melts immediately and I try to edit.
Why won’t this let me edit? Have I updated my software?
Shit.
Me: I meant I hope you’re eating ENOUGH FOR me. Not… the thing I said before.
I slap my forehead and pray he laughs. This is all so new. We haven’t even slept together and my stomach’s already packed with butterflies.