Page 73 of People Like Us

“The Amen Thieves are in town.” His mouth twitched faintly. “They went to the meet-and-greet at The Record Exchange.”

Morgan muttered, “I still think skipping school for a punk band is insane.”

Ben pointed at her dramatically. “They are not punk. They’re heavy metal.”

Wyatt let out a misty breath. “You sound insufferable.”

“I am insufferable,” Ben agreed easily.

I unlocked the car and everybody immediately started piling in with the sort of chaotic choreography that came naturally to teenagers used to cramming too many bodies into too-small cars.

Morgan and the girls squeezed into the backseat while Ben climbed into the trunk area with a theatrical groan about his knees.

“Are you moving? What is all this junk?” Wyatt asked, climbing in beside Ben and smacking the black trash bags full of clothes in my trunk.

I’d forgotten about packing up some of my fabrics and summer dresses with the intention of dropping them off at the Hayward’s after school. I figured if I moved my stuff out of my parents trailer bit by bit, they likely wouldn’t even notice I’d left for at least a week after I was actually gone.

I didn’t answer Wyatt, instead keeping my eyes locked on August who was sliding into the passenger seat beside me. His fingertips brushed my arm briefly before he shifted away again, his other hand moving absently to wipe fog from the passenger window. Outside, the sky hung low and bruised over Woodland.

The church parking lot looked like a revival had broken out instead of a search party. Trucks and sedans sat crooked in the dirt lot beneath the floodlights, their tires caked in mud. Headlights swept over the cornfields in pale yellow arcs, turning the stalks into rows of bones. People clustered in little knots beneath the drizzle-damp leaves of the browning Magnolia tree, clutching Styrofoam cups of coffee and speaking in hushed voices that carried anyway. Anxiety traveled fast in small towns. Faster than gossip, even.

By the time I pulled my car into the edge of the lot, there had to be fifty people there already. The engine ticked softly as it cooled. Nobody moved to get out right away.

Morgan sat in the backseat with her knees pulled to her chest, chewing the sleeve of her hoodie hard enough to ruin it. Ben stared out the window with his jaw tight, fingers drumming rapidly against his thigh. One of Morgan’s friends whispered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

I noticed my parents immediately.

My father stood near the church steps with my stepmother beside him, talking to Emily’s parents beneath the glow of the porch light. The white clapboard church rose behind them like something half-rotted and holy, the steeple cutting into the dark sky like a beacon for hypocrisy. Water dripped steadily from the gutters. The old sign near the road—PRAY FOR US SINNERS—creaked softly in the wind behind us.

“Shit,” I breathed.

My father’s eyes found the windshield at the exact same moment mine did. I watched recognition settle over his face. Then his gaze slid slowly toward August sitting beside me in the passenger seat.

August followed my stare. “Is that your dad?”

“Yeah,” I said quietly.

Pastor Spires emerged from the crowd then, weaving between people with one hand wrapped around a coffee cup. Even from the car I could see the pleasant smile stretched across his face like something stapled there. August let out a dry little laugh under his breath.

“That has to be Jack’s father.”

I blinked at him. “No. It’s Andy’s. That’s Pastor Spires.”

A slow grin spread across August’s face, crooked and mean in a way that made heat crawl up my neck. “Was he a milkman back in the nineties?”

My brows pinched together. “What?”

But August only shook his head, still smirking to himself as he pushed the passenger door open. Cold damp air flooded the car immediately, carrying the smell of wet dirt and overdue corn.

The others piled out after him. Morgan practically launched herself toward the church lot, her eyes scanning the crowd desperately like Shannon might suddenly materialize out of the fog.

August shoved his hands into the pockets of his black jacket and followed after the rest of the misfits, wrapping an arm around his sister’s shoulder. I lingered for half a second longer, then I climbed out too.

Mud sucked softly at the soles of my Mary Janes as I crossed the parking lot toward the adults. My father watched me approach with the exact same expression he used when waiting for me to confess to something before he even knew what it was yet. Beside him, my stepmother offered me a strained little smile.

Pastor Spires looked me over from head to toe.

“I’m not sure that’s an appropriate outfit to be walking through the woods in, Lola. Would hate for you to get one of your pretty dresses muddy.” His eyes flicked over my legs. “Maybe you could man the coffee station inside? Folks’ll need something warm tonight.” The sweetness in his tone made my stomach turn.