All things considered, the rest of the evening was surprisingly nice. The Winston siblings, like their momma, were genuinely kind. And the people they chose as partners were also lovely. Duane and Jessica made a cute couple; Ashley and Drew fit perfectly together; and how Jethro fussed over Sienna warmed my heart.
The evening was surprisingly nice despite not typically enjoying large groups of people. In fact, I usually avoided groups as a rule. Being homeschooled probably had something to do with it. Not all homeschoolers are this way, but my momma didn’t see the need for me to socialize with kids my age. Now, in my twenties, group dynamics felt alien and intimidating.
But once I relaxed and just allowed myself to be, being a part of this group—the Winston group—was easy. They didn’t stare or expect me to perform. I didn’t have to say another word once Ashley and I finished our conversation about canning. An hour passed where I didn’t say anything at all. I just listened, and blended, and enjoyed myself.
“Let the record show, never say never to Cletus Winston.” Cletus nodded once at his assertion, a smugly satisfied smile on his features.
At present, Cletus was walking me to my car. I’d lost track of time and when I realized it was after 10:00 PM, I made my excuses. He jumped up from his seat and offered to see me out, and so here we were.
I glanced at him and rolled my eyes. “Fine. You were right. I’ll never say never to Cletus Winston.”
His smile widened briefly, but then he cleared his throat and wiped all humor from his features. “We have a lesson on Monday and you have new homework.”
“I do?”
Cletus opened the driver’s side door of my car. “You do. This week, and once a day for the next month, you are going to change one thing.”
I waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, I asked, “What do you mean?”
“Just that. You are going to change one thing every day for the next month.”
“Change what?”
He shrugged. “That’s up to you.”
I frowned at him, a bubble of discomfort making me squirm. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
His smile returned, but now it was sly. “Nope.”
“Cletus.”
“Nope.” He shook his head stubbornly. “No, ma’am. You have to decide. It can be anything, anything at all. Change the route you take to work, change the lipstick you wear, or go crazy and change your hair color. The only rule is, it has to be something you want to change. You have to want it, not your momma, not your daddy, not your dog, you.”
I glared at him. The freedom he gave me felt too unwieldy, too foreign. But it also felt exciting.
“I don’t have a dog,” I deadpanned.
“There’s an example. Change your doglessness.”
“Fine,” I finally said, both smirking and glaring as I slid into my car. “Fine. I’ll change my underwear.”
He barked a laugh and took a step back as I shut my door. I started the engine, and rolled down the window. “Now, don’t go crazy,” he teased.
I pressed my lips together so he wouldn’t see me smile as I reversed out of my parking spot. But as soon as I turned onto the main road, I let the grin loose. And I grinned almost the entire way home.
Almost . . . because as soon as I pulled into my parents’ driveway, the weight of my day—my day before bringing compassion cake to the Winston’s—caught up with me. My mother would be home. And so would my father. I still had to deal with the consequences of saying no to my mother.
With a heavy heart, I parked my car and forced myself to leave it.
Maybe they’re asleep.
But I knew they weren’t. The entryway light was on. My father always turned the entryway light off when he went to bed.
My foot just touched the porch landing when my father pulled open the front door, his expression thunderous.
“Jennifer Anne Sylvester, get yourself inside this house right now.”
I sighed quietly and nodded, walking past him through the door. My mother was waiting for me, dressed in her blue bathrobe, makeup still on her face.
“So glad you finally decided to come home.” Her arms were crossed and her eyes were a little wild; her voice was laced with barely contained hurt and fear. “Do you know how worried we were?”
“I’m sorry.” Guilt and disappointment—in myself—made it hard to breathe. I hated letting my mother down. “I should have texted and let you know—”
“No. You should have come straight home,” my father corrected, his tone both flat and furious. “You have no business being out this late.”
They stared at me, displeasure and irritation etched on their features. My stomach turned, I felt a little queasy.
My momma broke the heavy silence, her words dripping with frustration. “You’re in jeans, Jennifer. Are you trying to ruin everything? Everything we’ve worked for?”