I don’t even register the change in weather. Just another thing that slips by me when I’m in her presence.
I open up the passenger door and step back, allowing space for her to get in front of me. “Yeah, a warning. Like ‘Hey Reed, I’m about to fuck up your chances of forming a complete thought. Just wanted to give you a heads up.’”
She climbs into the truck with my assistance, looks down at me after situating her dress, and frowns. “Hey, Reed?” she says more as a question than anything. Her voice suddenly apprehensive.
“Yeah?” I step closer, cranking my neck back to stare up at her. Holding my fucking breath to make sure I don’t miss whatever it is she’s about to ask me.
Pathetic.
“Fuck,” I utter through a rough shake of my head as she does it again. I shut the door, muting her animated laughter. Catching her eyes in the front window as I walk around the truck, she pins me with the happiest face I think I’ve ever seen.
That smile.
Damn.
Beth
I STEP THROUGH THE LARGE, rustic doors of the church and descend the staircase to get to the basement. Once I reach the bottom level, the room opens up into a large space. Long tables with bench seating fill the area, reminding me of the cafeteria at my high school back in Kentucky. It’s busy in here, but not a lot of noise. Everyone is eating and focused on their food. Tables of families huddled together, talking softly between bites. Other people sit alone, but they don’t look lonely. They don’t look despaired or destitute. They have a quiet hope about them as they eat their meals and keep to themselves.
I move past the line of people waiting to be served and head for the doorway that leads to the kitchen. A woman looks over at me, pausing with a soup ladle in her hand.
“Hi, can I help you?” she asks, using the back of her free hand to push the brim of her glasses up on her nose. She’s young, not much older than me if I had to guess.
Smiling, I step further into the kitchen. “I spoke to someone on the phone yesterday about volunteering. I was told to show up around eleven today.”
“Oh, yes!” She pulls her gloves off and drops them into the trash bin on her way over to me. Taking my hand in a firm shake, her light-blue eyes shine with a familiar light, but I can’t understand why. We’ve never met.
“I’m Riley. You spoke to me on the phone.”
“Beth, hi, it’s nice to meet you.” I drop her hand and follow behind as she moves back toward the table covered in hot food, the steam billowing above the containers.
“Thank you so much for coming. We’re extremely short-handed lately,” she tells me over her shoulder. She stops behind the two other volunteers. “This is Wendy, and Tonya. Ladies, this is Beth. She’s going to be helping us out occasionally.”
We exchange quick hellos as Riley grabs an apron for me off the wall. After securing it around my waist, I rub my hands together and eagerly step up behind the table. She gives me a quick run-down of the procedure for serving the people who come in. Everyone gets portions of whatever they’d like, and if there are leftovers after they go through the line, people can come up for seconds. Riley tells me most days they have enough for that to happen, except for holidays when the crowd wraps around the building.
“This is so great,” I say to Riley as I scoop a generous portion of green beans onto a plate. I hand it to the woman waiting across the other side of the table. “I wish they would’ve had something like this where I’m from. I could’ve used it.”
She looks over at me, empathy in her eyes, and I see the moment she decides to go a different route with her response. The hesitation forcing her lips to close, then the slight tilt of her head. “Where are you from?” she asks.
“Kentucky. I just moved here a few days ago. I’m staying with my aunt and uncle.”
She spoons some soup into a bowl and hands it to the man in front of her. “I would love to travel. I’ve lived here my whole life. But my family is here, and my boyfriend. He’s not much for getting out.”
I chuckle when she wrinkles her nose in disgust. “How long have you been together?”
“Few months, I guess,” she answers, almost dismissively. “I . . . he’s . . .” She huffs. “I don’t know. It’s complicated, which sounds like such a cliché thing to say.”
“Some relationships are.”
“Cliché?” she asks.
“Complicated.”
Her head drops into a quick nod.
I may have touched on a sore subject, so I decide not to pry any further as I scoop out a hearty serving of green beans onto the next plate and hand it off. Maybe changing the subject would be best.
“Have you ever been to an engagement party?” I ask.
She thinks for a moment, then shakes her head as she hands out another bowl. “No, I don’t think so. People have engagement parties?”
“Apparently.”