If she asks where I’m going, I don’t hear her over the water.
I’m not even trying to hide that I’m going somewhere with Bo. It’s that I’m going to a church with Bo, because my mother would rather me not go to church at all than go to a Catholic church. Which makes no sense to me. Catholics, Protestants, Christians, Baptists . . . they all believe in the same things, I think. They just have different ways of saying it. I guess we’re Baptist. I mean, my mom goes to Clover City First Baptist, and so do I on holidays.
Bo, in his pressed khaki pants and black polo, is leaning against the passenger door, waiting for me. I feel slightly overdressed in my black dress, the one I wore to Lucy’s funeral, but it’s the only church-appropriate thing I own.
He holds the door open for me, and we drive the whole way there with our hands on the bench seat between us. Nothing but our pinkies touch, and it feels like a spark on the verge of a flame.
I have never in my life been inside a Catholic church. I imagine they’re all these ancient buildings with steeples, stained-glass windows, and those kneeling benches like you see in movies.
Holy Cross is newer though. There are still pews with kneeling benches and stained-glass windows. It’s quieter than my mom’s church. More peaceful. There are no boisterous greeters or gossipy Sunday school teachers.
It’s nice.
At both sides of the altar are candles in red votives, but not all of them are lit.
“What are those for?” I whisper to Bo after we’ve found a seat in the middle of the church.
“You’re supposed to leave a dollar or something in the collection box and light a candle in memory of someone. And, I guess, say a prayer if you want.”
Service starts and after a few announcements and some hymns, the collection plate is passed around. Bo pulls a crumpled ten from his wallet and drops it on the plate before passing it along. Father Mike gives his sermon. I guess I expected it to be in Latin or something, but it’s not, it’s in English. Each word is measured. The whole thing feels a little bit like a ceremony, like when I was in Girl Scouts and I went from Daisy to Brownie.
After the service, I follow Bo to the candles where a few other people have gathered. He drops a few dollars into the lockbox and gives me a stick to light a candle from a larger candle. We both light a candle. Neither of us says who the candles are for, but we don’t have to.
I imagine what it might be like to do this every Sunday with Bo. Even if I don’t know if all of this is something I believe in, it’s nice to be a part of something. With him.
We walk outside to the parking lot, where all the socializing is happening. Bo waves to a few people. He points to a man in a navy blazer and khaki pants. “That’s my coach.” It breaks my heart to hear him talk about this man so firmly in the present, as if he still was his coach.
“Bo!” It takes me a moment to recognize him, but it’s Collin. That same guy who came and visited Bo at Harpy’s. He jogs toward us.
“Hey,” he says, pointing at me. “I recognize you.”
I feel myself recoiling.
Bo holds his hand out and the two exchange a firm handshake that looks more like a show of strength. But there’s none of that suffocating tension radiating off Bo like there was the last time these two saw each other.
“What’s up, man?” asks Collin.
Bo shrugs. “Work. School.”
A few other guys from the team are heading over now. I feel like the elephant in the room—or the parking lot. Literally and figuratively.
He shakes each of their hands.
They ask him about school and his knee and if he’s going to try to do some rehab to get back on the court. My shoulders ease a little as I almost start to feel invisible.