After a full day of catching up on reality TV, and delicious local pizza for dinner, I’m ready for a good night’s sleep before eating more during our Thanksgiving meal tomorrow. I haven’t checked in with Matt since I arrived in Connecticut, so I decide to send him a quick text.
Me: Forgot to tell you—made it back to CT okay. Drunk guy is probably nursing a heck of a hangover in Boston right now.
Matt: Oh good, I was worried :) How’s home?
Me: Amazing. You?
I wince a little after sending the text, realizing that, while I don’t know the whole story, I do know things are dicey with him and his dad.
Matt: Meh. My mom picked me up at the station in Atlanta last night and I went to bed right when I got home. Spent most of today watching TV in my room.
Me: Avoiding reality?
I decide to push it a little.
Matt: For as long as possible.
Me: Good luck with that. Any fun plans with friends this weekend?
Matt: Homecoming is Friday. As last year’s King I’m expected to be there, I guess.
My jaw drops open, and I press the button to call him.
“Hello?” he answers, sounding surprised.
“Yes,” I reply in my most proper, upper-crust accent, “I’d like to speak to His Majesty.”
He grumbles in to the phone. “Come on!”
“You come on! Homecoming King? How have I gone all this time and never knew this.”
“Because my plan to never have you find out worked until just now.”
I click my tongue. “Tsk, tsk. I can’t believe you held out on me.”
“What about you? Aren’t you prom queen, or something?”
“Ha! Yeah, that’s me. Are you drunk right now?”
“I wish,” he answers a little darkly. “Do you have plans this weekend?”
I sigh. “I don’t know. There’s this freakin’ party at my ex-boyfriend’s house that everyone is going to. Whatever. I don’t know.”
Matt is silent for a few seconds. “Wouldn’t that be weird?”
“Yep. I’d have a bunch of friends there, though.”
“Alcohol?”
“Huh?” I ask.
“Is there going to be alcohol there?”
I shrug, as if he can see me. “Probably.”
“Watch your six, K. Sawyer. Remember that bull’s-eye you talked about? Bet it followed you home, too.”
My throat tightens, because I’ve considered the same thought. “Do you think for real?” I ask anyway.
“Just be careful, okay?”
“I will. Talk to you later. Have a good day tomorrow. And Friday, King.” I giggle like a damn schoolgirl.
“You, too. Night.”
“Night.”
“Who was that?” Mom startles me as she stands in the doorway.
I jump, sliding my phone onto the bed next to me. “Matt.”
“Wells?”
I nod.
She crosses the room and sits on the edge of my bed. “You light up when you talk to him,” she says in a scientific tone.
I shrug. “He’s nice to me. I feel safe with him.”
Mom’s eyes move carefully over my face. “Do you like him?”
“Mom, please.” I roll my eyes. “Even if I did, what business would I have dating a preacher’s son?”
She narrows her eyes. “Why not?”
She doesn’t point out the fact that I’m a preacher’s daughter.
I stare at her for a while, tilting my head to the side. “Why not?” I state for clarification.
She shrugs. “It might be good for both of you, don’t you think? He’d be an upstanding, safe, respectful guy, and you could teach him about the real world.”
Rolling my eyes, I move so I’m sitting next to her, my legs dangling over the side of my bed. “He’s from Rome, Georgia, Mom. He’s not a hillbilly. It’s more of a city than this place.”
“Still,” she says, wrapping an arm around me, “I know his dad, and—”
“About that,” I cut in. “Do you know, like, what happened to his dad over the last few years?”
Mom looks confused. “No, what?”
“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “But it was something. I do know he got burnt out and stopped pastoring his church for a while. I don’t even know if he’s pastoring right now, at all. And, Matt’s made some weird references to sex and alcohol and stuff … I don’t know.” I briefly wonder if I should have mentioned any of this to her at all, because without a doubt she’ll have answers before I do.
“Listen,” she says softly. “I knew him a long time ago, but he was an upstanding guy with a lot of character. If he fell into a hard time, I trust he’ll work through it.” Her confident tone does little to calm me.
Actually, it pisses me off.
“You trust he’ll work through it?” I stand, facing her with my hands on my hips.
“Kennedy,” she says, standing next to me, “what’s the matter with you?”
“Why didn’t you trust that Roland would work through it? Huh? If it was a hard time he’d fallen on, why’d you let him walk away so easily?” This unplanned emotional outburst stings my eyes with tears.
“That’s different,” she states flatly.
“How?”