“Don’t apologize. Frankie was the same way.”
Frankie never spoke much. When he did, he was just one inspirational quote away from being the pastor version of my mother. That’s why the only person keeping me sane was my dad, who also never spoke much, but managed to touch on sports and politics and things that I wasn’t entirely sick of hearing about yet when he did. I watched him eat his PB&J in total silence, and imagined he resented being there as much as I did.
“How was Dad’s appointment?” Frankie asked. He addressed the question to my mom, because it wasn’t like my dad was sitting right there and could speak for himself or anything. “Our entire congregation has been praying for him.”
“We’re trusting the Lord right now,” Karen answered as she touched her heart. “The doctor says his palpitations are probably stress related. He’s been taking it easy, but he needs lots of prayer.”
“How about we pray right now?” Blondie suggested.
This was not happening. At even the slightest mention of prayer, my mother turned into the Flash, grabbing my hand quicker than Frankie could start the opening “We praise you, Lord.”
“Lord, the great healer, the protector, the alpha and omega, the beginning and the end, nothing is too big for You. We lift up Dad today and ask for Your healing hand of protection on his heart. Keep him safe. Relieve his burdens. Your word says, ‘Come to me all who are weary, and you will find rest.’ Give Dad rest today. Bathe him in Your love and keep him safe. Thank You for all You have blessed us with and continue to bless us with each and every day. We love You, our Father. It’s in Your Son’s name, Amen.”
I’d been raised not to make fun of prayer. Karen said it was sacrilegious, and God might send down a giant pillar of fire from heaven to teach you a lesson if you did. But I couldn’t shake the plain truth that that prayer was an utter load of crap. No offense to my dad, who was probably as confused as I was that we were praying for him like he was on life support when all he was trying to do was eat his sandwich in peace. So he had heart palpitations, big deal. I had chickenpox once—?didn’t mean I was dying of a flesh-eating bacteria.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was the same scene. Frankie. Blondie’s painted face. Drooling Killian. My terminally ill (see: perfectly healthy) dad. Karen being Karen.
Then I saw a familiar face. His neck tattoo. His unwashed hair. His ripped jeans. His black T-shirt that said I DO MY OWN STUNTS. He was walking toward us with a fishing pole in hand, his bulky camera strapped on his back. It kind of made me wonder what I’d been subconsciously praying for.
“Snake?”
“Hey, Masons,” he said, giving my mother premature wrinkles from how intensely she was frowning. “What brings you all to the pond?”
He knew we were going to be there. I’d told him Friday night when I left his house. Like always, he was being a rebellious douchebag. I definitely hated that in the good way.
Frankie stood to his feet with his customary diplomatic air and shook Snake’s free hand. “Frankie Mason, Reggie’s brother. Part-time prayer leader, full-time youth pastor. And you are?”
“Snake Eliot. Part-time filmmaker, full-time stud. Still fuzzy on the who I am thing.”
“Do you go to church with my family?”
“No, Frankie.” I stood up, shooting Snake a mean look. “Snake is my friend from work.”
“The soft serve business is booming these days.” Snake smirked. “I like to think of Reggie and me as partners in cream.”
I couldn’t believe he’d said that out loud. Frankie and Blondie cracked up, corny humor being their niche and all. Karen wasn’t amused in the least, to no one’s surprise.
“Would you like to stay for the picnic?” Frankie asked. “We have plenty.”
“I’m sure the young man has plans,” Karen interrupted. She didn’t look at Snake or me or anyone, really. She coddled baby Killian and talked to the top of his bald head. “He has a fishing rod. He was probably on his way to catch some trout.”
“This old thing?” Snake shook the rod. “Nah, I just tote it around so it looks like I’m doing something. I come down here to film a lot, can’t have people thinking I’m a creep. I live up on the hill over there.” He pointed to his house.
“Well, then, take a seat,” Blondie offered. “We have plenty of sandwiches for everyone.”
He was fearless, almost vicious in his neglect for rules and conventionality and polite behavior. The name Snake had never fit him so perfectly.
He moved to sit by me. Karen hesitantly dipped into the cooler, pulled out a chicken salad sandwich, and handed it to him with extra caution. She couldn’t have her holy hands graze his hellion fingers.
He took a bite. “This is great, Mrs. Mason,” he said with full jaws. “I’ll have to get this recipe for my moms.”
Karen froze, looking to see if Frankie noticed the plurality of that statement. He did. Snake smiled, because he knew exactly what he was doing.
“It’s a family recipe,” she said. “I’d rather not share it.”
“I get it. Family recipes are sacred stuff. That’s like, one of the Ten Commandments, I think. ‘Thou shalt not share recipes with unbelievers.’ I don’t know, something like that.”
“That’s not a commandment.” Frankie frowned. “I can list them for you if you’d like.”
“No, I know them. Adultery. Lying. Stealing. Something about cows.”
“Brazen images,” Dad said. He hadn’t spoken all day. It was weird to hear him talk.
“Ding. Ding. Ding. We have a winner.” Snake grinned. “It’s always the quiet ones.”
Dad smiled. I got the feeling he liked Snake, or at least appreciated him. I was glad I wasn’t the only one.
Baby Killian hadn’t taken his big blue eyes off Snake from the moment he sat down. It was like Snake was like the biggest, newest toy in the playpen. He reached out his tiny hand and cooed to get Snake’s attention. Blondie patted his hand down, but he only raised it again.
“I think someone wants you,” she said to Snake. Frankie shot her a look like she should have kept her mouth shut.
Snake took the last bite of the sandwich and wiped his hands on a napkin. “What’s his name?”
“Killian,” she said.
“That name’s kick ass.” He put his hand over his mouth. “Sorry. I mean kick butt.” He tilted toward me and whispered, “I hope Carla picks out something cool like that.”
Killian smiled his gap-toothed smile and reached both of his chubby arms in Snake’s direction.
“Can I hold him?” Snake asked.