Dumplin - Julie Murphy Page 0,83
mystery to me.
“I go to church. Mass. I go to mass.”
“Wait, you’re actually Catholic?”
He doodles designs on his steering wheel with his finger. “I don’t know.”
“How can you not know?”
The streetlight reflects off the silver chain peeking out from his collar. “Coach used to always have us go to mass during the season, and I guess I got in the habit.”
“How punny.”
His lips form an uneven smile. “I like the tradition of it.”
“Does your family go, too?”
He laughs. “Not a chance.”
The quiet of my street seeps in through the cracks of his truck.
“I better go,” I whisper.
He leans toward me and hooks his hands behind my ears, pulling me to him. Our lips brush, so light it tickles. But it’s not quite a kiss. “I want to kiss you. I want to kiss you very soon.” His words spill right into my mouth. “But I’m not going to mess us up this time.”
I have so many questions, but I think I’ve got enough for today.
He drops his hands, letting his fingers trail down my cheeks.
“Come to mass with me tomorrow.”
I bite in on my lips. “Okay.”
FORTY-EIGHT
The minute I walk inside, reality crashes down around me. Mom is working on my dress and watching some Lifetime movie with the volume turned up too high.
I want more than anything to call El and tell her about every inch of these last two days. Lee Wei, Dale, Bo, Loraine. All of it. I slump down into a chair at the kitchen table and swipe through my phone until I find our last texts from almost two months ago. I hit compose.
ME: I spent the day at Private School Bo’s house. He likes me a lot. We talked about everything and nothing. He almost kissed me and it was the most amazing non-kiss ever. I’m trying not to think about Mitch. I’ve ignored his texts all weekend. How can having such an incredible day make me feel like such a shitty person? I miss Lucy. And I miss you so fucking much. I apologize. I apologize for everything I have ever done wrong. A blanket apology.
I stare at the words, wondering what might happen if I hit send. I press the delete button because the fear of her not responding is too great for me to risk it.
Bo texts me when he arrives, which is perfectly timed because my mom is getting in the shower.
“I’ll be back later!” I call to her.
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