It’s disorienting, but what isn’t these days?
As a matter of fact, when Zan pulls up in front of my apartment Sunday morning, I’m so relieved, I kinda wanna leap into his arms. He comes around to the passenger side of the Jeep, and it takes every bit of willpower I’ve got to resist wrapping myself around him and just…holding on.
It’s terrifying.
He looks me over, top to toe. Since we’re headed to church, beneath my borrowed-from-Mama’s-closet wool coat, I’m wearing a plum pencil skirt and white button-down shirt, with actual high heels (also snatched from Mama’s closet, lord help me).
It’s like the sun is rising on his face as he takes me in. “Well, hot damn, Danger.”
My cheeks combust, so I drop my chin. “Stop it.”
He chuckles.
When I raise my head, he’s still checking me out. Grinning.
“Geez, Macklin, have you no shame?” I pull my coat closed.
“Sorry.” He shoves his hands in the pockets of what is surely a Burberry trench. Rocks back on the heels of his mahogany leather wing tips. “It’s just, uhh”—another sweep of the eyes from my head to my feet and back again—“hard to look away.”
Tongue. Tied. And hot. Like really hot all of a sudden. I’d take off the coat, but I don’t want him to see the sheer mass of junk in my trunk. It’s occurring to me that he’s probably noticed before, and now eye contact is impossible.
How do people deal with all these feelings?
“Come on.” He pulls the door wide and helps me up.
I’m a little nervous he’ll be able to tell how flustered I am once both doors are closed, but thankfully, he starts talking as soon as we’re both buckled in. “So I looked up this church we’re going to,” he says. “Beau wasn’t lying. It’s big.”
“Okay…”
“Just a heads-up. Picture’s not great and we don’t have a name,” he says. “Not trying to be a Peter Pessimist, but we may have trouble finding someone who knows who she is.”
“Oh.” The fact that that fact didn’t hit me as hard as it should’ve is telling. I peek at Zan. “How big is it?” I ask.
“Fourteen thousand members.”
“Jesus.”
“Precisely.”
I smile. “Miracles happen in churches, right?” I reach out to pat his knee before I can think better of it.
The air in the car thickens, so I clear my throat and turn to look out the window. “Where is this place exactly?”
“It’s got a Norcross address, believe it or not. Exactly seven-point-three miles from my house, so three-point-four from yours.”
Not sure what’s more shocking: that the church is so close, or that he knows the exact distance between our respective homes. “Didn’t realize that many people in this town go to church.”
“I’ll take that to mean you don’t?”
I shrug. “My mom does sometimes, but she doesn’t make us come. I’m usually working.”
“Gotcha.”
“How ’bout you?”
“My family’s Catholic. I go to Mass when my grandma makes me. Speaking of which, she’s really looking forward to meeting you.”
Huh? “Who?”
“My grandma.”
“Your grandma…?”
“Wants to meet you.”
Now I’m staring at him.
“I might’ve mentioned you to her.”
“Mmm…Okay…” Why? is what I don’t say.
“She’s super nosy, so she wanted to know all about you.” He rubs the back of his neck. “So I told her. And now she wants to meet you.”
I swallow and drop my eyes to my hands in my lap. What could he have said? I’ve been hanging with this poor, sad brown girl who works in a gas station, smells like fake nacho cheese, and is obsessed with finding a missing lotto ticket? “What’d you tell her?”
He snorts. “That’s classified, Danger.”
Punk.
I cross my arms. “You’re annoying.”
He laughs. “The fact that she wants to meet you should make it clear my report was full of praise.”
“What’s there to praise?”
“Oh, a lot.” He looks me over again and winks.
* * *
—
Victorious Faith Chapel is big. And it looks nothing like a church. Well…nothing like I’d expect a church to look. There’s no steeple, no stained glass, no bell tower (is that the same thing as a steeple?). What it does have is a two-story cross near the entrance to the parking lot, and a metal globe the size of our living room plopped in front of the main building. At least I think it’s the main building…there are three and it’s the biggest one.
“Man, they weren’t lying about it being multicultural,” Zan says.
He’s right. It’s like we’ve stepped into a UN summit. There are saris and dashikis and hanbok…even a guy in a kilt.
Also fascinating: there are tons of luxury cars in the parking lot, but also a slew of people crossing the street from the nearby bus stop. Just as we step into the globe-containing plaza, a small shuttle bus pulls up. HELPING HAND: AIDING ATLANTA’S HOMELESS SINCE 1991, it says on the side. When the people step off that bus dressed in the finest scraps of clothing they could come up with, I feel…conflicted.
Something I didn’t tell Zan: the whole God thing’s always been a little suspect to me. Before the radio in the truck stopped working, every time we’d get in, Mama would turn on what I called the Sermon Station, so I’ve heard all about how good God is and how much He loves all His children.
But for as long as I can remember, Mama has prayed without ceasing, and…well, I find it tough to believe this God character is so great when we continue to barely scrape by despite how hard Mama works and prays.
Seeing the mind-boggling difference between the Victorious Faith three-piece suits exiting Audis and Teslas and the attire cobbled together by the homeless bus people definitely isn’t making me a believer. I mean, they’re all going into the same building, aren’t they? Why does the gulf between their respective *blessings* seem so wide?
Anyway.
Inside is even more intense. In addition to the ethnic garb, there are people standing around the perimeter of what I guess is the lobby holding various national flags.