I always take a few seconds to study her whenever she’s distracted; her shoulder-length dreadlocks tied in a high ponytail atop her head, a clear, smooth chocolate-brown complexion, round cheekbones, stubborn chin, and a generous mouth. Even though she’s thirty-six, she could easily pass for twenty-six years old. I may be biased since she’s my mom, but just look at her. She’s a beauty.
She and I have similar features down to the dimple in our chins. My skin is a few shades lighter, though. It’s only been me and Mom for as long as I can remember. The only thing I know about my father is that he was Caucasian. Mom never talks about him, so I’ve made peace with it. I mean, why dwell on something that’ll only end up hurting me in the end?
I have more pressing matters to think about, thank you very much. Like how the heck am I going to tell Mom I won’t be attending Brown in the fall?
Just thinking about her disappointment makes me want to run back to my room and hide under the sheets like I used to do after I got upset when I was a kid. Then she’d trail after me with a cup of hot chocolate and make me smile again. God, being a kid was so much easier.
“Morning, Mom.” I force my feet to move toward her and give her a hug from the side.
Her body tenses like it always does at unexpected hugs or touches. She blinks several times, then focuses her dark brown eyes on me. A smile quickly spreads across her face as she reaches up to brush the wayward curls off my face. “Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping in until God-knows-when o’clock?”
“It’s too damn hot. I couldn’t sleep.”
“Watch your language, young lady,” she scolds.
“Sorry,” I mutter, dropping my arms from her shoulders.
She hands me the coffee. “Everything okay, Grumpy?” she teases.
I’m not really a morning person. The Brown issue is making me even grumpier. Maybe I should just tell her, rip off the Band-Aid and get it over with.
I take a sip from the offered cup, then set it on the table in front of her. I head to the sink to buy time, silently praying for strength and also to avoid her knowing eyes until I’m ready to tell her. I swear some days I think she is a mind reader. Either that or she has a special antenna—programmed just for me—set to receive signals whenever there’s a lot of activity in my head.
Like now. The heat in her curious eyes warms my back. My heart starts racing, causing this loud thudding in my ears.
Oh my God. I’m not ready to tell her.
Maybe tomorrow.
Definitely tomorrow.
“I’m . . . um . . . going to church. Morning Mass.” I’m such a coward.
“Now?” she asks, surprise clear in her voice.
I spin around and smile so wide my cheeks hurt from the effort. “Yeah. I mean, I’ll jump in the shower first, then head out.”
Her eyes narrow with suspicion, but all she says is, “All right.” I turn to leave, relieved I’ve narrowly escaped “the talk” when she adds, “You better finish writing a list of whatever you need for college so we can start shopping early.”
I almost miss a step in my haste to escape her scrutiny. “Yes, Mom,” I say without looking back at her. “Love you!”
“Oh, by the way, can you do me a favor? Could you grab some yarn for me from that shop downtown? I promised to purchase some for my next visit at SMU.”
“Sure.” Mom volunteers at Single Moms Unified every month. Growing up, she drummed into me the importance of paying it forward to the community. If it wasn’t for the kindness and support she received when she arrived in Portland, she wouldn’t be here today.
“Love you,” she says just as my feet hit the small hallway.
Twenty-five minutes later, I’m sitting on the fourth pew at St. Peter’s Church, blissfully basking in the cool interior. Father Foster’s voice drifts in and out of my thoughts as he delivers his homily.
My gaze wanders around my surroundings. About fifteen people, at most, are attending Mass. Someone snores in the back, making Father Foster pause and lift his head a little with a small twitch of his lips.
Then I see him. Solomon Callan is occupying one of the seats where the altar servers sit during Mass. Locks of wavy dark brown hair fall over his eyes, and his hand reaches up to brush the hair away. I can’t stop staring, fascinated by that movement. Sol and I went to different schools in middle schools, then we attended the same high school at Winston High. It’s just so weird how we never really spoke even though we ended up in the same class.
I guess we moved in different circles back then: me, the quiet girl trying to fit in with the popular crowd while he hung out with Ivan and a bunch of other soccer guys from their team.
Three years ago, Sol was this awkward teenage boy with a tangle of long legs and arms and a shy personality to match. Time has definitely been kind to him. His limbs have finally grown to fit the rest of his tall frame, and all the soccer practices back in high school have left him in great shape.
And God, Solomon Callan is glorious. He’s known around town as Father Foster’s nephew, the town’s good boy and every parent’s dream kid.
Too bad all that gloriousness won’t be here long enough for us to drool over. Sol will be heading to seminary in the fall to become a priest. Otherwise, I’d totally break the promise I made to myself after things went south with my asshole ex-boyfriend, Gavin, to steer clear of boys.
As if sensing me, Sol’s eyes lift and meet mine. One side of his mouth curls up in a subtle half-smile. I grip the bench I’m sitting on and drop my gaze to my lap, feeling hot and cold at once.
Well, that’s an interesting turn of events. Sol has always been the cute boy from church who I met eight years ago. The boy I always wanted to talk to at youth group but wasn’t brave enough to approach. I don’t even know why he intimidated me. Maybe because he was so pretty and looked like a dark-haired, blue-eyed angel through my thirteen-year-old eyes.
I’m not sure what I’m feeling right now, though.
It’s all in my head, even this stupid shiver that came out of nowhere.
I shouldn’t be thinking about tall boys with cute smiles and messy hair who are bound to become priests, albeit very hot priests. I should be thinking of sorting out my own life.
When I glance up again, Sol’s eyes are still on me. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me like that.
I force myself to look away, reminding myself that boys break the ever-loving shit out of your heart.
The scent of frankincense and myrrh surrounds me as I extinguish the candles with a snuffer after morning Mass. When I’m done, I glance across the room at Seth as he shuffles around collecting the song books and placing them on the table in the back of the church.
Last summer he and two other boys attended the altar server training class. He’s come a long way from the boy I met years ago. He’s still a bit skittish about the Catholic Church at times. He attends Mass more often than he used to, so I consider that a win. Joining the altar server team is a big step for him. The other two boys prefer serving in the evening and Sunday Mass.
“I gotta run. Mom’s waiting for me outside,” Seth says when he’s finished with his task.
I nod, giving him a two-finger salute. “Stay out of trouble, okay?”