Save My Soul

Sunday Morn [4]

“So, you…” he starts off slowly, and then glances back at me. “You’re an only child.”

Was it the silence that tipped him off? The solitary breakfast?

“Uh… yeah.”

“Do you like it?”

“What?”

“Being the only one.”

“No.”

He nods a little.

“Where’s your dad?” he asks after a minute.

“Um…” I shouldn’t have invited him in. Why did I invite him in? “I... uh…”

“Asleep?”

I sigh in relief. Why didn’t I think of that? “Yeah. Asleep.”

He nods again. He’s turning the gloves over and over in his hands, looking all around him as if for something in particular.

“So… was that it?”

“What?” he looks back at me.

“You just came to apologize?” I know it sounds rude, but I can’t help it.

The slightest hint of a smile appears on his face. “Uh, no, actually. My mom wanted me to ask if you’ll come to church with us. She knows you said next time, but,” he shrugs a little; I’m waiting for the anger but it doesn’t come. He seems mollified, indifferent. More amused with his mother’s persistence and my somewhat abruptness than he is concerned with the subject material. “My mother is nothing if not pushy.”

I smile a little at the thought of Lillian being pushy. “She’s sweet.”

He seems like he’s about to say something, then he stops.

“So… will you come?”

I bite my lip and look down at my pants, at my bare feet. The door is still open, I suddenly realize, but I don’t move to close it. “I… I don’t think so.”

He nods, not questioning.

“I just… I don’t have anything to wear.” I don’t know why I’ve told him that. I feel my cheeks fill with heat and I look off towards the kitchen, with the rust-spotted fridge and the dilapidated sink and then just as quickly look away because I don’t want Jamie to see it. I step sideways a little, hoping to shield it.

“You can wear whatever you have… I mean,” he shrugs, and I can feel his stare. His voice sounds warmer now, not so formal. “You can wear jeans and flip-flops, for all they care.”

“But look at you.”

He blushes a little, looking down. My cheeks blaze hotter. I didn’t mean it like that – like I was looking at him.

“I mean… you know. Dressed up and all.”

He shakes his head, looking up. “It’s really okay, though. I mean. It’s not… they don’t judge.”

I hesitate, picking at a loose thread on my sweater. In my head, I’m running through my limited wardrobe, my teeshirts – picked up from the local thrift shop – my ragged jeans, my endless supply of clearance-rack sweatpants. I have an old pair of flats I could wear… but what –

I stop, looking at the thread wrapped around my fingers. Oh, of course.

“Can I have a few minutes to get ready?” I ask Jamie; he nods.

“Yeah, we’re leaving in about half an hour. I can, uh, wait for you…”

“That’s okay,” I say quickly. “I’ll meet you next door.”