11
“Where have you two been?” our mother asks, rushing over to us as soon as we walk into the house. “Were you on that stupid boat?”
“We were just catching up,” I tell her.
“The guests will be here any minute.” She shakes her head, looking between us.
“What guests?” I blink.
Maryanne walks out carrying a cheeseboard. “We’re having some people from church over to celebrate Daddy’s life.”
“Isn’t that what the funeral’s for?” Oliver asks.
My mom gives him a sharp look.
“The two of you just go and get changed. Georgia, please can you wear something respectable”—I take a measured breath. She keeps going—“Oliver, try not to look too…” She leaves it open-ended.
“Gay?” he offers.
She rolls her eyes and we walk upstairs.
Oliver kisses me on the cheek as he goes off to get changed. “I love you, Gige. OG BFF.”
I give him a small smile as I turn away.
I pass Sam as I do, and I consciously don’t meet his eyes. I don’t want to. I don’t know why I don’t want to (yes, I do), but I don’t want to.
Twenty minutes later and I’m downstairs and the Hellmouth has opened up in the living room. There are about thirty people in there. Has no one here heard of arriving fashionably late?
In their defense, I suppose there’s not a lot to do here, so—
I’ve trotted down the stairs in this black Versace dress that’s practically a shirt but has long sleeves and a big white collar—it’s a bit Wednesday Addams-y, and I was going to wear it to the funeral, but I hadn’t thought to pack for any of my mom’s stupid fancy parties, so I’ll have to buy something else this week.
It feels like the whole room turns when I walk into it.
Not in some magical Cinderella-y, slow-motion moment…more like how the Munchkins all turn in horror every time the Wicked Witch of the West lands in.
I pick up a glass of wine from the server in the corner—why are there servers here? I see with Dad dead, there’s no one around to curb Mom’s spending—and I down it quickly on the spot and pick up another. Half because I’ve been typecast and I’m happy to play into it, and half because I need it around these clowns.
I need it because normally at these things I’d stick to Oli like a tick on a hound, but he’s with Sam and I can’t be with Sam around Oliver because Oliver will be able to tell I like Sam, and if you recall, I don’t like Sam.
Beckett’s here, talking to Tenny in the corner. They’re talking, totally comfortable, head-thrown-back laughing, and I blink away the contempt that I know is on my face.
How does he get out of it scot-free? Where’s my head-thrown-back laughter with my oldest brother?
I want to talk to Violet, but I know she’ll be in the kitchen. I’m about to make my way there when I spot her husband, Clay, talking to Savannah.
She is really pretty… I can see why my brother’s into her. She’s got the big, doe-eyed thing happening. Eyes a greenish brown, teeth so white and so straight it’s nearly offensive and absolutely very American, but I think I like how she holds herself. You know how some young people go weird around older people? She seems super normal around Clay. But that could be less to do with her and more to do with Clay being the best.
He’s handsome, if weathered. But being a progressive in a small town can render that same effect.
“Uncle Clay.” I smile up at him when I reach his side.
He grins down at me and hugs me off the floor. “My favorite niece.” He plants me back down and looks at me. “Come, hide with us.”
I look between them, intrigued. “Who are we hiding from?”
Clay gives me a look. “Who do you think?”
I’m not surprised he’s hiding from Maryanne, but the girlfriend? That’s interesting, and I can’t help but eye her suspiciously. “Really?”
Her left zygomaticus major muscle tugs—it’s a confession she finds awkward, but it’s true.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Am I to understand then that I am your favorite Carter sister, then?”
“By a mile,” she says with a steep look.
I look from her to Clay. “What am I missing?”
Then Savannah and Clay exchange looks, and he laughs heartily, shaking his head.
“Nothing,” She rolls her eyes in a way that tells me it’s not actually nothing to her. “Not a big deal.”
And I’m nearly about to tell her all the ways her face just told me that what she’s saying is, in fact, not true, but then she reaches out and touches my arm. “Hey, I really am so sorry about your dad. He was a good man.”
I breathe in and smile at once. If you say so .
“Are you doing okay, kiddo?” Clay asks, holding my shoulder.
And I know this is a question I’m going to get a million times through the duration of my stay, but I wish I could mute it, because I know I have neither the preferred nor the perfunctory response.
I’m fine. That’s not a fine answer, though—frankly, it’s unacceptable.
And sure, maybe I’m in denial? Maybe I haven’t thought of it properly yet. Maybe it hasn’t sunk in that my dad dying is the closing of a chapter in my life I’d honestly barely read yet. But there are too many people filling the rooms, filling up the space my mind would need if I wanted to feel the breadth of death in the way it demands to be felt.
“I’m okay,” is my answer, and I throw him a weak smile to sell it like I’m not sure I’m actually okay, because that’s how I should be responding.
And then I overhear this: “—believe he brought his boyfriend to his dad’s funeral?”
“Oh my God, I know.”
“I mean, the funeral’s going to be in a church—and like, have some respect.”
“His dad hated that he was gay. Maryanne told me.”
I tense up.
Clay tenses up.
And curveball: Savannah tenses up.
“Are you talking about my brother?” I pop my head into the conversation the three women are having, and the vultures freeze and all display some variant of the same microexpression: eyebrows up and a little drawn in, lips parted in the center, the whites around their eyes showing.
“Yes,” says the blond one with the bigger hair. “We were. It is a sin, you know.”
Savannah sidles up next to me, folding her arms. “So is gossip.”
I look her up and down, impressed. She holds my gaze, and I like her more by the second.
“Leviticus 18:22 says—” the brunette starts to say, but I cut her off.
“Did you know that the word ‘homosexuality’ didn’t appear in any Bible until 1946 when the Greek word Arsenokoitai was mistranslated—”
“No.” The girl with the floral blouse shakes her head. AU13—her levator anguli oris muscles pull up. “We don’t need your new age, topsy-turvy translation around here. We believe that what the Bible says, and has always said, historically speaking, is what the Lord m—”
“Actually, in a lot of the European Bibles from the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries, both Leviticus 18:22 and Leviticus 20:13 said a version of ‘man will not lie with young boys as he does with a woman, for it is an abomination.’” The women (except Savannah) stare over at me a bit blankly—which, I don’t think is technically an invitation to keep going, but I do anyway. “They were talking about pederasty, not homosexuality.”
The big-haired blond one crosses her arms over her chest—she’s putting a boundary between us. She’s uncomfortable. “What’s your point?”
“My point is, if you don’t like gay people, just say that.” I flash her a non-Duchenne smile. “Don’t weaponize the Bible for your own gay agenda.”
“Savannah,” the big-haired blond one says. “This is the girl who ruined Beckett’s life, did you know?”
I lift both my eyebrows at her. “Slander is also a sin.”
“So is premarital sex,” she bites back, pointedly. Clearly a friend of Maryanne.
“So I’ve heard.” I nod, pretending to be rueful. “It’s very fun though. Have you had it?”
Her mouth goes tight and she swallows quickly.
I gasp and point at her with a wink. “How salacious! In a town like this?” I take a tiny step closer to her and she takes one back. “How many sexual partners have you had? One?” Nothing. “Two?” Nothing. “Three?” She swallows. I spin back around to her friends. “Three! She’s had three sexual partners. Now, I know that in the walls of your small-town church, that probably sounds unbearably scandalous, but in the scheme of other things, like life and death—it’s really not a big deal.”
The girl is glaring at me, eyes ragged.
“What’s going on over here?” Maryanne asks with a big hospital grin that looks a little threatening. On her flank is a pretty girl with brown hair and brown eyes who looks familiar to me, but I can’t completely place her.
“Nothin’, Maryanne,” says the brunette. She looks nervous. I can’t tell whether it’s because of me or my sister. “We were just talking about—”
“Oliver,” I interrupt, giving my sister a chance to defend her little brother.
She presses her lips together and says nothing, nodding once.
“Did he really bring his boyfriend here?” the brunette presses.
“Girls,” Savannah sighs.
“Well, actually.” Maryanne leans in. “He’s his sobriety coach—”
“It’s called Alcoholics Anonymous for a reason, dumbass!” I growl, and Clay steps behind me.
Maryanne tilts her head. “What’d you call me?”
“ Dumbass .” I overenunciate it.
Clay’s hand squeezes my shoulder.
“Wait,” says the brunette one. “So there’ll be two gay guys at your dad’s funeral?”
I let out a groan. “Like it matters! Who gives a fuck?”
“You really do have a whore’s mouth,” my sister says with the politest smile in the world.
“Well.” I mirror her smile and give her a little shrug. “Takes one to know one.”
Her eyes go wide; her jaw goes tight. Anger. She looks between her friends. “Here’s a shocker, girls. Georgia’s been running around town with Oliver’s sponsor…”
I look at her, annoyed and confused. “You know we literally went to town for like an hour this morning. To the coffee shop that you sent us to.” I flick her an unimpressed look. “Why are you making it sound like it’s something it’s not?”
I know why—I don’t know why I posed it like a genuine question.
“It’s always something with you, Georgia. We all know what you’re like.” She gives a small shrug.
“At least we know he’s not gay,” says the brown-haired girl.
I give her a mean smile. “Maybe if we give him five minutes with you, he’ll jump the heterosexual ship.”
She glowers up at me. “You stay away from my boyfriend.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, completely not at all sorry. “Who are you?”
“I’m Beckett’s girlfriend.”
“Ah.” I nod, once. Though I’d be lying if I said that my heart didn’t trip a little at the mention of his name. I actually recognize her. Tinsley something. Went to school with Maryanne. “Yeah, you can have him.”
I turn back to Clay and Savannah.
“I’m sorry.” Savannah frowns, and it’s genuine.
“They go to your church?” I ask.
“Um—” She cringes. “I mean—we go to the same church.” She pauses. “I don’t think we know the same God.”
I purse my lips in contempt. Think about how being a “Christian” has so little to do with acting Christ-like now, especially these days, and especially in America.
And I don’t know what I believe. I think I believe in God, but not the one people like Maryanne and my mom claim to know. I don’t know if there’s a PR team in heaven, but can you even imagine the crisis management team they’d need these days? What with people like these idiot girls with bright eyes and dull hearts, not a hair out of place but hearts in the wrong one. Girls like them who bat their eyes as they pick and choose from the Bible to create a world they’re comfortable to exist in.
“I really am sorry,” Savannah tells me again.
“It’s fine.” I swat my hand, even though it’s actually not. “Tell me—do you have any dirt on those girls that I can use against them? Make them psychologically sweat?”
Savannah smirks.
“We can hear you!” Maryanne huffs.
“Fuck yourself!” I say cheerily, but probably a bit loudly because my mother hears.
“Georgia True Carter!” she bellows and points to the back door. “You get that wicked tongue out of my house right now.”
I take a deep breath and roll my eyes, grabbing another wine and trotting out to the back porch.
My sister is smug and gleeful, which is actually just her everyday demeanor. She does a hair flip and her friends crowd in around her, petting her arm and smoothing her hair, congratulating her on surviving a torment like me.
I sit on the step, chin in my hands. Tired. South Carolina tired. Regular tired. Maryanne tired.
And then I hear shifting behind me.
I look back and there he is, filling the doorway with his shadow. I sigh at the sight of him. I don’t know why (yes I do).
Black jeans, white T-shirt. Black denim jacket. Still no shoes.
He stands there for a while, watching me from there, his face bleeding concern, and he’s so annoyingly disarming, because it’s all authentic. How he’s looking at me, the worry that’s written all over his body…the head tilt, the downturned mouth, the low brows drawn together—he is genuinely sad for me, and it’s possible I’ve waited my whole life for someone to give a shit like he seems to, but nothing makes sense because I’m a fuck-up no one wants and he’s an alcoholic and my dad is dead somewhere in a cold room, and something about that makes me feel sick.
Sam Penny holds my eyes for an age that lives inside ten seconds.
“You can ask me,” I tell him.
A microsmile surfaces, then dissolves as he licks it away. “Are you okay?”
I just stare at him for a second, saying nothing, and then I stand up and walk over to him, tiredly. I take in a shallow breath and breathe it out my nose. “No.”
His face falls a little more and my heart mirrors it.
I touch his chest—I don’t know why I touch his chest, it’s so intimate, but I do it anyway, and it doesn’t look jarring at all when I do.
I blink a few times before I say, “I’m sorry about today.”
His eyes catch mine, breath caught in his chest. He gives a little frown and tiny shrug. “No—you don’t have to—”
I sniff a laugh.
He frowns a little. “What?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head, because Oliver said I’d bring nothing to the relationship, and I don’t want Sam to think all I am capable of is seeing through him, but Sam shakes his head, smiles this gentle, encouraging smile.
“No, tell me.”
“Your, um—your body language says that you do think I have something to be sorry for, and that I should be sorry about it.”
And then he lets out a laugh, properly—his whole face lights up—and that makes me smile back at him.
“Okay,” he concedes, and then he tilts his head again and asks a question I knew he would: “What happened before?”
And suddenly, I’m naked once again as he stares, waiting for an answer I don’t actually owe him but desperately want to give him anyway, and I feel myself dig in, decide not to let myself run.
I squint up at him. “You make me uncomfortable.”
“Oh,” His brows furrow. Microfrown. Not the answer he was looking for—not the implication he wanted.
“I think I mean it as a positive.”
His brows lift. Microsmile. “Oh.”
“I feel like I’m see-through when I’m with you, and I hate that—I think,” I add as an afterthought. “I never feel see-through and I never feel readable. I never feel like that, but with you I do.”
He lifts my chin with his hand, his eyes flicking from my eyes to my mouth, and I wonder whether he’s going to kiss me.
“Georgia, I want you to know,” he starts, swallowing heavily. “You are—easily!—the most complicated person I’ve ever met.”
My face lights up, completely elated. “Thank you.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re welcome?”
I purse my lips, take a breath, then hold it. “You think I’m a bad person—for the stuff with my sister?”
“No.” Sam shakes his head. “Complicated, that’s all. You’re a puzzle, and I don’t have all the pieces yet.”
I stare up at him. “What if you don’t ever get all the pieces?”
He nods, thinking. “That would be frustrating.”
I nod back. “I’ve been told I am frustrating before.”
“Yeah.” He presses his lips together, squashing a smile. “I believe that.”
I laugh and his smile grows to full size, and I feel this sort of light-headed hopefulness.
“I don’t want you to not speak to me,” I tell him, my voice a bit quiet now.
“Yeah.” Sam shrugs. “I know.”