Chapter 3
Chapter Three
BASH
My mother really has the worst timing. In the entrance of Harvest Valley Church, just as I’m about to lift a crispy, glazed donut to my lips, she calls. And I’m ravenous. But she’s still my mother, so I answer.
“Yes, mum?”
“Sweetheart, please just come home and drop this nonsense.”
My stomach tightens the same way it always does when she voices her disapproval of the things I love. Of the things that make me… me. “I’m sorry you think my dream is nonsense, mother.”
A sigh. “And I’m sorry you think choosing violence is a worthy career.”
I try to control the heat boiling in my veins. Deep breath, Bash. But I just can’t let it go. I refuse to let her continue to belittle anything I care about that she doesn’t approve of. “The problem for you is that it’s what I want, isn’t it? It’s that you didn’t choose it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Come home. I’ll make ribs. Your favorite.”
I grip the phone so tight, my knuckles are probably white.
“See, that’s the part I don’t think you understand.
I’d rather be on my own and hungry than back with you and Dad, being controlled.
I am never going to want to run the auction houses, okay?
I can’t stand to be in them. I never have.
” What I don’t admit is that part of me does feel a little abandoned that my parents were so willing to toss me to the curb for choosing my own path for once.
But still, the other part of me—the bigger part—finally feels free.
She’s silent. I imagine her cheeks turning pink, the way they only do when she’s enraged.
“That’s how you see it, is it?” Her voice slightly quivers.
“And I suppose you think you’re on your own right now, do you?
Don’t forget, you’re still living in our lake house.
Even though it might not feel like it, your father and I are still supporting you.
You have no idea what it’s like to be on your own for real, Sebastian. ”
My pride flares. The frustration I’ve been suppressing each time she calls finally breaks free, and there’s nothing I can do to keep it from affecting my tone. “Give me two more months and I will. My next fight will pay enough to get me out on my own.”
A light laugh sounds from the phone. “Fine, then. I want you out of that house in two months whether you win or not. If you do win, you’ll finally see how hard it is to be on your own, in the real world without our help.
But if you lose, I really hope you’ll give this up once and for all, and just come home. ”
“Give me until November. I’ll be gone, win or lose.”
And then I hang up. I try not to dwell on the heavy dread settling in my stomach.
Because without any sponsors, winning the fight isn’t going to pay much at all, and if I lose…
I’ll have nowhere left to go but home. Unless I get a job.
One that will keep me from having to go back to my parents, where life feels more suffocating than comforting.
But you’re not going to lose. You’re going to find at least one sponsor and win and finally prove to them this is more than just a phase or a whim. This is your passion. And it’s a real career. One to be proud of.
I tuck my phone away and finally take a bite of the donut I’m still holding.
It’s not half bad, so I add three of them to my stack.
They’re free, after all, and I’m hungry.
I fold them into my napkin and balance them in one hand with my cup of free coffee, so I can be welcomed as a newcomer with my other hand.
This town is so small, I can’t imagine there are many new members, so it’s bound to happen.
Even though I’m not a new member, and don’t plan on becoming one.
“You alright, man?” Logan elbows me, nearly making me spill my refreshments.
“I’m fine.” The words are easy. Practiced.
As much as I hated being forced to schmooze my parents’ clients, doing so is the only job I’ve ever known besides fighting, and…
I’m good at being charming. I know how to wear a pleasant face to hide what I’m really thinking.
So when I let the effortless grin fall in place, Logan drops it.
We make our way across a large, grassy courtyard with outdoor seating and string lights hung between surrounding poles.
There’s an abundance of pumpkins scattered around, along with a heavy maple scent in the air from the coffee station.
I almost don’t want to go inside. Actually, scratch that. I definitely don’t.
Logan and I walk through the entryway to a small auditorium with rows of cinema-style seating. The lady standing at the door hands us each a pamphlet as we enter.
Please, God. Don’t let this be a bad experience like my last church.
Soft background music fills the air while everyone finds a seat.
I watch as people hug, exchange warm smiles, and engage in quiet conversations before lowering themselves into chairs.
Logan grins and gestures to the row of empty seats nearest to us.
I take the one on the end, and Logan squeezes between my knees and the backs of the chairs in front of us to sit next to me.
At least Hayden, the youth pastor, is nowhere to be seen with his promise of saving me a seat next to him.
Logan whispers, “Thanks again for coming.”
My jaw tightens in response. The lights dim, and a collective hush falls across the room.
As if on cue, everyone stands up and music plays from all around.
Logan rises with me and claps along with the music.
A drummer and several other musicians are onstage, playing live.
Pretty well, too. I know some of the words to this song but not all of them, and apparently neither do some of the others here, because the lyrics to the songs are displayed on tiny screens mounted on each end of the room.
As unwelcome as I’ve felt at church in the past, I can’t deny how much I’ve missed this part. The singing. And hearing the voices of those around me singing in unison to the same God we all love makes the back of my throat burn with emotion. I try to swallow it down.
After the third song ends, everyone sits. A slower melody begins playing, and a young woman walks onto the stage and takes the microphone. She lifts it to her full lips and when she sings, her voice comes out soft, feather-light, angelic.
And I’m left staring, transfixed, but not just because of her voice. Because of her face. I would recognize it anywhere. It’s her. The one from the parking lot. The soup girl. “Who is she?” I whisper. Oh, great . . . did I ask that question out loud?
Logan leans in to respond in a hushed tone. “That’s Romilly Westfall.”
“She has a beautiful voice.”
As if she can hear me, Romilly turns her gaze onto me while she sings. Something in my chest does a little dance.
“She does,” says Logan. I turn to look at him, and he’s staring at her too.
When Romilly’s song ends, applause rings around me like an alarm— wake up, you idiot!
I shake off the stupor I’ve somehow managed to fall into.
Romilly may be beautiful and have a voice like I’ve never heard before, but the last thing I need right now is to let a woman distract me.
This is my chance to show everyone I can make something of myself as a fighter, and that it’s not just a foolish whim on my part, or a rebellious streak.
Besides, this is the first time I’ve ever been free. Do I really want to start something that might tie me back down?
The reminder hits me like a brick wall.
It’s what I repeat to myself when she disappears backstage, replaced by the pastor, a fifty-something man.
It’s what I try to remember as my thoughts drift to her over and over throughout the service.
It’s what I cling to while scribbling on my pamphlet, drawing little animals and even writing my phone number down like a presumptuous fool.
The service finally ends, and when Logan and I stand to leave, Romilly Westfall herself begins to make her way over to us.
My thoughts scramble as she approaches, each step closer making me feel more like a madman than before. She’s easily the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
“Hey, Romilly,” Logan greets her.
“Hey, friend,” she says. She hugs him, squeezing her eyes shut.
I give her face another once-over now that I’m certain she won’t notice.
She has prominent cheekbones and a cute, round nose with a straight bridge.
Her top lip is somehow just as full as her bottom lip, and—I can’t help but notice—she has an elegant, long body slightly hidden under her modest but trendy clothing.
She’s even more beautiful than I remembered. Too beautiful.
When Logan releases her from the hug, she opens her eyes and looks right at me. I expect her to mention the soup incident, but instead, she says, “I’m Romilly. What’s your name?”
Something about her tone is confident, but soft—a pairing I can't help but admire. But knowing she might not recognize me from our soup-spill encounter in the car park knocks me into silence and I fail to remember how to speak.
Logan clears his throat and says, “This is Sebastian Black. It’s his first Sunday here.”
“Bash,” I choke out, finding my voice again. “Everyone calls me Bash.”
“Oh, nice.” She beams. “You should come to men’s breakfast on Tuesday, too.”
Instead of stating that I’ve already been attending the dreaded event more often than I’d like, I ask, “Will you be there?” The implication is unashamedly present in my tone.
She arches a brow. Regards me like she's worried for my competence. “No,” she says carefully. “It's for men.”
Ah. She has a point. And now I feel like a complete and utter fool. Where my typical charm has run off to, I have no clue. I turn to Logan for help, but he’s wandered off to talk to someone else across the room. I could strangle him right now.