Chapter 16
Sixteen
Girl gets a gift. And a date.
Dixie
Thursday morning brings more than sunshine.
“Is it Christmas?” I holler, grabbing the tissue-wrapped package on my pillow. Santa hasn’t come in years, seeing as how I’m on the naughty list and have a lifetime supply of coal.
“Still working on Easter,” Jack bellows back. “Just say thank you.”
Pffft. Not on my watch.
Someone (whose name begins with J) has folded the shirt like a pro and set it on my bed. Marie Kondo, eat your heart out at those sharp lines and the perfectly centered rectangle that declares ANGEL in glittering, gold letters.
I undo all his good work, holding it up to read the whole message:
Wickham Hollow Chapel Music Angel
And then underneath, in smaller but no less true script:
Staff (Unpaid, Mouthy, Highly Effective)
Accurate.
I wipe the smile off my face in case he’s lurking nearby. He doesn’t need encouragement.
“Pretty sure the only lap I’ve sat on recently was yours,” I yell. “Not a fat white guy in a red suit with morally reprehensible fur cuffs. You didn’t tell me you were granting wishes.”
“It’s your lucky day.” He bangs around his office some more before I hear him head out. Once the coast is clear, I give in and read the sticky note in Jack’s scrawl: In case you want to dress appropriately for your position.-J.
The shirt smells faintly like his laundry soap—clean and woodsy—and even more like him. I love it.
* * *
My phone’s face down on the bed, notifications silenced, but it’s buzzing like an angry wasp. The song hit 100K streams on Spotify. A music blogger wants an interview. Someone created a “Hot for Preacher” playlist on Apple Music.
So I’ve got what I want—people listening to my music.
But it was supposed to be earned by my talent, not by accidentally turning my one-night stand into clickbait.
Fuck. Jack and I will have to talk about it.
Under no circumstances does that sound like a good idea.
I’ll accidentally overshare about my feelings.
I put my new shirt on while I check my socials and it’s even worse (or better) than I thought. A notification pops up on my screen from my agent: Do you want me to pitch your originals to other artists? How much more do you have?
My dad posted four thumbs-up in the comments section, along with a tiger emoji (no clue). He’s tagged it #HankPearlsKiddo and #ChipOffTheOldPearlBlock. I’m definitely pretending I didn’t see that by hearting cute cat videos—ostensibly to train my TikTok algorithm—when Jack texts:
You doing anything tonight?
That’s a loaded question. Georgia Peach, who’s taken up residence on my dresser, pokes her head around the milk glass vase filled with yellow flowers I found in a ditch. Jack says they’re pissweed. I say he’s deeply unpoetic.
“Your person wants to make plans with me,” I tell her. On the off chance she does understand English, this will irritate her and I can award myself a point in our ongoing battle. Georgia Peach retaliates by eating a piece of my wildflower arrangement with her teeny fangs.
It’s been sixty seconds tops since Jack texted, which is enough time to not seem overeager, right?
ME: Define “anything.” I might be reorganizing your books alphabetically. Washing my hair. Flat ironing! Big plans.
JACK: Cancel them.
He’s unimpressed by my bibliographic threats.
JACK: Go to the February Frost Fair with me?
February. Frost. Fair. With Jack.
Not overthinking this is important—we’re both pretending our last kiss never happened.
Even though there’s zero chance I forget it since it’s burned into my ovaries and my synapses, my skin and several other organs.
Basically my entire body is Jack’s personal welcome mat.
I try to pretend it isn’t so. He makes coffee.
I drink it. We talk about the choir, trade barbs about my taste in floral arrangements—the usual stuff.
Mostly, though, I try not to think about Jack.
Or to remember how he kisses. It’s just that his muscled, broad body makes me feel needy.
He works a lot with his hands and it shows.
It would be rude not to admire the effort he’s put in.
Or the heat of his back beneath my fingers, the calloused touch of his hands on my body.
The rough, raw way he shared how he felt.
You’re so wet. That feels…yeah, do THAT again.
He checked in, praised me as his good girl.
I really need to stop thinking about how he comes, the way he just stops and I become the focus of his everything.
Three dots bounce up and down like angry ocean water on my phone.
JACK: Are you in? Yes?
Preacher Man is feeling impatient today.
Dude. I count to twenty before adding: Don’t you have to work? Smiting? Soup kitchens? Soul-saving?
Look at me, alliterating.
I’ve been let out of preacher jail early for good behavior. And also…
And then he counts to thirty. Asshole.
“He’s onto me,” I tell Georgia Peach.
JACK: I’ve got plans for some low-level espionage. One of the other groups that’s competing in the talent show is doing a dry run of their act.
I throw myself backward on the bed, typing furiously.
ME: Think BIG! Let’s go for high-level. Universe-level? Whatever! LEVEL UPPPPPP!
It takes him a second to process this.
JACK: So, you’re in?
ME: You bet your sweet ass I am. Do I get to wear a trench coat and sunglasses?
More texting dots. Then:
JACK: Only if I get a code name.
He makes it too easy.
ME: Done. You’re now Agent Holy Smokes. I’ll be your handler.
He sends a groaning-with-an-eye-roll emoji and then: I’ll pick you up at 6.
ME: Rock on, Espionage Man. It’s a date.
Shit. I try to take that message back, but fumble the phone and then it’s too late. He’s read it all, adding a thumbs-up, and I have no idea what that means. Are we going on a date? Or is it on the calendar and we friends will go eat fried things on sticks?
“I suck at this,” I say to Georgia Peach. She barks softly, the high-pitched, rapid noise sounding suspiciously like a vindictive heh-heh-heh.
So. The fair.
With Jack.
Technically, we’ll be “spying” on another group in the regional talent show. I reread his texts in case I’ve missed something. Nope. Just scouting the competition. Church-adjacent. Entirely innocent. Nothing to see here, folks.
But…
He texted me.
Not someone from the choir. Not Deacon. Not one of his overenthusiastic Sunday volunteers. Just me. The pit of my stomach performs a somersault. It hasn’t been properly briefed on whether to be nervous or excited.
I head toward the closet, open it, and stare like the right outfit might leap out and explain things. I should wear something casual. Chill. This isn’t a date.
Except I want it to be. Or I think I do. Probably. Maybe.
Dammit, at the very least I want to go uncover all the secrets of this other choir so we can beat the pearls off them at the talent show.
“Okay.” I tug a shirt off a hanger. “Calm down. You’re going to a fair with a preacher. For espionage. Nothing romantic about deep-fried dough and livestock barns.”
Georgia Peach chitters from the top of my dresser like she doesn’t believe me.
Neither do I.