The Scheme Of Things

Now

Susie always hears his voice above the noise of the crowded sanctuary. Fifth Sunday Fundays are her favorite, when everyone cooks some homemade classic casserole or cake and lingers after church for music and merriment until the sun sets. She always ends up singing with the band, folksy classics and upbeat hymns. There are cheers and jeers every time she refuses, but she always ends up on stage.

Her father stops her as she comes offstage, smiling and relaxed. “You sounded beautiful.”

Susie scowls harmlessly. “I sounded like a cat with a cold.”

He rebukes her gently. “You always sound like you're singing to someone special.”

She sees Arthur’s face behind her eyelids, watching her from the back of the room. His face is always neutral, but his eyes betray him every time. She doesn't meet her father’s gaze, lest he see that she was, in fact, singing to someone.

Arthur likes it when she sings. He’s always telling her which song is his favorite and pulling her aside, whispering, “Just for me.”

“Oh,” Tom adds, “I ran into Arthur in the bathroom.”

Oh goddamn it. Well, at least it wasn't her mother. That would mean she was there on purpose, and with intent. Sam doesn't go anywhere on accident.

“That must have been delightful,” she says with a roll of her eyes, hiding her guilt, “I hope your time together was meaningful and enlightening.”

He makes the same face back at her. She is definitely his daughter. “He was looking for you. You should go find him when you get a chance.”

Her pulse quickens, but she manages an innocent smile. “Sure. I’ll see him around.”

It's funny to her, how her father can be so blind. Tom and Arthur went on one spiritual retreat together, spent a week on the same team (which is rare; most retreats try to disperse each church group to encourage them to mingle), and it's put blinders on him ever since.

So when she wanders the buffet line, and hears her name in that rich baritone -

“Quince” - she freezes. She’s used to being Susie Q, but only Arthur calls her by her middle name. It makes her ears and cheeks go pink, knowing that they still have this secret thing that no one else knows about.

She's gotten better at acting, now. She's not thirteen and shy and intimidated anymore. She can meet his blue, blue eyes without blinking, even though she wants to look away.

Arthur’s fingers brush the back of her arm like it's an accident, and she catches his eye.

They have a routine; a soft touch and a quiet exit. Never far, and nowhere strange. Nothing that would make a lawyer and a teenager look suspicious for talking.

It's the new sanctuary now, mostly constructed and open for appraisal, but not quitefunctional. She faces him and twirls a bit of hair in her fingers, pleased that she just touched up her lip gloss. Okay, so maybe some little part of her is still fourteen.

“Quincey,” he says lightly, as if everyone calls her that.

“Francis,” she replies. She hasn't seen him since she went off to college.

“Your mother is terrifying,” he says quietly, angling himself close without touching her.

“She's just making chicken salad,” Susie scolds with a smile. “And she's 5’2 and three-quarters. How terrifying can she be?”

“She had a knife, and she was holding it like a weapon,” he says, too close to her skin.

“Well, you're smart,” she says. “Maybe you should avoid her when she's armed, Frankie.”

His middle name is Francis. She only calls him Frankie when she's feeling bold, but she never calls him Arthur. Not unless she’s scared and forgets their routine.

Susie isn't great about eye contact, but she's finally learned to hold his gaze, and always grins a little nervously when she does. His eyes are just a little too big, which makes him look intense all the time, and he's not traditionally handsome, but he manages to pin her where she stands without fail.

It should be boring by now, this... thing. It's been five years of dodging each other and getting nowhere. She's not thirteen anymore.

But still, she strays too close, and he pulls her in further.

Later on in life, she'll learn the word grooming. It doesn't bother her, but it sticks.

*

First

Like any good Methodist, and especially an upstanding youth group leader, Susie was in the church choir. She was a freshman, a babysitter, and in charge of the church nursery (when she wasn't doing community theater - then she was getting a pay cut).

She was a regular Methodist darling. Her first year of high school was rough, so she threw herself into the church gig and was rewarded with the praise and affirmation she had been so starved of.

She was one of three altos in the choir for the Christmas cantata, because everyone else was a soprano (and no younger than 70), whether they could hit the high notes or not. She’d never had to work so hard on harmonizing before, but the other two altos were in their 80’s and on oxygen, so she was pulling triple duty.

Susie had never minded being an alto. Oh, she’d wanted to be a soprano once, didn't everyone? But the harmony lines and minor notes that tended to imbue an alto’s lines actually warmed her. She liked that there was a bit of melancholy to every note, contrasting each bright melody.

She’d never really noticed Arthur at church, though they attended the same service for ayear. He flew under her radar until the Christmas cantata, and she spent Monday and Wednesday nights sitting (sort of) beside him at rehearsals as he filled in the story between songs. As the narrator, he sat away from the choir, but she was set closest to him.

Then, twice a week at practice, she would listen to his rich, radio-worthy voice speak into a microphone, mesmerizing and riveting, threading each song together at every break. She found herself paying more attention to him than the music, though she never spoke to him.

Until the night of the performance, anyways. Her father had been in China for a month and she'd been afraid he wouldn't make the performance. So when she saw him as the choir pulled on their robes, she squealed and bolted into the hallway to grab him and her mother in a hug.

“Hi!” she said breathlessly, beaming. “We're in the T -minus stage, so I have to go back in, but yay!”

They hugged back. “Go show them how it's done,” Tom said fondly.

She dashed back inside to arrange her robes before the choir was escorted to the sanctuary, beaming.

She noticed Arthur then, who approached her with an odd look on his face.

“I wish my daughter looked at me like that,” he remarked. “She's fourteen, too, and hates everyone.”

She smiled. “She'll outgrow it. I think.”

“Well, you’re a wise young lady, so I'll take your word for it,” he said. “I think our pastor has called you an old soul in a sermon at least twice, and he’s a learned man - I believe he knows his stuff.”

“That's just because I listen to John Prine,” she dismissed. “And Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show.”

He smiled and touched her wrist, the only bit of skin not covered by her robes. “I think you don't give him enough credit. Maybe he's on to something.”

Her smile was shy. “Nah, he just thinks I'm funny. And I am,” she added defensively. “It's hereditary.”

“Not a bad genetic defect. Did you get that voice from your parents as well?”

“Oh,” and now she was blushing, because she was not considered a singer amongst her friends. They all took voice lessons, and one had just been accepted to the Baptist Academy on scholarship because she was such a soaring soprano. Susie just sang along to commercials and played the guitar badly. “Nah, nothing to pass down. I used to beg my mother not to sing in church, even though she's totally fine.” Then, with a shy grin and a burst of daring, she added, “but my dad wrote a song once. It was called Poontang Baby, but it never gained commercial popularity because the air guitar solo was too long.”

His laugh was surprised, and she silently applauded herself for executing that anecdote flawlessly. Her family had a long history of ridiculous stories, and she was pleased that someone laughed when she told them.

“All right, Susie,” he chuckled, his suit immaculate next to her frumpy old choir robes. “You heard the man. Let's go show them how it's done.”

*

Here's the thing: Susie gets how this happened. She knows why he lit such a fire when he spoke to her that first time.

She wasn't a star anywhere, not with her friends and not at home. Her younger brother was a jazz sax savant, and all of his performances brought extended family from all over the state. Her friends, even at church, spent their allowances on makeup and pretty blouses, fancy bras, shoes... Susie wore jeans and a t-shirt like they were the shroud of Turin. And God help her if she ever took off her sneakers for heels, because then she would trip over herself and die ingloriously.

She was just... boring. There was no need to jump up and down, begging for attention. Not when Mickey was a sax genius, and one friend could walk into any room and command all the attention, when her other friend was a blossoming soprano phenom, another was a track star... she really didn't try to compete. She was surrounded by people who sucked all the oxygen out of the room. But she didn't mind. It had taken her so long to make friends when her family moved, she couldn't complain.

And then, suddenly, someone was talking to her. Someone was taking her aside, praising her, telling her she was remarkable. Someone came and said hello to her and ignored Kristen and Sarah and Nicole, never spared them a word.

What's funny about her friends is this: teenage girls are cunts. She had been so meek,and girls gravitated to people weaker than them, to be the queen bee. Susie hadn't known it then, but she just wanted someone to tell her that something, anything about her was special.

She gets that now. It took awhile, but she gets it.

*

She didn't know when it became a thing until she was already mired in the thick of it. One day she was just being nice to a man at church, and then she realized he had a smile that was only for her, and that she would grin bashfully back and find herself playing with her hair.

At first it was silly things, like him dropping into the nursery as if he was just passing by. It was at least kindling for the fire.

She was besotted with the newborns, and was always delighted when the mothers could finally bear to part with them during the late service, and she could soothe them by laying down on the plastic slide and singing to them. They would curl into her shoulder and chew on her shirt, but the hum in her chest while she sang changed the rhythm of their breathing, and they would sigh and drift off to sleep.

Her favorite was Jake, who was barely three months and wonderful. He never cried, but he would also never sleep, and so she would leave one of the other girls to watch the rest as she walked him around the grounds (fifteen years old, and she was in charge of people. Somewhere, someone had lost a bet). There was a playground that he thought was fascinating, a prayer path he found calming, and the narthex, which he found riveting.

Her arms hurt after those days, because she strolled the entire property with him sometimes, and he was a fat baby. But he made all the cute baby noises and chewed on her neck, pulled at her earrings, and stole her heart every time.

She realized she was fucked after the late service one day, when she was wearing a church-inappropriate outfit and bouncing Jake around, letting the departing congregation coo over him and pinch his cheeks. People seemed to tire him, and he would often nap once he'd gotten enough attention.

She laughed when her youth director tried to steal him from her, and he let out a large and very rare wail immediately. Susie was friends with a lot of that age range, despite being half that, herself, and she let them ogle the baby as she obviously pwned at babies more than they did.

And that was when she saw Arthur and froze, because he was frozen looking at her. And she was fucked.

Susie stepped away from the crowd as they mingled, holding on to Jake like he was her only anchor to the real world. He was currently snuffling into her neck tiredly, doing his best to stay awake. He was also covering her with slobber as his fingers worked the plunging neckline of her shirt.

“Wanna take a turn?” she asked, offering him the baby with a mad blush.

He shook his head and glanced at their companions, sizing them up. A moment passed as everyone happened to look away, distracted by the snack bar being opened.

That was the first touch - when everyone was around but no one was looking. The first touch was a little more obvious than the ones that followed it - he ran a knuckle downnthe back of her bare arm and took her elbow firmly, pulling her two steps into an empty Sunday school room.

Neither of them said a word for a long minute, staying still in the quiet darkness. She shifted Jake in her arms nervously, the silence making her uneasy.

“Arthur?” she whispered, her voice louder than all the commotion in the hallway. But if there was a spell, that didn't break it.

“It looks good on you,” he said finally, gesturing at the baby. “You're good with him.”

She half-shrugged, moving the boy to her. “I mean, they kind of pay me to be.”

He gave her the same shrug, and she felt a little picked on. “Not everyone is.” He seemed unsure of his next words. “Karen used to cry through the night and sleep during the day. Especially when she started teething. And Linda... she had no idea what to do with her. Karen’s birth mother was a drug addict, so she was born already in withdrawal. It took months for her to sleep for more than an hour at a time.”

“Oh,” was all she could think to say. He didn't talk about Linda to her, and she'd never met her. She and Karen wouldn't be moving here until school was out. Susie knew from the gossip circle that Karen was a little wild, and they were hoping the youth group would help her. Specifically, that Susie would help her.

“But you're good with him,” he said again.

“Thanks,” she mumbled. As she'd gotten to know him better, she’d learned to read him pretty well, but this was one of those odd moments where he was unknowable. They normally only happened when she caught him watching her from across the room. It made the dark room seem infinitely smaller.

“You're going to be a good mother someday,” he said quietly.

For some reason it made her stomach tighten, and she shook a little bit. Plenty of the moms had told her the same thing when they picked up their kids, but this was... well, weird.

It didn't keep the stupid fucking smile off of her stupid fucking face.

He thought she would be a good mom. He thought about her with kids.

He thought about her.

“I hope you're right,” she stammered. “You seem like a smart guy.”

“Susie,” he began.

“I should get Jake back to April and Greg,” she interrupted quickly. “I'm supposed to clock out now.”

And she didn't just leave - she ran, or at least power walked. She buried her tiny, secret smile in Jake’s soft skin as he snored and drooled on her. She didn't even notice that he had yanked out one of her earrings until she itemized the lost and found a week later.

*

Time passed.

Linda and Karen finally moved, and Susie met them for the first time. Karen was gorgeous in that wild kind of way, and it would just get worse as she grew into her looks. She was only going to break hearts and laws for awhile, that one.

Susie was more curious about the mysterious Linda, though she played it down. She understood a lot more upon meeting her.

Linda was a short, emaciated woman in her fifties, not much younger than her husband, and well-maintained. And by that, Susie thought about her like a car that got new parts when the old ones wore out. Her cheekbones were soft but plump and defined, and though she never showed her (probably expensive) cleavage at church, she wore tight leather skirts beneath a mink coat to every service. A real mink coat. Susie was glad she had never met a mink, otherwise she would have hated her on PETA-worthy levels. As it was, she already hated her for clinging to Arthur's arm and waving her gaudy diamond rings around, ignoring her daughter, and seeking out the wealthier congregation members so she could talk rich-folk shit with them.

Even her mother, Sam, shuddered on Sundays when Linda bothered to show up.

God, she's creepy, she wrote on Susie’s prayer request card. It was a long-standing Cannon family tradition that all communications during church services were done on the back of a prayer request with the pencil provided in the pews. Usually it was just Susie and Mickey being bored, but big deals could bring Sam in, and bigger deals brought Tom in with a two-word order: Stop laughing.

That order had not been issued yet, and Susie scribbled, I don't buy her schtick. I bet her watch is a Bolex and she drives a Nexus.

Oplz like Arthur would be so base, Sam scratched back - literally scratched, because apparently Methodists believed in agape, but not pencil sharpeners.

She glanced over at Arthur reflexively. He wasn't looking at her, but at his wife as she read scripture before the sermon.

When Sam read anything from the pulpit, her father always had the softest, most adoring face anyone had ever seen. The love her parents had for each other could bring down nations. (Only because if something apocalyptic were to happen to her mother, her father would ring up a Chinese or Japanese friend he beat in golf games and call in a favor. And by favor, she meant nukes.)

But Arthur sat, his face dispassionate, his daughter cross and drunk beside him. Susie had smelled fresh alcohol on her breath when she said hello earlier.

She’d never seen him like that before, so bored and uninterested, yet so focused on someone. He had always been lively in every church group he moved between, which was a lot, cracking the jokes as he told stories in his riveting, rolling voice. But lately he was flat and clipped, with no time for casual banter.

Susie saw the new reality. He practically avoided her now, and she didn't push it. Whatever she thought she'd seen wasn't there anymore, if it ever had been.

Time passed.

*

Susie turned sixteen and began living out of a 1989 Ford Bronco. Not because she was homeless, but out of happiness of owning such a magnificent beast of a vehicle and being able to get in or out of it whenever she wanted. She would sneak outside at night with a blanket and curl up in the back seat, and think about where she would drive tomorrow.

And then the church program was handed out on the week of her birthday, and the prayers and concerns part of the service began:

“Prayers and celebrations to Susan Quincey Cannon on her sixteenth birthday. May God hold her hand, and please, Jesus, take the wheel! Love, Mom, Dad, and Mickey.”

She groaned. She knew her father wrote that, and when she glared at him as the sanctuary burst into laughter, he didn't even have the decency to look ashamed. He was a terribly smug man who greatly over-valued his own wit, and she contemplated public fratricide.

“I'm filing for emancipation,” she hissed. “This is child abuse.”

And so began a full day of ribbing. Several congregation members worked for her father, and not only did they find her embarrassment hilarious, they also told her there was a betting pool at work on how long it would take her to have her first wreck. Tom frowned at that, but apparently everything else was fair game.

This started an (apparently old) argument on how long she could go before she rear- ended someone (she would get T -boned first for an illegal left turn, and thank God for that magnificent Bronco, she was unscathed), which drew the whole mingling group into debate.

Then... that brush of skin at her elbow, and she turned.

Arther stood so close behind her that she could feel the warmth of his skin through their clothes.

Linda and Karen had decided church wasn't a weekly thing, and had been conspicuously absent. Arthur had become discreetly more insistent in his attention - she didn't dare call it attraction, she was sixteen and mousy and she read Star Wars EU books at school, for God's sake. He wasn't attracted to her. He thought... well, fuck, she had no idea what he thought.

There was a puff of air against her ear, and she went rigid.

“You’ve been holding out on me, Susie Q,” he breathed. She stood frozen, waiting for someone to turn around and see them.

Susie swallowed. “Arthur -“

This was the moment it would go wrong. This was when the whole house of cards would come tumbling down, she knew it.

“Your middle name is Quincey,” he murmured, and she swore his mouth brushed theshell of her ear in fucking public. And yet somehow, every back in the room was turned to them. “I didn't know that.”

“My handicap is 19,” she countered, her whole body beginning to shake with nerves. “Bet you didn't know that, either.”

“I like Quincey.”

“Well, then you have me at a disadvantage. You know more about me than I do about you.” She kept her voice and posture casual enough that anyone with a roaming eye would keep it moving.

“Francis.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Be more specific.”

“My middle name is Francis,” Arthur clarified.

Susie turned and looked at him for a long moment. His blue eyes sparkled with mirth, and she couldn't help but share in it, if hesitantly.

“Hello, Francis,” she declared recklessly, holding out her hand for a shake. “I'm Quincey. It's lovely to meet you.”

He wrapped his fingers around hers, and suddenly there was no humor in his eyes. “It's nice to meet you, Quincey. Happy birthday.”

From that moment on, the gloves were off.

The problem was, her mother saw them come off.

*

The Christmas program had been so popular that they did it again, exactly two years later. A lot of things were different by then - three members of the choir had died and been replaced, the choir director had been let go and replaced, and his soaring soprano daughter, Sarah, had not been given any solos, so she dropped out and was replaced.

Susie’s best friend was a baritone named Dan who was in love with her, and was hardly the wise to Arthur's attentions. She valued him as a friend, but kept this small thing away from him as best she could. She was selfish like that.

And Susie found herself in a delightful place: there was a solo in her favorite song that was composed in a fashion that it could be sung by either a limber alto or a modest soprano, and after three years of being the strongest voice in the choir, she was given the solo. She'd spent so long listening to it get butchered, it was amazing to try and lend those somber words the low, haunting voice they deserved.

In the end, she excelled. She knew everyone liked her voice, but her solo ended the last song of the first half, and a janitor told her it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

The final dress rehearsal involved alcohol, and, being Methodists, most of it was wine. But there were a few choice spirits, and she wriggled her way into a few.She couldn't overdo it before act 1, though- that was her moment. She allowed herself two (strong) cocktails and ate a lot of chipped beef dip, filling her stomach with rye bread to soak up the booze.

(She learned later that this concept was a fallacy.)

The unintended third drink only happened because Martin was going to have to step in as the narrator, since Arthur probably wasn't going to make it back from Houston tonight.

She poured a heavy Malibu and Coke and threw it back with misplaced anger, and didn't say a word about why she was upset. Not that anyone asked why a teenager was sulking into her drink, of course.

So when the doors blew open and let the cold air come ripping in, she paid more attention to the rest of her drink than she did holiday ghost stories and hauntings, hoping the booze broke up the funk in her throat. She didn't see the grand coat thrown dramatically over a chair, the scarf ripped off and discarded carelessly.

And then Arthur was there, laughing and exchanging handshakes and hugs with the men, and she pretended it was the alcohol that made her warm.

There were loud, rowdy words exchanged while she clutched her drink. Everyone wanted to tell Arthur that it wasn't the same without him, people had started calling him the voice of God, for God's sake.

He laughed and accepted a shot of tequila, like he was the center of the universe as he toasted, “at least I have the voice of God, because I have a face for radio!”

Susie raised her glass, and then left the room. She hid until the choir returned.

*

It was fine. There were no egregious mistakes, the orchestra was lovely, and Susie never looked at Arthur. The first half went well.

But now she had her solo. Now she couldn't hide beneath the sopranos. Now everyone would only hear her, and the sanctuary was at full capacity with friends and family.

One thing about just enough booze was that it made her a little loose, her chest less tight with panic. And... she sounded amazing. She knew it immediately.

She let the last note linger a moment before she tweaked the vibrato, and closed out the last song of the half to hushed silence. All that was left was the narration, promising to tell the ending of that stupid Winter Rose as the bleak midwinter approached.

But then... nothing. Arthur was quiet, as though off in his own little world, not a care in this one. For once, he was actually facing the choir - he normally sat aimed at the audience, probably so that they could absorb his rolling voice in all its might. But not now. His eyes were closed, and he was far away.

Until the silence became awkward, and Adam coughed.He stood up straighter, as though he'd fallen asleep, and let his own voice ring out his lines. There was applause, of course, and a standing ovation. And then it was done.

Well, until the second part.

They took a ten-minute break, where the general pop went to the refreshments, and the choir went back to the booze room.

She took a shot, and no one cared that she was seventeen.

Another touch. She jumped this time, because it had been awhile since he’d snuck up on her.

She turned to him in surprise, but recovered quickly. “Well done, Francis,” she commented smoothly. "You continue to master the minds and hearts of men and women alike with the power of your voice. I applaud your prowess."

"I can only take so much mastery and applause from so many people," he said softly, taking her by the elbow and dragging her to the adjoining room. His fingers dropped to her wrist, his thumb stroking the thin skin above her pulse.

"God, you're beautiful," he breathed, stepping into her space like it was mutually shared. “You had your lines, and I couldn't keep from drowning in you, Quincey, your voice rings like a bell over everyone else -" now his lips definitely brushed her ear, "You sang alone, and everything stopped. I couldn't remember what I was supposed to say, I only wanted you to keep singing."

She froze, a little frightened.

"Who else has told you you're beautiful?" he pressed. "Do they mean it?"

“My mom says -“

“Not them,” he cut in, “I mean - everyone else. Does anyone else say it and mean it?” And this - this sounded like a demand, with an undercurrent of tell me who else would dare.

“I don't know,” she said, shy before him. She sounded very small. She felt very small, and in a very large world. People didn't actually say those things other people - not real ones, who had to think of a reply after that kind of shit. “Arthur...”

“That's not my name.” His voice invited no argument.

“Francis,” she amended. The ice in her drink settled loudly.

Oh shit, was she in over her head.

Arthur let a finger run across her collarbone. “You are, you know,” he added. “Beautiful.”

He was mental. That was the only thing she could figure.

“We should go back,” she managed. “You're a freaking crazy man, you know that?”

His fingers carded through her hair. “You're right.”

*

Sam was waiting for her when she found the choir room, adjusting her robes a little guiltily.“They said you went out,” she said, arms crossed. “Your father wanted to tell you good job.”

“Oh,” she said stupidly. “Yeah. I still have a few minutes, I'll find him."

"Were you alone?" Sam asked pointedly, "Because I know you weren't."

"Then why would you ask?" she said mulishly. "That's a trap."

"You weren't with Dan," Sam told her firmly. (She and Dan were almost dating and it was a horrible idea, and Arthur was never at a loss for words when the topic came up.) “He was looking for you, too.”

"I was just talking to Arthur," Susie muttered with no lack of resentment. "He flubbed that last cue and felt like a dork."

"I saw," she said, her words short. "You did sound beautiful, binky, and he did miss that cue."

"Yeah, it was dumb," although now she was starting to get antsy. This wasn't going anywhere good.

"I don't want you alone with Arthur," she said flatly, "and I will only tell you once. Your father may like him, but I don't. And I don't want to involve him in this, I would just like to nip it in the bud now. No grown man should feel the need to talk to a teenager so much, and the ones who do have something wrong with them. If I find out you're spending time with him, without supervision, your father will get involved, and it won't end well."

Susie went full-on teenage panic in that moment - "Mom! Oh my God, what is wrong with you! That is so gross, Jesus Christ," but Sam's face was carved from stone.

"Susan Quincey Cannon," she said calmly, "if I find out that you have been around Arthur - Francis, isn't it? Arthur Francis."

Susie flinched and looked down.

"If I find out that you have been making time with Arthur Francis Martin without proper supervision, I am going to have your father set his life on fire," she announced. "You are my daughter, and you are a child. If Tom doesn't kill him, I will, and if I do it, his body will never be found. So you think long and hard about what choices you make, and what risks you take, because Karen deserves to have her father walk her down the aisle someday. Think about what it would mean to take that away from her.”

Susie spewed the worst things she could think of as they made their way back - "God, you're such a freaking bitch, why do you always do this - I only want to go to LSU so that I can get away from your crazy ass and your crazy shit, you're such a psycho, you're just like your mother," as she stormed up to the choir pool.

“Susie," she said calmly, "I don't think this is the petard you want to die on. But even if it is, I love you more than life itself, and that will never change."

Susie walked away angrily. She was glad her solo was already done, because she spent the entire second act trying not to cry. What did Sam know? Who was she to talk? Her sanctimonious bullshit was just that: bullshit. She got through act two, somehow. And while she kept thinking she wasn't crying, and that she was keeping it together, she really couldn't.

She also didn't miss the concerned looks Arthur kept shooting her way, but she didn't return them. He spent the entire second act turned slightly to the choir, pretending to pay attention to every song, but keeping his eyes on her.

She blamed the maudlin swings on the rum, and stomped out to her car without greeting her parents before they left - and for that, she felt like an asshole. Her father didn't start this fight, or even have any idea they were fighting.

She rested her head on the steering wheel as she tried to cool off. There were no more cars left in the parking lot by the time she started the car - everyone had tapped out and gone home. She let the Bronco warm up, and when she couldn't fake it anymore, she broke out into ugly, inglorious sobs that wracked her whole body.

What in the actual fuck was she upset about? Was she upset that she wasn't allowed secrets with Arthur Martin? That she called him Francis, which was a stupid name in the first place? That mommy is mad at me so I'm crying now? God, she was a fucking child.

The knock on her window made her jolt with a shriek, and try to hide the tracks of her tears quickly. If her mother saw her crying like this, after the conversation they'd had - she would burn everything, she -

It was Arthur tapping on her window. Of course it was Arthur. Why was it always goddamn Arthur? When had everything in her life become about motherfucking Arthur?

She wiped her eyes again, and cranked down her window manually. She quelled her tears and confusion and misery and consumed them like a suppository, then put on a wide, bright smile as the window ceased to separate them.

"You like my ride?" she asked, deliberately coy. Fuck the world before she would cry in front of him.

She settled into the driver's seat invitingly, and dared anyone to take it from her. She knew how she looked, and she knew the skirt she'd worn under her choir robes. It was long, but it was flexible. She flexed.

He contemplated his answer, and leaned comfortably against the open window of the Bronco. She had about an inch over him from this angle, and she liked it. She regarded him coolly, her makeup immaculate despite crying.

"How did you find a car like this?" he asked finally. "It's perfect."

She grinned, and took the lead. In hindsight, he let her. He'd controlled every aspect of whatever the fuck this was, but she was safe and enclosed within her baby right now. It was her show, if only for the moment. He got what she gave him, and nothing more. It was thrilling. "My dad's company has an arrangement with law enforcement in Matamores. They randomly, mysteriously trip over magnificent vehicles like this one in the impound. You never saw Old Blue," she continued wistfully. Old Blue was a powder-blue '75 Dodge Ram that she learned to drive a standard in, as a very small child who absolutely should not have been driving, "That truck was the best of the best."

"You're perfect in this one."

She reclined a bit. "This one had two kilos of cocaine in it when it was... shall we say... reallocated." She tugged a lock of hair around her finger.

Arthur leaned in a little more. "You're beautiful," he said again.

"Repetition is the devil's idleness," she shot back. “Try again.”

"Do you know what you look like right now?" Arthur said. "You look like decadence incarnate. But you knew that."

She deflected his gaze, because she did tend to feel untouchable when she was in the Bronco, and he was right. She was doing it on purpose, and her face flushed shamefully.

But you know what? Fuck her mother. She wasn't restricted to whom she spoke with. Let her feel pretty in front of Arthur, let her feel special.

"Does it look good on me?" she asked softly.

Oh, shit, please don't answer that, she thought suddenly, panicked.

He smiled, coy himself. "No one else should wear it but you. You'd put them all to shame."

He liked to touch her hair. He just barely brushed her bangs. "They would never live up to you, Quince."

He'd given her a new nickname for her new name.

This was not getting any better. Fuck.

*

The phone call changed everything.

The Barnabas Connection threw a party every year. They actually threw the best party, but no one would own up to it. And Susie was never invited. She was always childcare.

And a minor, so it wasn't like she could live it up with the lushes. Someone's house always ended up being where all the kids were, and she was The Babysitter.

This year, the part was for Arthur’s fifty-seventh birthday, hosted at Martin mini-mansion on the river.

The Barnabas Connection wrote letters to inmates while incarcerated, by the way. She was not allowed to participate until she was 18.

So she and her brother Mickey watched TV , and watched eight kids, all under 10. She sulked.

And then the home phone rang.

“Hello,” she said boredly.

“Susie!” her youth director squealed. “Oh my God, we're having so much fun!”

“Rub it in while I rub baby powder on your son’s ass and put whiskey in his bottle,” she said tartly. “Margarita night?”

“So many margaritas,” Alia said happily. “How are the boys?”

“Not as sauced as you - yet,” Susie shot back. “How are the margaritas?”

Alia giggled. “Strong. Lord have mercy, Susie Q, I think it's actually just tequila with a salt rim. So good. Arthur makes the best margaritas!”

“You're a jerk and I hope you get a hangover,” she said peevishly. “Now I know your perfect margarita is tequila with a salt rim. How about you just skip the ice on the next one and call it what it is?

And then there was commotion on the other end of the line, as someone called, “Let me talk to Quince,” and she paled.

She left the main room quickly, leaving her brother with the boys. She knew who wanted to talk to her. Mickey glared at her suspiciously, a fucking sleuth at 13. Perfect little asshole.

The ambient noise died as the other phone was taken to another room as well. This ship was about to sink.

It was still shocking to hear: “Hey, sexy thing.”

She shut the door swiftly, panicked. “Well hello, sexy thing yourself. Sounds like you found the margaritas.”

“It's my house and my party,” he said with a thick tongue. “If I didn't know how to find them, I wouldn't deserve five. So far. Not done yet.”

Susie laughed despite herself. “You're lit. Let me guess - tequila with a salt rim?”

“I heard the description, and I take offense. I take pride in the things I do,” he informed her primly. “What I do, I do right.”

“I don't know about that,” she teased. “You're drunk on the phone with the babysitter.”

“No, I'm talking to a beautiful young woman while indulging in very good alcohol. Would you complain?” Arthur shot back.

“I might complain that I'm not partaking in the good stuff. All I have here is milk,” she deflected, turning red.

“I’ll buy you the best tequila. Could get you anything you want, you know,” he rambled, as she dismissed his words to booze. ”That’s what I'm good at: getting what I want. You know that I want you, don't you?”

Well, that was unexpected.

“What?” Oh, that was shrill. David Wong could hear that one in China.

“It's true.” Oh, and he suddenly didn't sound as drunk now. Funny, how that worked against her.

“You can't just say things like that to me,” she whispered frantically, stunned. “You can't. You're crazy, do you know that?”

“I mean it.”

She fiddled with her necklace anxiously. “Francis...”

“Quince.” His voice brooked no argument. “I want you.”

“You can't,” she repeated. “Arthur, someone could hear you, my mother is probably eavesdropping while she hangs upside down from the rafters, wrapped in a cocoon of her own wings -“

“Let her.”

“Arthur!”

“Tell me you don't want me, too.” He was the voice of God. He demanded, and she answered.

“I - fuck, Arthur,” and now she felt very near tears. No one had ever told her they wanted her. Mousy and bookish until recently, now with an admirer on the phone. “I mean, of course I do, what do you think I’ve been doing for 18 months? Waiting for Dan to propose while I'm still in high school? No! I’ve-”

And she clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified at her own words.

But he was laughing, “Quincey, you're constantly surprising me. 18 months, huh. I’m hurt.”

She realized how insane that sounded. “Sorry, I'm so sorry-“

“Do you know how long you’ve had me captivated?” He sounded very serious.

“Not that long?” Susie guessed.

“Four years.”

Oh. Well, there was no polite way to say it: “You're fucked in the head, Francis.”

“What do you want, Quince?”

“I want you to come see me in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat,” Susie blurted out. She loved doing community theater. “They dress me up like a boy, and then I get to rip it all off and be a star at curtain call. It's fun, I pull off the beard and the wig. For thirty seconds, I'm a bigger star than Nathan.” (The director, and the aforementioned Joseph. That's a different story, but it is certainly still a story.)

“I'm tired of hearing about Nathan. I don't want to meet him,” Arthur said curtly. “And you wouldn't want me to. You like him too much.”

“I like you more.” She was out of breath with nerves.

“I could hear you say that a thousand times,” he sighed. If she was learning anything in this moment, it was that Arthur was a very mercurial drunk.

“Well, you can't,” she mumbled. “I should go back to the kids.”

“You're good with them,” he said again. “You would be good with mine, Quince.”

Her heart stopped.

“Good night, Francis,” she said, shaken, and hung up.

Mickey was glaring at her from the living room when she opened the door. “Dude. Mom is going to be so pissed when I tell her.”

*

Their parents got home at exactly the same time as Susie and her brother. Her mother made a beeline for her, drunk and angry, and she stopped in her tracks. It looked like she already knew.

“You stay right there,” she hissed as her father ushered Mickey inside, oblivious.

“Everyone heard that man ask to talk to you, and they may have been busier socializing than paying attention, but he left the room to do it. Did you? Your brother won't lie for you,” Sam added.

“The kids were watching TV ,” she said, flinching. “And the baby was asleep, I didn't want to wake her.”

“And what did you talk to him about?” she demanded.

“Choir stuff. How loud Alia gets when she drinks. Little stuff.” She shrugged. “School, hobbies, working in the nursery.” Booze. Batshit crazy. Babies.

“Don't make me go to your dad,” Sam warned. “Don't make him a murderer.”

“Jesus, mother,” she deflected, “did you even have margaritas, or did you just drink straight from the bottle? You could breathe fire right now. I wish I had a lighter, I’d prove it.”

Getting ribbed about how Sam only really got sloshed at parties and with her sisters always rankled her mother. It was the right tactic.

“I wasn't driving,” she complained. “And Arthur makes really strong margaritas.”

Susie was coy. “I know.”

Sam shot up, eyes flashing. “Oh do you.”

“Alia told me.” She was smug, too.

Sam scowled.

The discussion was over.

*

Susie's parents called in dead for church the next morning - Sam for acting half dead (and giving quite a convincing performance), Tom out of solidarity. Susie had the late shift in the nursery, so she dressed like she was going to her own funeral.

Ha, just kidding, she still dressed cute and did her makeup, but she did feel like she was marching into something ominous.

The bright part of her day would be after church: a bottle of Yukon Jack with Rosie, her actual best friend, so that she could get drunk before she told her about her bizarre phone call. The sooner, the better.

She avoided Arthur as best she could, but it was only a matter of time. So she snuck in the back way and made a beeline for the nursery.

Jake was her only charge - mornings after Barnabas parties were sparsely attended, for obvious reasons (tequila!). And his mom had told her that since he was older and still didn't cry, Susie could drop him at the service if it was slow. Thank God. She texted Rosie and told her to hurry up and get there.

Jake was three now but still sweet, and still climbed up on the slide with her. He snuggled with her for about half an hour before she took him into the sanctuary and clocked out.

The coast looked clear, and she made a run to get her purse and escape. She should have known. Stupid. She couldn't face him right now. She should have known.

Because of course, of fucking course Arthur was leaning boredly against the changing table in the nursery, looking for all the world like he didn't have a care in it. He was always immaculately dressed, but today it was simply slacks and a green polo, with a neat sport coat. He was riveting. Somehow it was sexier than a suit. She thrilled at how she could see in the mirror how blue his eyes were today.

He finally met her eyes, a small smile playing at his mouth.

“If I didn't know better,” he said teasingly, “I would think you were avoiding me. But i know you’d never do that.”

Susie swallowed. He didn't always have this effect on her, but today it felt like he had the gravitational pull of the sun. She stepped a little further into the room. “I have plans with my friend. The sooner I get done here, well - that's pretty self-explanatory.”

He studied her, unknowable to her again. “And what plans are these?”

“Get drunk and jump off the rock into Harper’s Well,” she said honestly, and watched his face carefully to see how he reacted.

His eyes widened, shocked as he turned it over in his head. “That's idiocy, Susie. Where on earth did you get that idea?”

“You clearly didn't go my high school,” she replied with a bold grin. “You're a Houston boy. What kind of dares do they issue there, to go play in the swamp? Wrestle an alligator? Because here, we jump.”

He was shaking his head. “It's thirty degrees outside. That water is barely twice that, Quincey. It's too dangerous for you to do that.”

“We have problems, we jump,” she repeated calmly. "Sorry, but that's just how it works."

He watched her with equal care, and approached her like a horse that might spook. His fingers traced her shoulders - he used both hands now, no one could see. They raised goosebumps in their wake. “What problems do you have, sweetheart?” he murmured,stepping too close.

She blanched. “You are a problem, Francis. You shouldn't be in here. You're nothing but a

problem.”

“There are worse problems to have,” he mused.

“I beg to differ,” she grouched, then took a steadying breath before continuing. "You - we - need to dial this down, Arthur. My mother - I mean, she doesn't know what she thinks, but she doesn't like what she thinks. But I, um, I do like this," she stuttered as his fingers smoothed across her skin. She placed her shaking hands over his own, and saw his eyes widen. “I do. But we has to be more careful."

She still let him turn her, his hands warm and gentle, pulling her closer but not quite flush against her back.

“I'm sorry if I’ve caused you any undue stress,” Arthur practically purred, and -

"Not sorry enough," she replied, though it had no real bite.

His hands came back to her shoulders, innocuous at first, then -

"Oh shit," she yelped as he kneaded her muscles, not gently, but Jesus Christ it was like he knew exactly where she carried all of her stress - high up on her spine, smack in the middle. It was easily the most amazing massage she'd ever had. "Oh shit, Francis, why did you even bother with the law, your talents are wasted on murderers and thieves and oh -" His thumb hit a spot under her shoulder that made her wince and yelp again indecently.

"I don't think you know the kind of law I practice," he chuckled. "Tax law certainly has its own criminals, just a far more boring kind."

"No, God, this is your calling, quit your job tomorrow," she groaned. "You could sell this on the corner and make more money than you're making now.”

Arthur's hands worked a little lower. "It's my best-kept secret," he said with a smile that she caught in the mirror, and she felt like she was on the first drop of a roller coaster.

"Can you be trusted to keep it?"

"Just that one?" Susie exhaled.

Everything she was wearing was so wrong. Her shirt was sleeveless, and dipped lower in the back than the front. It was her mother's shirt that she had stolen months ago, and while it wasn't risque or inappropriate, it was all wrong now because it was just bare skin beneath his hands as he rubbed her shoulders. She closed her eyes in case she saw something in the mirror she didn't like - or that he did.

"Oh," she keened. He continued to work, and she let his name slip - "Francis," and wished she could take it back immediately.

He stepped impossibly close, and quit moving. "Yes?"

And then there was a cough from the doorway, but before Susie could panic, Rosie declared, "So I guess I'm... interrupting, is that the word?"

"No! Jesus fucking Christ," she yelped, and felt herself turn red down to her chest as Arthur pulled her in. “Son of a motherfucking whore, there's a goddamn door, would it kill you to fucking knock for once in your fucking - goddamn it! How the fuck long have you been standing there?"

Rosie started to answer, but Arthur stepped in smoothly. "Oh, not long." She realized, or suspected, that Rosie had been there for more than a second, and he’d stayed quiet. If her friend's face was any indication, she was right.

He stayed poised just behind her, but now his fingers were wrapped around her upper arms. She could see how they looked in the mirror. He looked like he possessed her, and she looked owned.

A suspicious glare from across the room. "Long enough."

She caught a glimpse of Arthur. That asshole was smirking. "I take it you know each other, to warrant that many obscenities."

"Oh, this is Rosie," she said desperately.

The other girl lifted a hand in greeting. "Yo. And you are..."

"Arthur," she blurted at the same time he said "Francis."

Rosie's eyebrows jumped up to her bangs and stayed there. "Oh really.”

No one said a word for a long minute. Susie might even have forgotten how to breathe, come to think.

"Well this is perfectly normal and not uncomfortable at all," Rosie said finally. "So, uh. My brother dropped me off, so if you want to give me your keys, I can go wait in the car and pretend I stayed home and that if any of this actually happened, I didn't see anything."

"Are you the reason she's getting drunk and jumping off a small cliff?" Arthur asked with a smile. He was being too comfortable today, bordering on smug, like the cat that got the cream. If Susie was the cream, then she'd been stolen. She missed the days of sneaking off and sharing whispers, but now he was using that voice and Rosie could hear him, and she could see him the way Susie did, and when did this day get so royally fucked?

Rosie sized him up, her face calm as she spoke. "No, I don't think I am." Her words were loaded.

He laughed, and Susie snapped, "Arthur, would you shut up and please not start!" She stormed over to her purse to fetch her keys, even as he stayed by her side and murmured, "Wrong name."

"You know what, when I'm not plotting your death or mine, you can be Francis, but I am currently contemplating both and I don't know how well my infamous restraint is going to hold up, Francis," she hissed, turning away from Rosie to do so. "If today is anyindicator, I'm not so optimistic."

A softer edge touched his smirk. "Don't do anything stupid on my behalf."

"Don't you mean anything else," she grumbled resentfully. "You know, I can't even think about doing this right now, Arthur. I'll see you next week." Her whole body was hot and she wished so badly that Rosie had been running even later, but she grabbed her purse and made her way to her friend. "We're out. I'm getting drunk and jumping."

He made a quick move to catch her, solemn now when he spoke. "Be careful, Quincey. I'm not kidding about this."

She barely nodded.

His eyes were very blue today.

*

Susie wished they could have driven in awkward silence, but that wasn't something Rosie had ever learned, and so the moment the doors were closed, the band-aid came off.

"That looks like a first fight if I ever saw one," Rosie began with a snort, to which Susie immediately shot back, "You shut your fucking whore mouth," refusing to even look at her.

"Arthur and Francis are the same person?" she pressed. "I thought you and Dan were talking about two different guys. Oh shit, Susie, you've gotta be fucking kidding me," she realized. "You are absolutely joking right now. You and Dan talk about Arthur - but only you talk about Francis - wait, is this like a split personality thing or some gross -"

"His middle name is Francis," she cut in tightly. "He calls me Quincey. It's, it's not gross but it's, um, it's ours. Just us. And we don't, I mean, you know. It's not like - that.”

"Is that because you won't, or he hasn't asked?" she asked pointedly, turning in her seat to look her straight on. "You have to tell me you at least know this is fucked up, Susie. You don't have to do anything about it, but for my sanity and my faith in yours, you do get it, right?"

Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel as they went over a low-water crossing,

"Yeah, I get it."

"You know he's not going to leave some wife and kids for you. I safely assume he has them, and Christ, Susie, we are seventeen. If he thinks this is okay, or fun, he's not a good person," Rosie snapped, "and he's obviously having the time of his life with you."

"It's not like that!" she wailed again. "We just talk, he barely even touches me, and he's never asked me for anything like what's going on in your pervy fucking head!"

"If that shitshow just now was him barely touching you," she snapped, "then color me fucking terrified of the day when he normal-touches you."

"I get it," Susie bit off. "Today was... weird. We don't usually, I mean - I think it's just because I talked to him last night and it was - it was different, he said stuff and I said stuff and then he found me in the nursery just now..." she huffed a frustrated sigh. Rosie didn't push, probably because of that old adage about enough rope, and what people who had it tended to do.

"Alia called from the party," she predictably continued, unthinking. "Everyone was drunk, and he was drunk when he took the phone, and he said - stuff."

"What stuff?"

Now a bigger sigh. "That he, ah, liked me. And has for awhile."

"And so now you have to jump in the Well," Rosie groaned.

"Now I have to go jump," she agreed.

*

"Why do they never take you or your brother on their trips?" Arthur mused a week later.

Her parents were in New Orleans for a week over the New Year. It was their anniversary, and it was the city they finally took their honeymoon in, so her grandmother and her aunt came every year and stayed with them.

Susie had spent the entire week deciding if she was going for a hard shutdown, or if she deserved to enjoy herself, or if she was even going to pretend that she would have ended whatever this was if she tried. She determined on Friday that she would see this thing a little farther. She could flirt with a friend as long as she never acted on anything, right?

She could hear her cousin's voice in her head: There's one born every minute, Pinky.

She poked at her iced tea. "Have you ever seen my parents be all in love all over the place? It's horrifying. I've never been to New Orleans, but they get all gross and lovey just talking about it for a full month before they go. I would jump out of a window, seriously.”

"How was your other jump? As purifying and cleansing as you'd hoped?" He snuck her a sly grin. It was a Fifth Sunday and there was no Sam running around, sniffing after her, and his wife and daughter were at her mother's for the holiday. No one else knew to look twice at them talking over lunch besides Mickey, who Gram had let sleep in. They were basking in it, if just a little - they sat together during the service, and now they ate casseroles off of paper plates at the back of the room, conspirators from the first moment they saw each other, passing secret words back and forth. It was exciting.

"That water was the kind of cold that steals the air from your lungs," she said thoughtfully. "But yeah, then you come up and try to breathe and stay afloat. You hope to God you come up for air. I didn't get right out," she added, "after a certain point it's warmer in the water than it is out of it. But after about three minutes, it was too cold and my clothes were too heavy.

"

"Would you do it again?" His eyes caught hers and held them.

“Oh, fuck no," she told him immediately. "That's one of the dumbest ideas I've had lately, if I had landed three feet in any other direction, I would have cracked my skull and died."

"Only one of the dumbest?" Arthur chuckled.

"Present company excluded," she demurred sweetly.

His grin was small, but exclusively for her. "Come dance with me."

There were, in fact, people dancing to the music - the band was always amazing. "No."

"How many times do you think I'll get to ask you to dance without your mother lurking in the shadows? Be opportunistic."

She shook her head. "It's exposed, Francis. People may not be looking now, but the first time I dance with you, they could start."

He sat back in his chair, watching the merriment, too casual. "You're right," he admitted, “but if you don't ask, you can't get. What about less exposed?"

"These walls have ears," she said dryly. "I know everything about Melissa's marriage and Sally's baby and Earl's finances, Arthur. You need to have a greater sense of self-preservation."

He didn't say anything for a long time, but he had his thinking face on as the silence between them stretched. He draped his arm across the back of her chair and leaned back.

“You're wise for your years. But I still want a dance.”

“I think you’ll be waiting on that for a long time,” was her only reply.

“I can wait.”

She grinned as the band gestured for her to join them. “Do me a favor, hold your breath while you wait.”

*

Time passed. A lot of time. Eighteen happened, then the summer before college. And suddenly, the promise of Honduras.

“No,” said Sam immediately, when Susie finally got the stones to bring it up. “You need to start getting ready for school, and two weeks in Honduras is the exact opposite of that. Besides, it's too expensive. You need to focus.”

“I’ve been nothing but focused,” she complained. “I’m too old for UM ARMY , and half of the Upstairs Room class is going! Plus Perry and Danny,” she added. “And maybe Gina! I mean, it would be mission work, and I'd be surrounded by adults, and Gina, Mom - I would get to jam with her every night! When am I going to get to do that again?” Susie demanded. “You're not even letting me take a gap year or go to the school I want! Can I seriously not get anything?”

Her mother rolled her eyes. “You're so deprived. ‘Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, I'm going to go eat some worms,’ you're not being neglected, Sus. You just don't need to leave the country, and we told you no big church trips this summer if you couldn't pass math.”

“You're letting me go to St. Louis! And I tried,” she argued. “It wasn't lack of effort, here! I stayed after school every day to finish my stuff!”

“But you skipped your aide period and went tubing for a month,” her mother reminded her, “and you still didn't pass.”

“I know, okay?” she snapped. “So I have to take remedial math for a freaking year before I can take ‘the only math class I need,’ and you're punishing me for not being perfect. Sorry I'm not Mickey,” she added angrily. “I can't get everything right all the time, sorry. And this could be a really cool trip with Gina and Perry! She's been on tour all year and hasn't sat in with the band in months!”

“And what - you want to be a guest on her next album?” Sam guessed.

Her eyes widened. “Like Jill would ever even think that. No, I just want to go!”

“To another country and play,” Sam finished. “I know you want to, but your father and I already talked about it. It's not the right time. And as you pointed out, you are already going on a trip. One big one is enough.”

“I could apply for a scholarship -“ she began to argue, but her mother was shaking her head.

“Maybe next year,” was the only concession she would get. “And don't start about the scholarship. Your father and I already talked about it, and the answer is no. That's that.”

Susie stormed out, fuming. She was pretty used to getting no for an answer - that didn't mean she had to take it lying down.

*

Where she took it, rather than lying down, was directly to Arthur between Sunday school and church that weekend. While he never said an ill word about her mother when she bitched, he did seem a little more than empathetic to her plight.

“It’s not fair,” was her absolutely mature attitude. “She won't let me go to LSU, she won't let me go to Scotland, and now she won't even let me go on a mission trip. Who says no to a mission trip? It's literally the best thing I could do!”

Arthur considered this. “Is it money?”

“Mom says money isn’t the point,” she scowled. “She's blaming this on me failing algebra and having to take remedial math when I start at TCU. Whatever they want me to call it. It’s just lipstick on a pig, at the end of the day.”

He laughed. “How do you really feel about it? I take it LSU was your first pick.”

“It’s as far away from this homophobic, xenophobic, racist, misogynistic little town as I could get, and I can't even get past Lubbock now!” The Malibu and Coke in her hand clinked as she waved it around. He grabbed her wrist to keep the drink from flying. “Whoa there, girl, there's not another one of those where that came from,” he cautioned.

That was about as likely to be true as she would allow it to be, but Susie didn't press the issue. “I’m just saying, this is bullshit.”

“And what's this about Scotland?”

“I wanted to take a gap year and go backpacking,” she whined more. “But Dad said that's how werewolves in London happened, because he thinks he's funny,” although his laughter didn't help drive home her point.

“Well, I know it’s less fun this way, but you’d be terribly missed if you went to Scotland or Louisiana this year,” he offered as thin consolation .

She was not fourteen anymore; his words irked her right now, although there was still enough of the stupid-out-of-the-box teenager in her that she couldn't help but smile.

“Oh, you’d be fine,” she dismissed.

“Who said anything about me?” Arthur was the picture of innocence in that moment, which made her want to shove him, but that whole touch thing still kept her hand at bay.

Somehow, their interactions had become less... intense. Oh, there was no less intent behind his words than the night he'd had her on the phone, but somehow it was less frightening.

Rosie had pointed out the week prior that Susie was probably about to age out, which rankled her. Whatever this was, it was different. She had quit trying to put a name to it months ago, and just ridden the still-crashing wave as long as it carried her, without trying to demean it by naming it.

“It’s always about you,” she reminded him. “I know your type, buster, and it’s always about you.”

“And don't you forget it,” he agreed.

She sighed, not bothering to fill the comfortable silence that followed. He usually handled that.

“So tell me about Honduras,” he hedged finally. “Would they let you go if someone created an anonymous scholarship, out of duty to some kind-hearted member of the congregation?”

Her eyes widened. “What? Well - I don't know, but you don't have to do that. I can skip it this year, try my luck again year after next when they plan another trip. This isn't the only opportunity I'll get.”

“But what if it's the only opportunity I get?”

Oh shit, he was not serious.

Her shocked pause gave him room to continue. “Mission trips have clearly been very important to you, but never Karen. She wouldn't go on one if a court ordered her to. Ican't say I ever encouraged them, or thought much about going on one myself, until I did my Walk to Emmaus.”

With my father, she remembered. It had given Tom some crazy, newfound love of Arthur

and cemented his complete oblivion when it came to nuanced situations like this. He could walk up right now, and the only thing he'd see wrong was the drink in her hand.

“And you're suddenly thinking about it,” she guessed apprehensively. “I never pictured you as a dirt under the nails type of guy, Frankie, I'm not going to lie.”

“I could make some lifestyle adjustments for a few weeks.”

She stared at him in open disbelief. “You're seriously talking about going to Honduras.For two weeks. And repairing roofs. And installing light fixtures. And laying asphalt. Taping and floating ceilings.”

For the first time since this shit show had started, four years ago, he glanced around before responding, as though he was worried that someone might see them. “I’m talking about us being in Honduras for two weeks. Yes.”

It felt like she'd been shoved out of an airplane, and at the age of fourteen, at that. “Arthur - Francis - we can't do that,” she said quietly, also shooting a nervous look around. “Or plan it. Or talk about it.”

He took the drink from her and gripped her hands, which - in all his stupid, boundary- pushing obsession with somehow always touching her - she could not remember a time when he'd taken her hands in his. This, somehow, was worse than all the rest. “Susie.”

“That’s not my name,” she joked weakly, but didn't pull away.

“We're moving back to Houston before you go to school. For good.”

“Houston?” Susie repeated stupidly. “Why?”

“Linda has had enough,” he said simply. “She doesn't like... things. She's always been keen on finding things she doesn't like, and she's found a few.”

“What about Karen?” Because someone had to bring up his daughter, right?

But did it have to be her?

“She says she was happier in Houston,” he admitted, “but Houston was where all of her problems started. It's where all of the problems started.” His thumb ran across her knuckles. “This was supposed to be a new start.”

Well you sure tried really hard to start something new, she thought darkly.

“Everything happens for a reason,” she supplied helpfully. “Maybe you just needed time away to recognize that you had a good thing. You know?”

The intensity in those blue eyes was alarming. “I have a good thing.”

“Good, glad you see that,” Susie interjected before he could make bad, worse. “Put it first. Chalk this up to the first pancake and give it to the dog.”

His smile didn't reach his eyes. “When did you get so wise?”

“I’m an old soul, remember?” Her responding grin was a little empty, too. “Pastor Abbott said so. A long time ago.”

“It wasn't that long ago.”

“Yeah it was. I’m an old soul, and I’m smart.”

They didn't say anything, or even move, for a full minute.

“I’m going to St. Louis this week,” Susie finally said. “I’ll be back in July.”

“Honduras is in June.”

“I’m not going to Honduras. My parents said I can't.” God, when did this stop being fun? When did she get old?

“We're leaving at the end of the month.” He had never gripped her so tightly, and to her horror, she realized he was trying and failing to bury something in his face.

No last shebang, Francis.

“Okay, she said with finality. “Okay. I’m... going home, Arthur. I’ve been here since the early service, and I have to pack.”

“I understand.”

Oh fuck if he kisses me - she thought with a flash of panic, when he tugged her in by her hands.

But it was just a hug. It was too long, and too tight, but she let him. And he may have rested his chin on her shoulder, but she managed to ignore it.

Susie was the one to step back, and was able to do so successfully for the first time.

He let her.

“Bye, Francis.” There was a chilling finality to the awkward words. She took a few more hesitant steps back, as though he might not let her go any farther.

He let her. Ultimately, he'd always let her.

*

Now

Her father's funeral looms, and after seven years of only fleeting thoughts, all Susie can think about is how she could hear the voice of God if she so chose. All it would take is a call to pastor Robert Abbot for a number, and she would have reason to pick up the phone. No one is going to tell a grieving woman she can't make a phone call, right? Not when the news is that of Tom’s untimely death. Fifty-four years is certainly untimely.

Vocalizing this to Rosie elicits a shocked “Are you fucking kidding me? Do you hate yourself?”

Yes; the bottle of tequila in one hand and joint in the other is testament to that.

The name Arthur Francis is stamped on her brain for days, a name her husband doesn't know, but she's thought about it since she bought the first bottle after leaving the hospital. Her father always considered him a good friend. She could call. Even Linda couldn't fault her for bearing the news. Don’t shoot the messenger, especially when she's mourning her wonderful father's death.

Oh, she could be celebrating his life, like her mother and aunts - the West women descended upon Wimberley before Tom even made it to the hospital, and are a force to be reckoned with - but that would be ignoring the misery she’s feeling right now, and she can't have that.

She watches her phone for a few days, debating. Maybe he doesn't know, and that’s why no one has heard from him. Maybe he does know, and finally knows better than to touch the phone this time. Maybe he's dead, too.

She knows the word grooming now. It never bothered her before, but today that word curls in her mind like a curse.