Page 2 of Ardently Yours

Polford can rot in hell where he belongs. The sooner the better. But today I’ll sing the hymns. “Amazing Grace” and “How Great Thou Art.” I’ll murmur the words “The lord is my shepherd,” and I’ll separate the evil on the pulpit from my belief that Steve is in a better place. I have to.

I force myself to look at the gleaming wooden casket covered in yellow roses where it stands in front of the stage.

It’s closed. Mom was right. His little Dodge Shadow was crushed by a semitruck. It was fruitless to hope for anything else.

The weighty and ever-present thrum of pain narrows into something razor-sharp. I push it down and lift my chin.

Steve’s father John, looking like an older version of his son—one the world will never know—makes eye contact with me across the distance, raking a furious glare from the top of my head to my feet and back up again.According to John, Steve leaving this church was my fault. Their son avoiding them and staying with my family on his college breaks were, of course, also my fault. John’s belief that this baby isn’t Steve’s is built on onesimple, and, for him, irrefutable foundation: He doesn’t want it to be true. Therefore, it isn’t.

My sister’s hand tightens on mine, and she mutters under her breath, “Ignore that asshole.”

When Steve’s mother Pam takes a step toward me, her fingers outstretched and her face wreathed in pain, her husband’s hand comes to rest on her shoulder. She freezes and closes her eyes. After a moment, Pam turns back to stand beside him just like she always has.

Maybe it’s the right decision. When this is over, she’ll go home with her husband, and they’ll mourn together. If she made a stand, she’d lose everything she has left to lean on. Her family. Her church. Her husband.

Mom leads the way past the last curved row of red-cushioned chairs. We stand behind them.

Jeremy Polford climbs the stairs to the stage and steps behind the microphone. “Today we celebrate Steven Hunsic’s return to the arms of our heavenly father and seek comfort in the knowledge . . .”

Polford is in his early forties, and his gelled-back, straw-colored hair looks as slick as his smile. Most people think he’s handsome and kind.

I don’t give him the respect of paying attention to his hypocritical words. His resonant tones are nothing but a hum hiding beneath the pulse that pounds in my ears and on my tongue. There’s a fist in my throat and a stinging in my sinuses, but my eyes are dry.

I’m here for Steve, but not to grieve. That will come after. Today, I stand beside him, as a man he despised presides over his funeral.

The pastor runs his eyes over the assembled crowd, his face arranged into one of peaceful, joyful acceptance as God welcomes one of his children home. The man’s green-eyed gazesnags on mine. I stare back with every ounce of venom in my heart.I see you, asshole.

As though Polford hears my thoughts, he falters in the middle of his sentence, losing his place and clearing his throat. A pulse pounds in his temple, visible even from this distance, as his face flushes with temper. His eyes narrow on mine before he breaks eye contact. His attention flicks back to all the faces looking to him for comfort, and he offers them a lift of his shoulders and a beatific smile of benevolence.

Everyone who noticed his slip will say he was caught in a moment of grief with the rest of them. But I rattled him. It’s not enough, but it’s something.

Pastor Polford’s attention has moved on, but my scalp prickles in awareness. Some slight movement to my left catches in my periphery. People have been staring at me from the moment we entered the building, but this is different. Whoever is watching me is dangerous. I can feel it.

My fight-or-flight response was triggered before I stepped foot into this place. That has to be the reason for my paranoia. I scan the crowd anyway.

A dark-haired stranger, looking older than my twenty years by more than a decade, sits alone in the back row to my left.

The broad-shouldered man’s attention is on the pastor. Rather than appearing to be enthralled by Polford, the stranger’s expression is so cold it’s as though he carried winter into the sanctuary with him. Goose bumps erupt on my arms, and I rub them away.

His dark suit fits him like it was custom made, and the shiny dress shoes and gold watch on his wrist are shockingly out of place in a rural community like Blackwater, Pennsylvania. He should look civilized. Instead, there’s something almost savage about him.

Without warning, he turns in my direction. Eyes narrowing, he dips his chin. I pretend not to see his attempt to engage with me.

It took all the courage I had to walk into this building today, and it will take all my strength to cope with life tomorrow. I have nothing left to worry about a stranger who looks like he could own this town and every person in it. Or to wonder what he wants withme.

Tryin' To Throw Your Arms Around the World

Arden

“Life has a nasty habit of challenging my convictions.” —Arden McRae III

Aweek ago, I’dhave claimed to be the last person who would ever crash a funeral. But Steve would want me here. I’d go so far as to say he’d have been desperate for it.

So here I sit, on the hunt for a young woman who appears to have skipped out on the fiasco entirely.

The man behind the pulpit is good. I’ll give him that. But I have a great deal of experience spotting liars. This guy makes a living selling people a story he doesn’t believe.

His eyes rake the crowd, expression warm and sympathetic as he describes Steve as a beloved son, brother, and friend.

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