Page 7 of Bad Habit
“When she died…” I took a deep breath. “I met a priest at the hospital. He was very kind, and Father Graham, here at St. Ignatius, is a friend of his.”
“And your dad?”
Looking at the scuffed gymnasium floor, I shook my head.
He drew in a long breath and looked at me with sympathy. He assumed my dad had died. Was it a lie if I didn’t correct him?
“It must have been hard to leave your friends.”
Friends? “Our cabin was isolated. In the North Woods of Minnesota, above Lake Superior. It was miles to our nearest neighbor.”
“How about at school?”
“I was homeschooled.”
“And church?”
“I guess you could say I was home-churched, too.”
He barked a quick laugh. “And here you were on my case for not going to Mass.”
I stepped back.
He shook his head. “I was joking. Sorry.”
“No, you’re right. Mother and I… We were very religious in our own way, but some of the things she taught me… I still have so much to learn.”
“When did you decide to be a nun?”
I raised my chin. “I was born with a calling.”
Something beeped. He reached into his shorts pocket and pulled out a mobile phone. He cursed, then said, “Sorry, Sister. Or should I call you Faith?”
“Faith is fine.” He should call me Miss Magnusson, but as I’d learned soon after Mother went into the hospital, the rules of etiquette she’d taught me were old-fashioned. A thing of the past.
“You and the kids playing basketball tomorrow?” he asked as he slipped the phone into his pocket.
“Yes. It seems to be their favorite pastime. They all leave when I offer arts and crafts or Bible study.”
“Great.” He turned toward the gymnasium door, then grinned over his shoulder. “See you then.”
* * *
Mac
Iblinked as my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting inside the garage. It wasn’tthatdim, it was just that the sun outside was strong, and I’d forgotten to wear sunglasses.
“Dill?” I called out. “Where are you?”
“Over here.” From across the room, my twin brother Dillon, peeked around his motorcycle.
As I passed, I waved at Juan, the garage owner, who was working on a vintage Corvette. “Sweet,” I said to him. “Yours?”
Juan shook his head. “Some rich asshole from the city.”
“Too bad. Asshole’s got good taste.”
“And way too much money. Not sure he even plans to drive this thing. Spends more to park it than I make in a year.”
