I can’t wait to meet his family. His friends. To bathe myself in his most sacred beliefs. Tomorrow he’ll be in his element, and I’ll find out firsthand what Steven Hepsworth holds dear.
Then I’ll figure out how to take it all away from him.
CHAPTER 13
I didn’t pay much attention to her new boyfriend at first. Meg was always gaga over new boyfriends. I just asked how they were in bed and I moved on.
She would eventually get married, but it didn’t matter to me which man became her husband as long as he helped complete the fantasy I had for Meg’s future family. The sooner Meg got married and had kids, the sooner I could pretend I belonged too.
She dated the new guy for three months. It was a whirlwind romance, they were already talking marriage, and then they broke up. I barely registered it. He told her she was immature and unstable. I told her he was shitty and mean. He was.
When they got back together a week later, I said, As long as he’s good in bed. She laughed it off. She was so happy.
A month later she called me, sobbing. Her boyfriend had told her he’d never have kids with her because she would be a terrible, worthless mother. I honestly didn’t understand her tears, because this was a ridiculous insult. Meg wasn’t terrible or worthless.
She might be a little flighty and she was definitely too trusting, but Meg was amazing with kids. Caring, kind, supportive. But she somehow bought into his bullshit, because, despite her degree in English, she was still working as a waitress and she occasionally drank too much at clubs.
“He’s an asshole,” I said. “Be relieved that you’re seeing this now and walk away.” It seemed simple enough to me.
He asked her to move in a month later. She did.
This was a secret, of course. He wanted her there and available twenty-four hours a day, but he didn’t want his family or church to know that he was a sinner. I mean, that was Meg’s fault anyway for putting out, wasn’t it?
I told her she was being stupid. I actually told her that. “Don’t be stupid, Meg. This guy is a dick.” She told me he was a great guy and I should be happy for her; then she made an excuse to get off the phone.
We didn’t speak for three weeks. I was secretly relieved when she called, sobbing again, to tell me he’d kicked her out. She was homeless and heartbroken and all I could think was Thank God that’s over.
It wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. Steven Hepsworth had found a hot girl who’d put up with his abuse, and he was just getting started.
CHAPTER 14
Today my flowery dress is buttoned up and my bosom is further shielded by a cardigan. Today is not a day for seducing Steven; it’s a day to observe and learn.
He arrives at eight, and even though I’m ready, I ask if he can wait in the hallway for one minute; then I close the door and move frantically around my apartment, as if I’m running behind. Three minutes later I rush through the door and apologize several times for my tardiness. “I’m sorry. I hit my snooze button too many times!”
“Never use a snooze button,” he instructs. “It signals your brain that an alarm is just an excuse to sleep more. That’s why you couldn’t wake up.”
“That’s smart.”
“Let’s go. We’re going to be late now.”
“I’m so sorry!” I chirp as I follow him down the stairs. It’s 8:05 now and Jesus waits for no man, I guess.
We talk about the weather and the city as we drive to church. Steven doesn’t like my urban neighborhood, of course. He assures me I can do better once I apply myself. “You’re going to have to find better work than data entry, though. What did you do before?”
“Various things. My last job was working as a secretary at an accounting firm, but my . . . my ex was an accountant there.”
“So you couldn’t stay?”
I shrug and shrink a little in my seat. “He had a jealous streak. He was always accusing me of flirting with other men in the office.”
“Were you?”
“No!”
“Hey, I was just asking. Sometimes women can be flirtatious without even realizing it.”
Instead of explaining that jealousy is rooted in deep feelings of inadequacy, I pout. “I’m friendly with everyone, whatever gender they are. That was my whole job.”
He pats my hand. “I know, but sometimes men just don’t get it. You have to be careful.”
“I know. I am.” After all, everyone knows that women are responsible for how men behave. If we’re not careful, they might decide to take what they want. They can’t help it. But somehow I’m the one with the psychological impairment.
We get to the church by 8:35, so I guess my irresponsible use of the snooze button didn’t ruin everything. The service isn’t until 9, but, as a deacon, Steven has responsibilities. “I’ll introduce you to my dad after the service. He’ll be putting the finishing touches on his sermon right now. Are you okay on your own?”
I haven’t burst into flames yet, so I assure him I’m fine, and he leaves me to wander the giant church hall. There are plenty of people already in the pews, mostly older couples who don’t have to worry about entertaining small children through the service.
The lines of the church are modern and sleek, but the décor adds more than a hint of ostentation. The lectern is carved wood painted gold, and behind it a giant stained-glass window rises up to heaven. The window is a beautiful scene of worshippers in brightly colored robes gathered around a hill to hear the Savior speak. Jesus looms over all of us, arms spread in what might have been a gesture of welcome but looks more like an open-armed invitation for adoration.
In case it’s unclear, I’m not a believer.
Where I grew up, everyone believed in God. Everyone worshipped Jesus. And they were all poor and miserable and suffering. They lost jobs and children and dignity, but that only made them pray harder. I recognize a con when I see one.
But the people here have more to be thankful for. I spot a very expensive Louis Vuitton bag sitting next to a woman perched at the end of a pew. She got here early, but instead of moving to a seat in the center she’ll make everyone step over her and her expensive purse on their way in. She wants them to see it and be envious or at least recognize that she is better than they are.
If I weren’t here to be placid and innocent, I’d sit behind her and wait for her to be distracted. When she stood to catch up with an old friend, I’d slide her purse from the seat and sneak it up the aisle. I’d put it in the bathroom. Set it on the floor of a stall, as if she’d retreated to the restroom and left it there herself.
Within a few minutes she’d be frantically looking for her very important purse. She’d be furious. She’d interrupt the service. She’d cry. Then she’d accuse her godly neighbors of stealing her precious bag. Someone would eventually find the missing purse in the bathroom, the contents still intact and unmolested. The purse would be returned, but no one would ever forget her nasty carrying-on. What kind of woman would forget her bag in the bathroom and then accuse others of stealing it?
I grin with delight at the damage I could do to this woman. But, alas, I’m not here to take risks. Not today.
A few people notice my delighted smile and greet me warmly. I am obviously filled up with the Spirit.
More people are flowing in, so I find a seat in the tenth row and settle in for the show. Steven’s duties seem to be complete, and he emerges from a side door and takes a seat in the front pew with several other men wearing suits. I see him glance down the pew to the other end, where a woman sits stiffly in a bright-raspberry suit. Icy blond curls tumble down her back.
She doesn’t return Steven’s glance but stares straight ahead. The women nearby watch her. Occasionally one approaches to greet her and shake her hand. I’m almost certain she is the pastor’s wife.