Look Before You Jump (4 page)

Waking up Thursday morning in his apartment,
I realized once again that I had. At least this time I remembered
Nick’s name.

“Every night this week?”

Janine’s eyes threatened to pop out of her
head. Instead of drool she dribbled popcorn onto my outdated couch
and stopped petting my kitty on her lap to pause the movie. Even in
our mid-twenties it was still fun hanging out in our PJ’s eating
popcorn and Oreos and talking about boys like two pre-pubescent
girls. ‘Cept now it was men.

“Not every night,” I corrected.

She pursed her lips like a true
De’Laruse.

“Just since Wednesday,” I grudgingly
admitted. “But tonight I’m spending with you.”

The gigantic popcorn bowl came between us.
“Don’t get any ideas there, princess. I may still be a virgin, but
I have eyes only for men.”

“Very funny,” I said, reaching into the bowl
and hammering Janine with a popcorn bombardment.

Slinky launched off her lap with a yowl and
skittered across the floor away from the battle. Served my
traitorous tabby right. The popcorn fight kept us occupied for
about thirty seconds until the bowl emptied. Hey, not like it’s
cookie dough or anything. Get the vacuum cleaner out and two
minutes later, voila. Popcorn gone without a trace. It’s the best
food fight money can buy.

Janine ran her finger along the empty bowl’s
edge and licked off the last vestiges of the butter from her
fingers. “Seriously though, are you boyfriend and girlfriend now,
or are you just hooking up with Nick? When do I get to meet
him?”

“Whoa there, Nellie. None of that there ‘b’
word. That’s a flippin’ curse word among these here walls.”

Truth be told, I was rather ashamed of myself
for my lack of willpower when it came to Nick. There was something
about the way his ice blue eyes penetrated mine, the way his
luscious and pouty lips would curl just before he captured my lips,
not to mention the heat that sucked away the air from around us
‘til I couldn’t breathe. I felt like I was in a trance when he
neared. Our bodies were drawn together like magnets and nothing
would force us apart.

Until I awoke the morning after. I had yet to
stick around for him to wake up, much less share breakfast after
our nightly romps. That bespoke an intimacy I no longer wanted to
entertain. Ever again.

I continued, “I’ve always been a sucker for
yummy accents.”

“Not the only thing. Seems you’re a sucker
for yummy…”

“That too,” I interrupted. “But there’s more
to life than just sex.”

Did that statement just pop out of
my
mouth?

“Ugh, I have no life.” Janine groaned.

I’m not sure what I did would at times be
considered a life either, though it somehow held a glow of merit to
Janine. Call me Mary Magdalene to her Virgin Mary.

“Hello,” I responded, tossing an Oreo her
way. “Who’s the little miss getting a doctorate while one of us
plays bartender?”

“Exactly! Teaching Dr. Husingkamp’s students
by day and studying by night makes for a mundane existence.”
Kernels of unpopped corn peppered the carpet as she tossed the bowl
aside. “I’d give anything to let it all go for one week and live a
life of freedom like yours.”

“What do you mean? You visit at the bar some
Saturday nights.”

“Yeah, and have to race home by midnight
before I turn into a pumpkin,” Janine whined. “I can’t even drink
anything but pop or risk my mom’s wrath. That woman can smell
alcohol tinged breath in the next county.”

“Living with the parents must suck.”

“I’m so tired of being treated like a
twelve-year-old. I want to have some fun without worrying about
repercussions. Smoke a cigarette. Drink myself under the table – or
into someone’s arms. Experience a night of unbridled passion.”
Janine sighed. “Do you think doctors could put a hymen back
together once it’s broken?”

“Not like it’s Humpty Dumpty or
anything.”

Janine slumped against the armrest pillows
like a drama queen. “I’m doomed to forever remain a virgin, Vicki.
My only hope in this world is living vicariously through your
adventures and amorous activities with your boyfriend.”

“No boyfriends,” I cautioned. “The last one
cured me of that title.”

“Keeping options open, are we?” Janine’s
brows went north so fast they almost crossed the Mason-Dixon Line.
“Anyone I know?”

The innocent act never worked with me. I knew
what the less-than-subtle girl was getting at – something to do
with an F-150 driven by the pastor’s son.

“Bobby’s married, remember?” I reminded. “And
a pastor.”

“It won’t hurt to look. Y’all have a history,
if I do recall, only now Bobby’s got an SUV instead of the
F-150.”

“He’s got a pregnant
wife
. As in
till-death-do-us-part.”

“Pish-posh,” Janine returned like a true
De’Laruse.

“I don’t do married men, Janine.”

“Well, there was that time…”

“He conveniently forgot to mention that and
failed to wear a ring,” I huffed. “And we agreed never to speak of
it again.”

“Fine,” Janine grumbled.

Attention returned to the sappy movie Janine
had brought with her. After suffering through my collection of
mystery, horror, sexy slasher, and shoot ‘em up cop thrillers over
the years, my best friend made me suffer through hers in return.
She had a more delicate and sensitive palate in need of girlie
romance where love triumphed over all.

They just made me gag. Romance was bo-o-ring,
and so unrealistic. Where was the action? Adventure? The blood?

Janine piped up again. “What’re you gonna do
when you see him at church in the morning?”

“Smile and say ‘howdy’ like a proper Texan,”
I said.

The movie held her attention for all of
thirty seconds before Janine whispered, “I got to see him this week
when he was setting up his office.”

“That’s nice.”

“He’s still got all his hair.”

For a split second the movie shifted and all
I could picture was my fingers entwined in blond hair in the bed of
that F-150. A phantom ache started in my lower back – until it
dropped even lower.

Janine interrupted my scandalous memory.
“He’s even more handsome than he was in high school.”

“Hey,” I said, scratching my hip. “I’m
watching a movie here.”

“No you’re not. You hate romance.”

“Then stop bugging me so I can sleep through
it.”

Moments later. “Nervous about seeing him
again?”

Nervous? Try terrified. Showing up at church
tomorrow after an absence of two years would provoke a chorus of
wagging tongues loud enough to interrupt Heaven’s chorus of angels.
However, I was not going there to put on a show for anyone else’s
benefit. I was not attending church tomorrow for the first time in
years to play the saintly hypocrite. After avoiding one another
following the firestorm from eleven years ago, coupled with the
lack of Bobby’s return after college, I simply felt it was time to
set things right between us. He needed to know I’d forgiven him and
moved on. What better place to offer that than in church,
surrounded by ten thousand witnesses?

“Nervous?” I repeated. “Nah.”

Lord, don’t strike me down for lying.

***

It’s amazing how territorial the human race
can be. Even after my lack of church attendance since moving out,
my parents still sat in the same seats – third row from the front,
left of center section. I’m not sure if Mom saved the extra
theatre-like chair every Sunday in hopes of seeing me attend again,
or if she did so this time because she knew I was coming.

In order to avoid the unpleasant fakery of my
dad and the surprised glances of the holy huddlers, I made a point
of dragging in late with a worried Janine. The rock concert
atmosphere of flashing lights and strobe effects while the band
performed for the masses kept most eyes from focusing in on us.
Janine hauled me down center aisle, making a beeline for our
families like a wide receiver clutching the pigskin and barreling
toward the end zone. The glacial stare she received from her mother
as she took her seat among the De’Laruse clan in the row ahead
explained the rush more than words ever could – not that you could
hear over the music anyway. I received a smile from my mother while
avoiding a glance from Mr. Sperm Donor.

Another thing I was thankful for? I didn’t
have to endure the pressure of conformity to a household standard –
well, a standard that applied to everyone ‘cept my dad. Or me,
since moving out on my own. But I felt sorry for Janine. Our
tardiness was my fault, centered on a selfish agenda of avoidance.
I hadn’t stopped to consider how our late arrival would create a
problem for my best friend. Her constant references of the time
should’ve been my clue.

Am I dense sometimes or what?

Don’t answer that.

For the next hour or so, I stood and sat in
the right places, clapped and tried to remember the words to the
songs – most of which were new to me – and tried to avoid vertigo
while staring up at Pastor Dennis’ image on the massive movie
screens surrounding the auditorium. It took concentration to keep
my eyes fixed on the real-life image on the stage directly ahead
instead of succumbing to shiny-object-syndrome and mindlessly
staring at the screens like watching TV. With all the effort, I
couldn’t begin to tell you the content of his sermon. If the past
was any indicator, it probably went something like
blah, blah,
blah, give, blah, blah, blah, money, blah, ask, blah, get – and
don’t forget to leave your wallet on the way out.

That last part was my paraphrase, but you get
the drift. Same dance. Come back next week. And be sure to bring a
new wallet full of Benjamins.

When the lights came up after the final song,
the congregants jostled en masse to make way for the third service.
The whole thing really was like a movie theatre or rock concert
experience. I’d forgotten some of that in my absence.

Janine grabbed my arm once again and shoved
me through the throng to the gathering point, a three-story
glassed-in tower everyone congregated in before and after each
service. It acted kinda like a cattle holding pen with a trough of
refreshments. When you’re talking about a room that seats ten
thousand and three different services, you’ve gotta have some place
to safely direct the incoming and outgoing stampede.

At first I suspected Janine’s quick
maneuverings were to avoid the coming very public verbal flogging
by one Mrs. De’Laruse because we were late. But when I saw the
shock of blond hovering above the cookie crowd, I knew the ulterior
motive wasn’t for her benefit.

I wish I was as thoughtful as my bestie.

The passage of eleven years had been oh so
very kind to Bobby – I mean, Pastor Bobby. Pastor Robert Vernet.
The tall scrawny star of the Christian Bible Fellowship High
School’s state championship basketball team had grown nicely into
his six-foot-six frame. Broad man-shoulders towered over most, his
genuine smile lighting up the room like the star on top of a
Christmas tree – and that’s considering a Texas-sized tree like my
mom always liked. Bobby definitely had Texas-sized down pat – in
every way imaginable.

Believe me. Visions of F-150s danced in my
hell-bent head.

“You wanna bib?” Janine asked, disrupting my
precious memories.

“Huh?”

“You know, to soak up all that drool.”

Lord, I was going straight to Hell. Here I’d
come all this way to make amends for the past, and all I wanted to
do right then was repeat it. Bad girl. Bad, bad…

“Vicki!”

“What?”

“You’re in church, remember?” Janine
reminded.

“Right,” I muttered.

In church, surrounded by the gossiping
gaggle, members of the pastoral staff, and my first summer fling –
who was now a pastor as well. Married. Had a child on the way. I
mentally slapped myself and followed the welcoming committee
forward toward the prize.

I mean pastor. Followed them toward the
pastor.

Janine snickered like she had a front row
seat to my mental musings and rolled her eyes. I gave her my best
evil eye and got my ribs poked in the process. I was almost
twenty-six, not fifteen.

“My, my, my. Who do we have here?”

It didn’t require turning around to recognize
that voice. It sent chalkboard chills down my spine and got my
hackles up before Janine could say
bitch-alert
. Kansas has
the Wicked Witch of the West. Texas has Lorraine Padget, all
five-foot ten-inches – counting her hair – of a former Miss Texas
runner-up who clawed her way under the crown when some scandalous
pictures and videos involving the original winner came to
light.

In some parts, that would’ve thrust the real
winner to instant stardom. Here in the south though, we still want
our beauty queens to be prim, proper, and pure. Or in Lorraine’s
case to at least have the smarts not to get caught with
photographic evidence.

Did I mention she was also the
on-again-off-again high school girlfriend of one Bobby Vernet? AKA
the senior pastor’s kid. AKA the new children’s pastor. AKA my
virginity stealer – though it’s a well-documented fact I gave it
willingly.

After her half-year stint as the Miss Texas
title holder – albeit too late for the Miss America pageant, thank
God – Lorraine went on to become a journalist. With her newfound
notoriety, she slept her way into a local co-anchor position and
recently landed an older, but rich, fish. All techniques learned
from her mother, I imagine.

She’s also the daughter of one of my dad’s
many conquests. Yup, Saturday night sleepovers with Lisa.

“Lorraine Padget,” I said, turning around and
pasting on a matching too big grin.

“As I live and breathe.” The plaster coating
of make-up on Lorraine’s face threatened to splinter and crack
around the Botox smile. “I always had faith you’d leave behind your
harlotry ways and return to the fold. Glory hallelujah!”