Overruled

Sofia shoots upright, hair flying, arms swinging.

“What? What’s happening? Where . . . are we under attack?”

Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding . . .

I barely muster the energy to moan, “It’s a triangle dinner bell.” My momma’s favorite wake-up call. “As for under attack . . . you could say that.”

Shit. I feel my forehead, run my hand over my hair—looking for the pickax that’s obviously sticking out of my goddamn head—splitting it in two.

Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding . . .

“It’s getting louder . . .” Sofia wails before wrapping the pillow around her face like a taco. “Why is it getting louder?”

I fumble for my phone on the nightstand and check the time.

Fucking hell.

“It’s gettin’ louder because it’s Sunday.” My own whisper grates on my ears. “And because we’re in Mississippi.”

She lets half the pillow drop, picks up her head, and looks at me through one open eye. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

“Yeah. It means we’re goin’ to church.”

She plants her face right back in the pillow.

And I know just how she feels.

• • •

Not all Southern Baptist churches are the same. There’s the contemporaries—with their modern, sometimes “mega” buildings, huge amphitheaters, Christian rock, advanced sound systems, and arm-waving, amening congregates who sometimes number in the thousands. Then there’s the traditionals—like the First Southern Baptist Church of Sunshine, Mississippi, built before the Civil War, no air-conditioning or heat, wooden pews, quiet congregates whose asses are in the seats every week, with the closest thing to a sound system being the organ player, Miss Bea, my old ninth-grade teacher.

We sit in the pew in the back half of the room, flanked by my parents—my sister Mary texting as quickly as she can before my mother sees, and Marshall, who’s falling asleep. Sofia caused quite the stir when we first walked in. Not because she’s not dressed suitably for church, but because she’s a new face—a fucking gorgeous face—with her dark hair piled high, her rich purple dress that highlights her hazel eyes, and strappy sandals that make me think about tying her down to a nice comfy bed.

She’ll be starring in the jerk-off fantasies of every teenage boy in this place—and several of their fathers.

Just before the service begins, I catch sight of the back of Jenny’s and Presley’s heads a few rows in front . . . and the dark-haired man sitting beside them.

Mine. I want to shout, write it on the wall—tattoo it on Jenny’s forehead in all capital letters.

He leans over, whispering, and Jenny covers her mouth, fucking giggling. My teeth grind and I exhale like a fire-breathing dragon—ready to launch myself across the room, scoop them up, and turn his ass to goddamn soot.

Probably feeling my stare, Presley turns around and gives me a smile that takes up more than half of her face. I blow her a kiss back. Thirty seconds later she’s coming over, after getting Jenn’s permission. She sits between us, whispering happily with Sofia, the perfect distraction from the man I’m itching to pummel.

When Pastor Thompson begins the service, I hear my daughter inform Sofia, “That’s Pastor Thompson—he’s a hundred and twenty years old.”

I chuckle. “He’s ninety-two.”

“He looks good for ninety-two,” Sofia says, nodding.

Pastor Thompson has been my preacher my whole life—for the entire lives of almost every person in this church. He knows our names, our birthdays, been there to comfort on those terrible, heartbreaking days and led us to rejoice on the amazing ones.

And for the first time in a long time, the thought of my being known so well by so many doesn’t annoy me. It feels . . . nice, knowing I’ll never have to explain myself. To tell where I’m from, where I’ve been, where I’m going—it’s just not necessary.

I’m one of theirs. They all already know.

Which is why when the preacher gets to his sermon, he looks around the church—and the old bastard winks right at me—then he opens up his Bible and tells the story of the Prodigal Son.

• • •

Outside the church, I spot Jenny and the dark-haired man across the grass. With a better view, I’m able to see he’s a few inches shorter than me, thinner, but still in shape. He’s average looking with a straight nose, heavy brow, puffy girly lips. And he’s got that cleft in his chin like John Travolta.

A heinie chin.

From this moment on, I’ll forever think of him as Ass Face.

“That him?” Sofia whispers, her eyes trained in the same direction as mine.

“That’s him,” I growl. Like a dog that spots his favorite bone in the jaws of another canine.

“Wow,” she exclaims quietly. “He’s gorgeous! He could model for Calvin Klein or Armani.”

Frowning, I turn to her. “Why would you tell me that?”

She looks back, grinning. “You want me to lie?”

“Yes. I do.”

She gives Ass Face another once-over. Then covers her eyes. “My god, he’s hideous! I can’t bear to look at him. Move over, Quasimodo, Jimmy Dean is in the house.”

I sigh. “Sofia?”

“Yes, Stanton?” she says sweetly.

I lean in, so my lips are just a hairbreadth from her ear.

“Lie better.”

As the happy couple heads our way I turn to face them, asking Sofia out of the side of my mouth, “How should I play this? Scare him with threats, or just go straight to the ass-kicking?”