Free Roadside Assistance by Amy Clipston Page A

I’d sat numb between my dad and grandma, studying the poinsettias lining the altar behind the Christmas tree dotted in white decorations my mother had called Chrismons. The tree and flowers seemed to mock me with the ultimate irony — Christmas decorations on the altar at my mother’s memorial service.
    “Emily?” Logan asked, touching my arm. “You all right?”
    “Yeah,” I said with a nod.
    Logan pointed toward the middle of the sanctuary. “My parents and your dad are sitting over there.”
    I spotted my dad near the end of the pew. “Where’s Whitney?”
    He jerked his thumb toward the very back row. “With her friends over there. All of the girls sit together.”
    I turned and found her grinning and chatting with four girls.
    “Are you going to sit with them?” Logan asked.
    “No.” I walked down the aisle and slipped in next to my dad, who glanced up from his bulletin and smiled.
    His focus returned to the order of worship, and I studied his warm brown eyes, wondering if being back in a church was as painful for him as it was for me. His expression during my mother’s funeral was burned into my brain — the dark rings under his puffy red eyes, the tears that didn’t stop throughout the service. I was certain he’d wanted to be strong for me. He’d told me that morning that he and I would be an unstoppable force, despite losing Mom. We’d take care of each other, and he promised to be strong for me. Yet I was the one who’d held it together throughout the funeral. I’d grasped his hand and swallowed my tears until I was alone in the privacy of my room with my door locked later that evening after Tyler and Megan had gone home.
    I wasn’t disappointed in my dad. I was glad he could express his feelings for my mom, the love of his life, who he’d met and married shortly after they’d graduated from high school. I was simply surprised I’d managed to be so strong for both of us.
    Logan sank into the seat next to me and waved to someone across the aisle. “Zander’s here,” he said.
    Before I could stop myself, I found Zander sitting directly across from us and next to a well-dressed middle-aged couple who I assumed were his parents. His mother was dressed in a deep navy, perfectly tailored suit with her short, dark hair styled in a precise bob.
    His father wore glasses, along with a black, expensive-looking suit and a bland gray tie. He was clean shaven, and his brown hair was all business, short and sensible.
    Zander seemed to represent his father’s alter ego. While he shared the same brown hair and blue eyes, his hair was almost messy, but stylish. He was clad in tan Dockers and a sky-blue collared shirt that made his eyes even bluer, if that were even possible. He gave Logan a cheesy grin that caused Logan to snicker.
    Zander met my gaze and his smile changed to warm and honest. My eyes locked with his. I tried to smile in return, but my lips were cemented in place. And then I felt my cheeks heat and wished I could crawl under the pew.
    But I knew that I really didn’t want to disappear. I wanted to know him, and I wanted him to know me. And that truth caused my heart to race even more.
    The pastor appeared at the altar and welcomed everyone, and I buried my eyes in the bulletin. The organ began to play, and the service commenced. I went through the motions, reciting the prayers and singing the hymns, but it all felt forced. Although I tried, I once again couldn’t feel the connection with God I’d enjoyed before I lost my mom. I felt eyes on me andglanced over to find Zander watching me a few times during the service, and I absently wondered if I had a hair out of place or if my slip was showing.
    During the sermon, I covered my cross with my hand and lost myself in memories, contemplating the Sundays my family and I had spent at our home church. My mother had a deep faith that had been ingrained in her as a child. She read her Bible and prayed every night, like it came easily to her.