“Where are we going?” I ask, as he takes the exit for I-5 south, Tobias not far behind us. But then we pull onto the freeway, and there's the Phantom driven by Church zooming ahead of us down the fast lane.
“That son of a bitch!” Micah growls out, grinding the pedal to the floor. We fly down the road while I silently pray to whatever gods will listen that I don't end up dead today. Traffic accident is not my preferred way to go, thank you very much.
“We've got a surprise for you,” Spencer says, murmuring against the side of my neck and making me squirm. I'm sort of desperate to have some alone time with him, if you catch my drift. Or … with the twins. Although since we’ve never, um, had that sort of alone time before, I’m also nervous as shit.
“What sort of surprise?” I ask, but Spencer and Micah just share a look and a grin.
Several hours later, we're at a rest stop while Church refills his coffee and the other boys head for the restroom, leaving the two of us alone in the lobby area.
“You really won't tell me where we're going?” I ask, but Church just smiles, sips his coffee, and then frowns.
“God, this is gross. I might have to stop at a Starbucks or something. Not that that'll be much better.” He drinks the coffee anyway, and then refills his cup. “And no. Don't you know the meaning of surprise?”
“I almost died last week. Don't you feel sorry for me? What if I don't make it to the surprise?” I grab a Styrofoam cup and fill it up, taking a sip and cringing. “Okay, I'm not even a coffee snob, but you're right: this is disgusting.” Church chuckles as I pour the brown sludge into the nearest trash can. “You're still drinking it?” I ask when I glance over and see he's finished half the cup.
“It's part of my identity,” he says, and I blink in surprise, turning fully to face him and leaning up against the edge of the table.
“How do you mean?” I ask, tilting my head to one side, blond hair sliding across my forehead. It's nearly a serviceable length now. That, and I straightened out all the curls this morning, so I could look good for the last day of school. I only wish I could've spent it at Adamson with mats in my hair, dirty glasses, and a baggy uniform. And that’s not even a joke.
“I mean,” Church begins, extending the long length of his arm and letting his cup tumble into the garbage. He leans in close to me, tracing the line of my tank top strap, making me shiver. Is he … actually touching me? I haven’t forgotten how he avoided me that day he handed the coffee can over. This guy is seriously hard to read, and so much more nuanced than I first thought. “It's a nice little attribute that people can use to describe me. Who is Church Montague? Oh, he's the Student Council President, and he likes coffee.”
“Let me get this straight: you chose a personality trait to give yourself?” I ask, and his face drops slightly. I expect that rip-roaring overly cheerful personality of his to come rushing back. Instead, his expression darkens even further.
“Why not? If it helps people understand me, where's the harm in that? It's not a total lie: I do like coffee.” He leans back again, his expression stuck in contemplative melancholy. Church looks lonely. That's what it is. He looks like me before I found the Student Council.
“Tell me something real about yourself,” I say, my voice quiet. The only sound in the brick building is the whir from the vending machines. My heart is thumping, and I feel nervous about the other guys coming out and seeing me and Church … standing and quietly chatting? Really, we're not doing anything untoward, but somehow, it feels that way.
It feels intimate, this exchange.
“I have five sisters,” he says, but he doesn't smile. “Only none of them are blood-related to me.” He stares at me with those amber eyes of his, this golden boy with the whole world at his feet, and he looks miserable as hell about it.
“Not blood-related?” I ask, and Church exhales, closing those beautiful eyes of his.
“Do you know what imposter syndrome is?” he asks, opening them back up again. I shake my head, and he smiles at me, but it's not his usual blinding grin. Instead, it's a soft, sad sort of smile.
“It's when you're lauded for something you don't feel you deserve, when you're a member of a club you don't belong to. And I don't belong. Everyone thinks I do, but I don't.”
“Fucking gross,” Spencer calls out, shoving the bathroom door open with his palms as the twins come out behind him, grinning from ear to ear. “You got piss on me.”
