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“Don’t worry, you two will be fine.”
    â€œYou’re not going?” Dad’s sermons are prerecorded, so it’s not like he has to be at the ministry station on Sunday mornings. I figured he wouldn’t let us go alone.
    â€œNope. It wouldn’t look right if I was somewhere other than my own church on a Sunday morning. Even if ours looks a little different than most.”
    I offer to drive, since Three seems to have neverswallowed that hardboiled egg lodged in her throat. She directs me into downtown and the massive brick church with columns. The parking lot is filling up, and judging by the cars in the lot, this is where the who-to-knows of Rome worship.
    â€œYou’ll be fine, really. The people here are super nice and if you get nervous you can come find me and . . .”
    I stop her. “Three, look at me. I have on my one pair of church shoes.” I circle my face. “I followed Sephora guy’s advice to a T. One thing you should know about me—when I say I’m going to do something, I do it. Besides, just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I don’t pray to the same God as you.”
    Her lips relax, slightly. “Okay. But I am here if you need me.”
    In the foyer of the church, Three’s parents are waiting. I’m greeted with a septic hug from Mrs. Foley and a warm handshake from Mr. Foley. He leads me with a hand on my back to the pew. I glance his way and inadvertently catch his eye.
    He smiles. “Awfully glad you joined us, Joanna.” He fishes in his pocket and pulls out a roll of Life Savers. “Here, have one.”
    The weirdest thing happens. I get a lump in my throat, because in my daydreams about my perfect grandfather,he’s kind of just like Three’s dad. Dimpled smile, slightly balding, and candy in his pockets for his grandkids. But this is stupid. How long will Three, and her family, really last in my life? I swallow the lump away and wave off the Life Saver. “No thanks, Mr. Foley.”
    He whispers and winks. “Let’s cut the formalities. She”—he inclines his head toward his wife, sitting on the other side of Three—“may like them, but you and me, we’re going to be great friends. I just know it. Call me Tater. That’s what Elizabeth’s brother’s boys call me.”
    â€œTater?” I cock my head.
    He pats his belly, which makes his shirt gap a little. “Love me some French fries.”
    Okay, so I can’t blow him off. He’s too nice. But calling him Tater doesn’t mean I have to get attached. “You got it.” I pause, then add, “Tater.”
    The sermon surprises me. The minister is an older man with steel-gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses that don’t do a thing to dull the piercing stare of his eyes. He preaches about the Holy Spirit and how Jesus was telling us we have a three-part role in going from lost to found. First the Spirit’s going to make us feel awkward, then it’s going to make us feel empty, like there’s something we’re missing. Then it’s going to make us feel like we have to run for salvation before the Judgment Day. But the worst thing? Theexample he uses to validate his ideas is some gay activist and how he went from poster boy for the “gay agenda” to reaffirmed breeder. Seriously? On my first day, this is what I’m greeted with? But even though I think he doesn’t have any kind of handle on how Jesus really felt, it doesn’t stop my discomfort and anger. Or my gratitude for Dad’s kinder, gentler brand of sermon.
    When he’s finally done filling the room with a license to judge, he releases us to Sunday school.
    â€œThree?”
    She perks up on high alert, whether from my use of her nickname—it is church, after all—or her nerves, I don’t know. “Yes?”
    â€œMaybe you could show me where to go.” Though I’d like to go