Read I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2) for Free Online Page B

with the priest who saw enough good in me to hire my sorry ass last month.
    Standing before the closet in my bedroom, I decide it’d be prudent—especially since I missed Mass—to dress respectably. I flip through the hangers, and stop when I come to the nicest pair of pants I own. I run a finger down the sharp creases of the tailored, black dress slacks my mother bought me to wear before the judge who ended up granting me my freedom.
    I sigh and pull the pants off the hangar.
    Also thanks to Mom, I now own a nice collection of button-down shirts, in a vast array of colors. I just grab the first one I see—white, crisp, and cotton. Perfect, I’ll be in black and white, just like Father Maridale. The sinner and the saint, matched.
    While I dress in these so-not-me clothes, I think about how much they must’ve cost. But it’s not like my mother can’t afford pricey things these days. Like I said before, people change…and some get lucky.
    For Abby, it’s the latter that applies. I guess the cost of some fancy duds is a small price to pay when all you want is for your son to look the part of a respectable young man.
    What a joke. None of this stuff is my style. I am jeans and T-shirts, hoodies and Converse. Comfortable, that’s me. But today, like at the courthouse over a month ago, I’ll go back to playing a part. All white cotton-tucked, black slacks belted, and leather dress shoes shined to a fault.
    After I finish dressing for my role, I comb my fingers through my hair, hair that’s grown a lot since getting out of prison. That’s right—no more buzz cuts for me. My hair’s a little less unruly than usual and, shit, that’s good enough.
    Downstairs, I grab my keys, then head out to my newest acquisition—a truck I bought following my return to Harmony Creek. She’s a beast, not a bitch, a good work truck, a no-frills F-150. Some guy who lives up by the Agway offered it to me for far less than its worth. He needed the money, and I needed something to drive—thanks to the court reinstating my license. Since the deal on the truck was too good to pass up I dipped into some of the money I inherited from my grandmother. The truck is a few years old, and the white paint has a few dings and scratches, but mechanically she’s pristine. And that’s really all that matters.
    I depress the clutch, turn the key. She starts right up. I push the gearshift into reverse and back out of the gravel driveway. There’s never much traffic out where I live, so I’m able to back right out onto Cold Springs Lane.
    I shift into first and roll up to a stop sign. Still no traffic as I turn left onto the state route that takes you straight into Harmony Creek central. I live a few miles outside the east boundary of town, where it’s all farm-on-farm. Country-styled houses, barns, and, this time of year, endless fields of newly planted corn. Since the church sits directly where country bleeds into town—where the state route becomes Market Street—it’s not going to be a long drive. But today I’m in no rush. So I take it slow, shift gears lazily, and focus on savoring this late-spring day.
    Being locked up for four years has a way of making you appreciate all the little things you once took for granted. Things like how a slate-gray, rain-promising sky, like the one above me right now, really brings out the emerald green of the low-lying hills in the distance. This is how I imagine a place like Ireland must look every day. It’s stunning if you really let yourself see.
    I follow the curve of the road and lightning flashes, forking behind a stark red barn in the distance. A light rain begins to fall, and, as I flip on the wipers, two bay mares in a field to my right seek shelter.
    This countryside is serene; it takes my breath away. I took all of this for granted for far too long. I didn’t know what I had four years ago, what I’d had all along. I used to long to leave, but now I’m just grateful to be back. I missed this