Cherry Pie by Samantha Kane

he climbed back into bed and dragged Connor into his arms. He didn’t say a word, and neither did Connor. Instead, they clung to each other, face-to-face, John’s thigh between Connor’s, and drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Twelve
     
    “You been to church yet, Connor?” Miss Priss called out from the porch as she watched him planting flowers along the fence. She’d come over a few times since that first day. Conn had driven over to check on her and brought her back here. Eventually someone showed up to chat with her on the porch, either Evan or Toby or Cheryl or someone else. John was usually there half the day too, he and Miss Priss deep in conversation. John had commented that he’d never seen a soul on the street until Conn showed up. Conn smiled.
    “No, ma’am,” he answered, knowing exactly where this conversation was heading.
    “Well, you get yourself there this Sunday, you hear?”
    “Yes, ma’am,” he said. He didn’t add that he’d already decided to go.
    “I’ll let Reverend Whitley know you’re coming,” she said with a sniff.
    “Actually, Miss Priss, I think I might be going over to Evan’s church this Sunday,” he said. He stood up and faced her across the fence. Her eyes were wide. To most folks in Mercury, leaving the Methodist church was tantamount to instant damnation. But Conn had thought a lot about it, and he figured he’d done a hell of a lot more than that and was still breathing, so going to the Unitarian church didn’t seem so dangerous.
    Miss Priss surprised him by saying, “Well, as long as you go to one of God’s houses.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” Conn agreed with a smile. He bent down to place a plant in the hole he’d dug for it.
    “You bake a cherry pie like your mama?” Miss Priss asked.
    Conn smiled again, behind the fence where she couldn’t see him. “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Hmm. Well, I’ll be checking in on you after church.”
    It looked like Conn was going to be baking a pie. He hummed as he pressed the dirt in the hole around the plant. He’d have to tell John to expect visitors on Sunday.
     
    “We’re going where ?” John asked that night as he lowered his fork to his plate. He looked at Conn as if he’d lost his mind.
    “To church.”
    John blinked at him a few times in confusion. “Why? Do you feel the need to confess?”
    Conn smiled and took a bite of the roast chicken. It was pretty damn good if he did say so himself. He’d noticed John was on his second helping. After they’d had sex a week ago, Conn had taken over the cooking. He figured being that intimate with someone meant you could use his kitchen. And John was a terrible cook. Between Conn’s mama and the Fulton County jail “work program,” Conn could cook. Of course, they hadn’t had sex since, so either Conn was a bad cook or a bad lover. He was afraid to ask which one. “Catholics confess, not Unitarians.”
    “Ah,” John answered, nodding his head. “So we’re going to see Evan.”
    “Yep.”
    “And Miss Priss will be here after?”
    Conn nodded. “Probably a few others.” Suddenly he realized how rude he was being. He hadn’t asked. This was John’s house now. He couldn’t just invite people without asking. “You don’t mind, do you? I can always tell them no. You know, if you don’t want them here.”
    John’s expression was unreadable. “I don’t mind.” He looked away and adjusted the napkin in his lap. “You can invite people over anytime.” He sighed and picked up his fork. “I still don’t get the pie, though,” he added as almost an afterthought.
    “You don’t like cherry pie?”
    “I don’t remember the last time I had cherry pie.” John took a bite of mashed potatoes.
    “I do.” Conn got up and walked over to fill his glass at the sink. It was an excuse. He’d had a vivid memory of his mother taking that pie out of the oven and later cutting it and serving it on the porch, right before he’d left for school. His hand shook a little as he