He doesn’t hate going to church with her. He never had. They always alternated weeks, going to Mass and Temple with one another while Quinn lived with him. They respected each other like that. But he’d never actually tell people that he enjoyed it. If anyone asked, Quinn had drug him there kicking and screaming.
So when they started hanging out again after the awkwardness that had been an entire year of not speaking, they fell back into their old routine.
It was Puck’s turn to accompany Quinn to St. Catherine’s this Sunday, their first go after speaking again.
He was soon reminded how much fun he had people watching during Mass. The little kids making faces at him and gawking at his Mohawk. He especially enjoyed the old people and the weird things they do. Farting. Nose picking. It was like they forgot they were in public. In God’s house. But then he figured God sees everything you do all the time, so why not in His house? Then his mind quickly flips to the night he snuck into Quinn’s room and under the covers and a smirk crosses his lips…what if he and Quinn—.
He’s not allowed to finish that thought because Quinn’s elbow has connected with his ribcage.
“Ow,” he silently mouthed, nursing the right side of his chest.
“Stop. It.” She warned in a whisper.
How the hell did she always know what was going through his mind? He’d never figure that out.
The elderly lady with the blue tinted hair in front of him makes a noise that sounds oddly like a fart. He chalks it up to the moving of a seat.
Until it happens again.
He starts laughing. He can’t help it. Farts are funny. Even if it wasn’t really the lady passing gas, similar sounds are still funny to any teenage boy, and chicks aren’t supposed to fart. Especially old ones. His Nana Connie doesn’t fart….he thinks.
Quinn is glaring at him, but the more he tries to stifle the laugh, the worse it gets. When people start to look, he gets up and leaves, still laughing.
When he settles down enough, there’s only 10 minutes left in the hour of Mass and he figures he should just wait in his truck. Quinn is going to kill him.
He sees her shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with the priest. His heart jumps because it always does when he sees her, and she’s probably getting ready to choke him. They both kinda excite him.
She looks pissed when she spots his old blue Chevy.
“Really?” She muttered, climbing into the passenger’s seat.
“I couldn’t help it.” It’s weak, but the truth.
He can’t look at her. He’s sure her right eyebrow is almost to her hairline, like it usually does when she’s pissed at him.
He’s zoning out. It’s what he does when he’s being scolded. You hear it enough, it all sounds the same.
He hears words like “respect” and “God” and “childish” and then he finally looks over and just wants to take her in the cab of the truck…or in the bed like some of his favorite country songs talk about..right in front of all of these people – and God.
“Are you even listening to me?” She interrupts.
“Uh,” he manages to stutter.
“I’m walking home,” she announces and slams the door to the Chevy.
She lives five miles away from St. Catherine’s. He’d follow her in his truck until she decided she couldn’t walk in her heels anymore.