Distance

Lula slid three inches to the right, slipping easily across the smooth wooden pew, keeping the Bible in her lap as still as possible to avoid drawing attention to the distance she widened between them. 

Matthew’s eyes didn’t leave the page. 

Good, he didn’t notice. She refocused on the sermon, jotting down the reference she nearly missed. 

Matthew flipped to another passage, his Bible shifting in his lap as he readjusted. 

Lula looked down at the vanished gap between them. Her brow ticked. She eased another two inches farther.

Matthew scribbled something in the margins of his page, leaning forward and resting his chin on one hand, intent on the pastor’s words. 

Lula scowled. Somehow, the slight movement had pressed them together again. She slowly slid further. 

Matthew arched his back, leaning back again, his arm suddenly landing across the back of the bench behind her. 

Lula held her breath. Then slid a full five inches further. 

Matthew’s brow flickered, finally noticing her movement. He looked at her, head tipping, mouth turned down, perplexed and maybe a little hurt. 

She huffed. Her pen scratched across the bottom of her notebook page and she angled it for him to see. 

The baby spit up on my shoulder. I can’t even stand the smell of me!

Matthew spilled out a laugh, reining it in quickly but not quick enough to avoid drawing glances. 

Lula glared at her lap. 

He traced a shape on the back of her hand. A heart. 

She glanced at him, barely catching the wink, warmth blooming in her chest. She slid to the left, nestling into his side.

His chest rose. And stopped. She glanced at him. His face was calm, composed, but started to shift the slightest shade of pink. He wasn’t breathing. 

Lula slapped his chest, both of them fighting giggles.