You Believers by Jane Bradley Page A

and be on the side street if he really was out just to walk that dog. He lived just a little ways over, and of all the trails and streets he could take, he always seemed to pick her street. She didn’t like the way his eyes traveled up and down her legs, over her arms, her chest. He never really did anything she could say was wrong, but it was like he was making fun of her somehow. She knew without speaking to him that he was a jerk.
    She saw him look her way as if he might wait for her. She pretended not to notice and crouched down to retie her shoes. For God’s sake, it was a nice neighborhood. A girl should be able to run in shorts and a sports bra without feeling like the neighbors would jump her bones first chance they got. She looked up, saw him bend and pat the dog like he was speaking to it. Then, without another look her way, he moved on. Thank God. He was so not her type, cute but a little too lean with these tight muscles, like all he was made of was muscle andbone. He looked like some kind of guitar player, wannabe rock star. He had the looks, all right. “But not my type,” she said out loud as she walked toward her house. She hoped he’d gotten that message by now. She ignored him whenever she drove by him while he was walking that damned dog on the sidewalk. He’d let the dog shit anywhere, never once picked it up. He might live in the neighborhood, but it was clear to most everybody that he didn’t belong.
    By the time she reached her house, he was out of sight, so she didn’t pretend to fiddle with the lock; she just pushed the front door open and walked in. Her mother had fussed at her for not locking the doors. But a five-mile run with a house key dangling from your wrist, who needed that? She was sweaty, and the sudden rush of air conditioning gave her a chill. She grabbed her hoodie from where she liked to leave it on a chair by the door—her mother didn’t like that either, said the living room was a place for greeting people, not a place for throwing down your clothes wherever convenient. She pulled the hoodie on as she headed to the kitchen for a bottle of water. Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate, her coach always told her, so when she wasn’t running or drinking water, she was usually needing to pee.
    She went to the bathroom, washed her hands, studied her face in the mirror. She’d forgotten to put on sunscreen, and her skin was so delicate. It was something her mother had told her: “Freckles are cute on a girl, but not on a woman. They start to look like age spots after a while, and you’re too pretty for that.”
    Molly Flynn had the face of a Botticelli angel. People often told her this. She was striking in a way that could make strangers walk up and say things like, “You have the face of a Botticelli angel.” It always made her blush, but she’d learned to just shrug, say “Thanks,” and turn away. She had looked up Botticelli’s art at the library one day and had to admit there were similarities: the fair skin, round face, delicate lips, long hair that kind of rippled down the shoulders, andbig, dreamy eyes. Yeah, she was kind of like that. But she wasn’t impressed. It was just a lucky mix of her mother’s Italian and her daddy’s Irish genes. And these days, looking like a Botticelli angel wasn’t exactly the hottest thing. She’d studied the magazines for what was hot, and she was not. Her thighs were too thick from all the running and gymnastics, her ass just a little too, well, round. They’d never pick her for the J. Crew catalog. She was glad Matt loved her just the way she was. He said women in the fashion magazines looked scary, while she looked real and hot and sweet.
    So she looked like some old Italian painter’s idea of an angel, the same painter who would’ve painted Jesus with blond hair and blue eyes. What did art know about anything anyway? It was all just somebody’s idea of things.
    Molly wasn’t big on angels, like many of her friends. They’d buy