“But at least you guys wouldn’t be in danger,” I mumble, wondering why my stupid heart won’t stop beating so fast. “And then we wouldn’t have to lie to your family about getting married.” Church releases my hands and leans back on the bed, his palms flat against the comforter, ankles crossed. “You’re very concerned with our well-being, aren’t you?” he asks, but I don’t know how to respond to that. I am. I’m a million times more worried about them than I am myself. “Are you afraid of getting married? Or maybe you just don’t like the idea of marriage?”
