His response is terrifying, only because he knows there is a part of me that cares for him, that wants him. I should be fighting harder, resisting more. But what’s the point? I know how it’s all going to end. Why resist? Why put any more energy into this than I need to? I guess that’s why I stand there, letting him cradle my face in his hands, wearing the ring on my finger, letting the last bits of my fight fade to black.
So I just stand there, his hands on my face, the ring heavy on my finger, and let the last of my fight drain away.
“We should go,” Calder says after a moment, dropping his hands and stepping back. “I want to get this done with and make sure no one else sees you.”
Right.Because if anyone else sees me first, if Allie or Sheriff Tanner or any of the townspeople who must be wondering where I am get to me before this lie is established, everything falls apart.
It’s perfection or nothing.
“Ready?” Calder asks, opening the door.
No.I’ll never be ready for what’s to come, but there’s no point in fighting against it. This is happening regardless of my feelings or thoughts.
“Ready as I’m going to get,” I respond flatly.
Calder nods, and we step out of the cabin together. The landscape is blinding white, and the snow crunches under my boots, sending shock waves of pain through my sore feet as I follow Calder to the truck. The drive to town is silent. Which, I guess, is better than listening to him tell me what happens if I fail.
Calder keeps his eyes on the snowy road while I stare out the window at the familiar landscape transformed by the storm. Everything looks different under a blanket of snow, softer, cleaner, like the world hit a reset button and started fresh.
If only it were that simple.
The mountains rise around us, ancient and indifferent to human suffering. They’ve seen generations of Bishops rule this valley, seen countless lives destroyed and remade. What’s one more preacher’s daughter added to the tally?
“When we get there,” Calder says, breaking the silence, “you’ll explain that we’ve been seeing each other for a while. That we want to get married.”
“And if he asks questions? If he wants to know why I never told him?”
“You were scared. Knew he wouldn’t approve. Waited until you were sure before saying anything.” He glances at me. “He’ll believe it because he wants to believe his daughter is happy.”
The manipulation in that statement, the understanding of how much my father loves me, and how that love can be weaponized. It’s sick and disturbing.
We’re close to town now, and I can see the church steeple rising above the trees and all the familiar buildings of Main Street. My whole life has been lived in this valley, in this town, surrounded by these people. Strange how after today, none of it will ever be the same.
Calder turns onto my street, and my stomach clenches. There’s my house. The porch where Martin Everett died. The door I should never have opened. The life I’ll never get back.
Dad’s car is in the driveway. I can’t even imagine the amount of worry that he’s gone through. What did he think when he got home, and I wasn’t there?
“Remember,” Calder says as he parks. “We’re in love. You want this. You’re happy.”
I don’t respond. Can’t. My throat is too tight, clogged with emotions, and words that I can’t let out. My eyes brim with tears I refuse to shed.
Calder slips out of the truck first and comes around to open my door, a gesture that might seem chivalrous if I didn’t know it’s just him making sure I don’t bolt. His hand settles on the small of my back as we walk toward the house. It’s a reminder of the pressure we’re under.
The front door opens before we reach it, almost like my father was standing there waiting for me to show up. He stands in the doorway, his face lighting up when he sees me.
“Saintlyn! Thank God. I’ve been worried sick?—”
He stops mid-sentence when he sees Calder standing beside me. I watch as his gaze darts over Calder’s possessive hold on me and the ring on my finger. It’s impossible not to notice.
His expression shifts from relief to confusion to fear.
“Dad,” I say, and my voice sounds strange even to my own ears. “We need to talk.”
He steps back, letting us inside, his eyes never leaving Calder. The house smells like home, coffee and old books and the lavender cleaning spray Mom used to love. It should feel safe. Should feel like a sanctuary.
Instead, it feels like I’m walking into a trap of my own making.
“What’s going on?” Dad asks, his pastor’s voice firmly in place.
