The whispers follow us like a wave. I catch fragments as we pass—”Bishop boy”—”that bruise”—”married”—”can you believe”—Each word is a small cut, death by a thousand judgments.
I don’t stop. I keep walking. Keep my head up. Keep my hand in Calder’s. We reach the third pew, and I slide in, Calder following. He sits stiffly beside me, clearly uncomfortable. His frame is too big for the narrow pew, and his knees are almost touching the bench in front of us. He looks like a predator trapped in a cage.
“You hate this,” I observe quietly.
“Not hate.” He laughs. “But it’s not how I would spend my Sunday morning.”
The organ starts playing. Everyone rises for the opening hymn. Calder stands but doesn’t sing, just stands there like a statue while I go through the familiar motions. Hold the hymnal. Mouth the words. Pretend my world hasn’t imploded.
Then I catch sight of my father.
He stands at the pulpit, dressed in his Sunday robes, looking older than he did a week ago. His eyes find mine immediately, and the pain in them nearly breaks me. His gaze shifts to Calder, and the pain I see twists into something darker, colder. It’s something I’ve never seen in my father’s eyes before.
Hatred.
I wasn’t even sure he could hate someone. He preaches forgiveness, turns the other cheek, loves thy enemy. Except for when it comes to Calder Bishop.
The hymn ends. Everyone sits. Dad opens his Bible with shaking hands.
“Today’s sermon,” he begins, voice carrying through the sanctuary, “is about wolves in sheep’s clothing. About recognizing evil even when it wears a pleasant face. About protecting the innocent from those who would devour them.”
Oh no.
Beside me, Calder goes very still.
“Matthew chapter seven, verse fifteen,” Dad continues, and I can hear the anger beneath his pastoral tone. “‘Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves.’“
He’s not even trying to be subtle. Every word is aimed directly at Calder, at the Bishops, at the corruption infecting this town like a rot.
“The wolf doesn’t announce itself,” Dad says, gripping the pulpit. “It doesn’t show its teeth right away. It’s patient. Cunning. It waits until the sheep is vulnerable, separated from the flock. Then it strikes.”
I want to sink through the floor and disappear forever. There’s no way it isn’t obvious who my father is talking about. I guess there’s a chance I could be wrong, but it certainly feels like it. Calder’s hand finds mine, and he squeezes it once.
I can’t tell if it’s a reminder to continue playing the part, since I’m sure everyone is staring at us, or if he’s offering me support because like he said, he doesn’t care what everyone thinks of him. I don’t ask and instead sit with the wolf my father is preaching about, trying not to cry. The sermon continues for another twenty minutes.
The joy I felt in coming to church has evaporated. The longer I sit here, the more I regret coming. Each minute that passes is agony. Dad talks about coercion and manipulation, about how evil often disguises itself as protection.
He might as well be reading our story verbatim.
When he finally finishes, when the final hymn is sung and the congregation disperses, I can barely breathe. My cheeks are burning, and my hands are shaking.
“That went well,” Calder mutters darkly.
“He’s my father. He’s trying to?—”
“I know what he’s trying to do.” Calder stands and helps me to my feet. “Remember what I said yesterday.”
I don’t get the opportunity to respond. People swarm us immediately. Mrs. Henderson asks to see my ring. The Miller’s teenage daughter asks how the wedding was. Tom Garrison makes an awkward joke about Calder finally being tamed by a good woman.
I smile. Nod. And answer questions with lies that taste like ash.
“He’s been wonderful,” I say. “Very attentive.”
“The wedding was small. Just family.”
“Yes, I’m very happy.”
The words feel like they’re coming from someone else. Some other Saint who actually chose this, who actually loves the man standing beside her with his hand possessively on her lower back. My father appears on the other side of the crowd, and everyone goes quiet. The tension is thick enough to cut.
