CHAPTER 1
MELANIE
Staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror the church has helpfully provided for their brides-to-be, I have to swallow down the bile rising in my throat.
Who is that girl in the reflection? She looks like me, moves like me, but there’s no way sheisme. Because if she is, that means I’m only moments away from tying myself to a man I barely know for the rest of my natural life.
It’s what my parents want. What the church has decreed.
But nobody seems to give a fuck what I want.
“Oh, Melanie.” My mother’s sigh rakes over my nerves, nails on the proverbial chalkboard of my soul. “You look beautiful.”
I look like exactly what I am: a virgin sacrifice.
Except I’m not actually a virgin, not that my parents or the church know any different. That particular boat sailed when I was sixteen and I let Lyle Erickson sweet-talk me out of my panties in the backseat of his truck. It was the one and only time I gave into thosedevilishurges, seeing as how his ham-handed attempts at making me come weren’t worth the risk of getting caught.
I handled my own orgasms after that, thank you very much.
But after today, my pleasure and my body will belong to my husband. A man twenty years older than me who once smugly told my father I had “good birthing hips” as if he was assessing livestock at the county fair.
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
The words slip free before I think to stop them, and in the reflection I watch my mother’s mouth turn down. “If you’re going to be sick, do it in the bathroom. And don’t get anything on that dress!”
I’m already turning to flee before she finishes her admonition, her words following me out of the makeshift dressing room. Tripping on the hem of my gown, I stumble to the bathroom and lean over the first sink I see, dragging in deep lungfuls of air to try and stop the meager breakfast I managed to choke down this morning from making a reappearance.
What the hell am I going to do?
Breathe, for starters. No decent plan was ever made when the brain was deprived of oxygen. Which means I need to get some fresh freaking air in this stuffy bathroom.
Turning away from the mirror, I stride over to the window and wrestle it open, shoving my head out into the frigid February air. The wind slaps at my face, cold and unforgiving, but it’s exactly what I need to help clear the fear and hopelessness clouding my brain.
And when I look down at the roof of the covered porch below me, the one that leads out to the area behind the church where the children play when it isn’t negative one thousand degrees outside, a plan begins to form.
The windows of our church are large and open outward, a decadence that caused something of a scandal when the building was first erected some years ago. But now, I give thanks to that puffed-up pastor who wanted to make a name for himself with those gaudy touches that horrified the church elders. Even withthe layers of tulle around my waist, I’m able to haul myself up out of the window to sit on the ledge.
I dangle there for a bit, eyeballing the distance to the roof below. It’s not nearly as far as the ground itself, and if I can make it without hurting myself, I can shimmy off the roof and down to the ground.
To freedom.
“Melanie?” My mother’s voice comes through the locked door of the bathroom and my heart lodges itself firmly in my throat.
It’s now, or never.
Pushing away from the window, I land hard on the roof, my slipper-clad feet sliding down the shingles and terror races through my veins as I scrabble for purchase. Down and down I slide—straight over the edge of the roof.
At the last moment, I manage to cling to the gutters, my body dangling freely over the concrete beneath me.
Shit, shit, shit.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I gather all the courage I can muster and pry my fingers from the edge of the roof.
The fall seems to take forever, as if I’m moving through molasses instead of the crisp Colorado air. But the landing isn’t nearly as rough as I’d expected and I give myself a moment to let the sheer relief of my escape overwhelm me—complete with a little booty wiggle of victory.
Once I’ve finished my happy dance, I look around, my heart once more pounding against my rib cage as I try to figure out my next move. My purse is upstairs in the dressing room, so my car is out. Even if I knew how to hotwire a vehicle—if that’s even a thing anymore—my car is parked right at the front of the building where our entire congregation is filing in for the wedding. There’s no way to get to my car without being surrounded by well-wishers.
And then I spot it. The church van. I know for a fact Kirk keeps the keys in the glove compartment because, as he says, “If someone is desperate enough to steal from us, then they need it more than we do.”
