I step back, eyes back on the Bible.He reaches past me for his razor, and I catch the scent of soap and coffee and the subtle aftershave he wears.
Though an army besiege me, my heart will not fear; though war break out against me, even then I will be confident.
I rinse my toothbrush and turn the page.
For in the day of trouble he will keep me safe in his dwelling; he will hide me in the shelter of his sacred tent and set me high upon a rock.
His eyes linger on me then shift to the Bible before he moves past me, shoulder brushing mine in the narrow doorway.
I stand there for a second, heart thumping against my ribcage, nerves already gathering in my middle, and silently pray words I wish I could scream from the rooftops.
Please let there be a way out of this that doesn't end with us saying vows we can't take back.
Sixteen
Jagger
After a day in strip clubs with Ortega, seeing Adena is like stepping out of smoke into clean air.
Twenty minutes later, we're on our bikes heading out of the city, the sun starting its slow descent toward the horizon.
We stop in Ponchatoula at a small Cajun place with peeling paint and a handwritten menu.The woman behind the counter doesn't blink at our bikes or our clothes, just takes our order—fried catfish and hushpuppies for me, crawfish étouffée for Adena, sweet tea for both.
By the time we reach Manchac, the light's gone golden.I find a quiet spot off the main road—an old boat launch with a half-rotted dock stretching into dark water.The swamp's still, reflecting the sky in shades of orange and pink.
We follow the shoreline, gravel crunching under our boots as we walk.The sun's sinking, painting everything in that deep gold light that makes the world look softer than it is.
Adena exhales deeply."God will find a way.Out of this.For both of us.I know He will," she says.
Her faith is the one thing I can't compete with—can't fake my way through, can't even pretend to understand.
It’s a wall between us that I can’t climb and can't blow up.It makes me feel like a ghost standing next to someone who’s actually alive.
So I do what I always do when I'm cornered.I move.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the box.
"Let me see something expensive,"Ortega had told the jeweler."My boy needs to show his woman he's serious."
The jeweler brought out trays.Ortega pointed at the flashiest one—white gold, princess-cut diamond, smaller stones down the band.The kind of ring that screams money.
"That one.She'll love it."
I bought it because I had no choice, because refusing would've raised questions I couldn't answer.
Now I stop walking and hold out the box.
I open it.The diamond catches the fading light, throwing fractured fire across her face.
"Just in case God doesn't give you what you want," I say.
A couple appears on the path behind us—older, tourists with cameras, not a threat, but I feel their presence regardless.
I take her hand, and she doesn't pull away.The ring slides on easily—perfect fit, like I knew it would be when I guessed her size this morning while Ortega made jokes about being whipped.
It sits there on her finger, glittering and heavy and real.
“Will you marry me?”I ask.
