When I finally turn my head, they ain’t looking at me directly and that’s worse. It’s sideways glances, the way words slow down when they notice I’m listening, like I’m a lesson somebody else already learned.
“That ain’t news,” another woman mutters. “Man cheats on his wife with all the club whores.”
Whores.
The word hits different when it’s not just meant for others. And when it’s got stairs. A room. A woman crawling into his lap. I can’t get the picture out of my head. I push my coffee away before my hand starts shaking.
“You okay, Brit?” Lottie asks, quiet.
“Fine,” I lie, because that’s what women do when their insides feel scraped raw. “I just didn’t know it’d be so fast.”
Her mouth tightens. “Baby,” she says, and it ain’t comfort.
It’s warning. I stare down at the counter, tracing a crack in the laminate like I could fix it if I press hard enough. “I didn’t even do anything,” I whisper. “I danced. That’s it.”
Lottie’s voice drops. “You don’t get it yet.”
“Then explain it,” I snap.
Her eyes flick to the door and back to me. “You didn’t just dance with him. You got seen. Folks decide a story and then they act like it’s law. It’s my fault I was caught up with Holler. That man don’t take later for an answer.” She blushes. “They say you grabbed Oak’s you know what. That you dry humped him. Twerked on him. I don’t believe all that. Not you.”
There it is. Just like from my nightmare. Confirmed. I swallow the humiliation. I don’t tell Lottie the awful truth.
“Bethany?” I ask. “Do I still need to worry?”
Lottie doesn’t answer.
That’s my answer.
Outside, the sky hangs low and gray like it’s listening. Hell always feels smaller after moments like this, like the roads fold in on themselves and the whole town leans closer just to watch you bleed.
At the pawn shop, Becki’s behind the counter, eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass. Lottie asked her to cover when I didn’t show, and now I’m in danger of losing hours. She doesn’t smile when she sees me. She studies me like I’m a headline she already read.
“You piss someone off again?” she asks casually.
My stomach flips. “Why?”
She slides a receipt toward me but keeps her fingers on it, leaning in. “Somebody’s been asking about you. Pearly Gates side.”
My pulse spikes. “Who?”
“Didn’t give a name,” Becki says. “Just smiled like they already owned the answer. They asked about where you work, where you go, who you’re seen with, and how often you’re alone.”
The air goes thin. “Maybe they’re just curious,” I say, and I can hear how weak it sounds.
Becki snorts. “Pearly Gates ain’t curious. They collect.”
The word settles ugly in my chest. “You were a member,” I remind her.
“Yeah,” she says. “You know my daddy’s the Reverend, right?”
“No, I didn’t.” Beckie’s older than me by a bit, like Lottie. “There’s too much I don’t know about the town. I’m learning, fast.”
“So, I know how they move.” She lowers her voice. “They don’t go after the loud ones first. They go after the ones who don’t think they matter.”
“Did you tell them anything?” I ask.
Her eyes narrow. “Only what I had to.”
