“Yes.” The word comes out rough, desperate.
“I’m not afraid of who you were.” My fingers trace the line of his jaw, feeling the stubble there. “I’m only afraid of losing who you are now. Of this Tommy destroying everything you’ve built because you won’t give him what he wants.”
Adrian’s control fractures. He pulls me against him, his mouth finding mine with desperate hunger. The kiss tastes like blood and salt and twenty years of suppressed need. His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head back so he can kiss me deeper, and I feel the tremor running through his body as he fights himself.
He rests his forehead against mine, breathing hard. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Good thing that’s not your decision to make.”
Later that afternoon, I’m organizing donated clothes in the parish hall when Isabella appears in the doorway.
She’s wearing a tailored dress that makes me feel young and inadequate in my simple cotton dress.
Her dark hair is perfectly styled, her makeup flawless, and everything about her screams sophistication I’ll never achieve.
“Charlie.” Her smile is warm, but her eyes are calculating. “Do you have a moment?”
My stomach drops, but I nod. She crosses to where I’m working, carrying a leather photo album I didn’t notice before. She sits on the edge of a table, patting the space beside her in invitation.
“I wanted to show you something.” She opens the album, and I see them.
Marcus and Isabella, years younger, their faces full of hope and possibility.
In one photo, they’re laughing at some shared joke. In another, his arm is around her shoulders, protective and tender. They look like a couple planning a future together.
“We were going to have three children,” Isabella says softly, her finger tracing one of the photos. “Marcus wanted a big family. Said he grew up lonely and wanted his kids to always have each other.” She turns the page, showing more images. “We’d picked out names. Planned where we’d live. He was going to leave the priesthood for me, build a normal life.”
Each word plants seeds of doubt that take root immediately.
I watch Marcus across the room through the doorway, see him laugh at something Elijah says, and wonder if I’m being selfish.
If keeping him trapped in this unconventional arrangement is denying him the life he really wants.
“Can you give him that?” Isabella’s voice is gentle, sympathetic.
My throat tightens. “I don’t know.”
“I’m not trying to hurt you.” She closes the album, her expression kind. “I just think you should consider what’s best for him.”
She leaves, and I stand there surrounded by donated clothes and crushing doubt. Marcus deserves better than this. They all do. Better than a girl who stole from a church, who’s working off her debt, who can’t offer them anything except complications and risk.
I escape to the farmers’ market that evening, needing space to think. The late afternoon sun casts everything in golden light as I wander between stalls, examining vegetables I can barely afford.
My mind spins through Isabella’s words, through the image of Adrian’s violence, through the weight of everything threatening to crush us.
“Charlie Davis?”
I turn to find a woman in her fifties, gray hair pulled back in a practical bun, wearing an apron dusted with flour. Her face is kind, her smile genuine.
“I’m Maggie Anderson. I own The Flour Pot bakery downtown.” She extends her hand. “I’ve been hoping to run into you. Those lemon bars you made for Easter? I haven’t stopped thinking about them.”
My face flushes. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”
“It’s not kindness, it’s truth.” Maggie’s eyes are sharp, assessing. “I’ve been baking for thirty years, and I know real talent when I taste it. Tell me, where did you learn?”
We talk about baking, about Grandma Rose’s recipes, about the joy of creating something beautiful from simple ingredients.
Maggie listens with genuine interest, asking complex questions that next my understanding of the craft.
