Chapter 2
EVIE
The small silver cross hangs heavy around my neck, like a noose before the drop.
My parents gave it to me when I turned thirteen, along with a lecture about rejecting temptation and remaining pure until marriage.
I’d once worn it with pride. Only recently have I started to question why my worth as a person—a blessed child of God, as they would say—is determined by walking the line between modesty and temptation.
I’m required to be attractive but never go too far.
Be friendly and outgoing, but quiet and respectable.
Everything is contradictory. And I’m beginning to think they made it that way on purpose.
Twisting the hair at the end of my braid, I glance through the smudged car window toward the unassuming house I’m parked in front of.
The cement driveway is framed by bright succulents and smooth stones, complete with stretching palm trees swaying in the late summer breeze.
Tendrils of warm air swirl through my cracked window, licking the beads of sweat trickling down my neck.
Where the fuck is my mother. She insisted on being here when I moved in, despite Tempest’s offer to have her brother and his friends do the heavy lifting.
Being that I’m horrible at confrontation and will do anything to avoid awkward social situations, I told Mother to meet me here four hours earlier than what Tempest had suggested.
My new roommate agreed to leave the door unlocked, just in case I arrived before she returned from her morning hike—meaning I was hoping to have all my stuff moved in and my overbearing mother gone before anyone was the wiser.
Maybe if Tempest never meets a member of my family, the possibility of us becoming friends can still be on the table.
College is my one chance to have a normal life, and I’m not about to let my fucked-up family mess it up.
If my mother doesn’t get here soon, I’ll start unloading the half dozen boxes containing all my belongings myself.
I bite my lip just thinking about her reaction. We agreed I’d approve of your living space, Evie. And this is simply unacceptable.
My father’s lecture follows close behind, replaying in my mind for the thousandth time about how inappropriate it is for a woman my age to live unattended.
I should be at home, under their supervision, until I’m properly handed over to a husband.
As if this were the 1800s and I a nineteen-year-old woman on the brink of spinsterhood.
I’m not sure what type of magic my mother worked to get my father and brother to agree to me living off campus, but I’ll be forever grateful.
It’s been nineteen years of pretending to be perfect. Of attending church every Sunday, kneeling at the pews and at home when my father insisted on extra sermons. Of forcing my eyes down and lips closed whenever my brother’s blue eyes glanced my way.
Half-brother, I correct, as if that makes it any better.
My skin crawls as memories assault my mind.
My heart ricochets in my chest, cold sweat breaking out across my forehead despite the mounting heat in my car.
I flex my hands around the steering wheel, resisting the urge to cover my body. To cower.
It won’t help, I chide myself, but his voice comes anyway, blasting through the walls I’ve fought so hard to construct. You’re the damaged, dirty piece in the otherwise upstanding family portrait, Evie. No one will believe you.
And no one did. Maybe that’s why I’m questioning everything to do with God. Because how would someone all powerful, all seeing, all knowing allow so many fucked-up things to happen? If He is real, He’s either abandoned us, or He’s an unfeeling asshole—neither of which inspire much faith from me.
Shoving the shame-filled memories back into the pretty little box I keep them in, I unplug my phone from the dash and shoot my mother a text.
The screen flashes a second later, illuminating a thin, blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman who’s had more than a few rounds of Botox and fillers. Groaning, I swipe to answer, wishing for once she’d just text back like a normal person instead of video chatting.
“Hi, Mother,” I say, forcing a smile. “I didn’t get out of the car. Promise. Are you almost here?”
The last thing I need is to upset her by being too independent and have her change her mind about letting me attend, but even as the words leave my lips, I can tell she’s not on her way. Her heels click as she walks, her designer sunglasses perched above her plastic nose and pink-painted lips.
“I meant to call, sweetie, but I won’t be able to make it. Can we push it to tomorrow?”
“Classes start tomorrow,” I say, my smile faltering.
“Yes, I’m aware,” she tsks, picking up her stride. Buildings constructed in the Mission Revival style come into view behind her, their expansive white arches topped with terracotta-tiled roofs that mirror those on my acceptance letter.
“Are you on campus?” I ask, the words spilling free before I can stop them.
She lifts a freshly plucked brow, glossed lips pressing into a thin line.
Immediately dropping my gaze, I mutter an apology as another piece of my hollowed heart dims. Mother is only this assertive when it’s the two of us.
She wouldn’t dare pretend to be strong around my father or even my half-brother, Jonathan, but I know better than to pry into her business.
After all, she’s the one who taught me a young woman is meant to be seen, not heard.
“There are matters pertaining to your admittance that I must address with Dean Whitehouser,” she clips. “Your father is needed at the church all day, but I’ll call Jonathan.”
“No,” I practically shout, dread and disgust twisting my gut.
I swallow against the narrow-eyed look she levels my way, forcing my voice to steady.
“I mean, there’s no need to bother Jonathan with this.
I only have a few boxes, and Tempest just got here.
She’ll help me. The place is nice, Mother. And close enough to walk to campus.”
My mother narrows her eyes as I wave to the vacant driveway, just out of the phone’s camera shot. I swear she can sense the lie, but she sighs after a moment.
“Fine. But if your father asks, I was with you all morning.” She pauses, her lips tilting into a brief smile, as if she sees someone behind her phone, before focusing back on the screen. “In fact, we went out for an early dinner after moving.”
“Okay,” I say, not questioning it. Whatever it takes to make sure I can get out of that cursed house and start my own life.
“But you will return every night for dinner and prayer.”
“I—I can’t,” I stammer, nearly flinching when she removes her sunglasses and glares. Pressing on before she can punish me, I mutter, “I have evening classes every day.”
Mother narrows her eyes, her lips parting.
I have no doubt she’s about to tell me college was a stupid idea.
That I’d be better off getting married and serving my future husband, just like Father wants.
Forget about marine biology and conservation.
“Global warming isn’t real anyway,” my father’s voice echoes in my head.
“But I’ve already located the nearest church on campus to each of my classes and will go straight there,” I rush on before she can protest. With this being a religious school, there were three main ones to choose from and a few smaller coves scattered throughout the grounds.
Despite what I just promised her, I wouldn’t be attending prayer. God wasn’t there when I needed him most, and the church decided on my damnation for simply being born a woman. But if my parents realize I’m no longer under their control—at least mentally—they’d never let me out of their sight.
“I’ll return on the weekends when I don’t have homework,” I add, not liking the growing silence.
Another lie. I’ve purposely stacked my schedule with eighteen units, nearly double the standard course load, just to make sure I never have to enter that house again.
“Fine,” she relents, clearly distracted by someone.
Whoever it is, I hope they have a wonderful day.
She pauses, tilting up her nose as she scrutinizes my appearance.
Even through the phone, it feels like she’s catching every wrinkle along my cardigan.
The thin spike of her eyebrow lifts, as if she’s able to see beyond the frame of the call—judging the tightness of my light blue skirt across my hips or the scuffed pair of white tennis shoes I chose instead of kitten heels.
“I’ll see you Saturday morning.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling like each lie I’ve told is inked across my skin.
“And Evie?”
“Yes, Mother?” I mutter, wringing my hands.
“Try to look presentable. Your brother will be bringing a friend, and I don’t want to tarnish the family name with your disheveled state.”
The edges of my forced smile crumple as her barb finds purchase between my ribs. Tarnished. Corrupted. Damaged. All things I’ve tried so hard to forget, and yet they still play through my mind on a loop.
The screen darkens before returning to the black-and-white picture of the Cerebra odollam blossom on my background.
The suicide tree. One kernel from its fruit is potent enough to kill an adult.
Despite the risk, I’ve discovered it’s strangely popular in Southern California, especially in San Diego.
Unable to help it, my gaze drifts to the nearby greenery—swaying palm trees, flowered bushes, manicured lawns—but none of the trees I’m looking for. And god, the disappointment blooming in my chest is more telling than I care to admit.
Six months ago, I’d held the toxic seed in my hands. I’d intended to crush it, and then mix it into a tea. The toxin slows a human heartbeat within six hours, meaning I could go to sleep and just… fade.
The day I’d planned on taking it was the day I got my acceptance letter to Grace University. I’d thought it was going to be another form of the prison I was already stuck in, but then my mother suggested I live on campus—and despite Jonathan’s protests, my father didn’t object right away.
Being that I’m a transfer and technically at the sophomore level, I’m lucky I found a room within walking distance.
For some strange reason, Mother hasn’t pressed why I’m not in the dormitories.
That’s one of the perks of coming from a wealthy family: they didn’t notice when a few thousand dollars went missing to cover tuition for online classes.
I’d transferred the units I’d taken on my own with my family none the wiser.
It made me wonder what else I could do without them knowing.
Starting today, I’ll be living on my own. Away from Jonathan, from the disapproving looks of my parents, and the endless sermons about how I need to beg for forgiveness for a soul that’s already fractured beyond saving.
A smile tilts the corners of my lips—the first real flicker of happiness I’ve felt in years.
Grabbing my phone, I open the car door. I inhale deeply, basking in the invigorating scent of citrus and salt as I step onto the sidewalk.
The soles of my shoes heat from the concrete, the rays of the full sun potent enough to have me lifting a hand to shade my eyes as I gaze upon the modest-looking home before me.
For the first time in my life, I believe there could be a future without pain. Maybe I could erase all the corrupted parts of myself, scrub clean the blemishes, expunge the sin and start fresh.
I allow myself to believe in that future—in the lie—as I start unpacking. But in the deep recesses of my mind, in the haunting blackness of my soul, I know that if I succeeded in purging all my demons… there wouldn’t be anything left.