Chapter 1 #2
I serve myself quietly, careful not to drop a spoon or breathe too loudly. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since a gas station granola bar this morning, but the food turns to paste in my mouth. Still, I chew. I swallow. I pretend.
Finally, my dad breaks the silence without looking at me.
“How long are you planning on staying?”
I swallow hard and meet his gaze. “Just until I figure things out.”
Mom dabs at her mouth with her napkin. “If you’re going to be here more than a week, you’ll need to pitch in. We’re not running a hotel.”
I want to scream and ask them why they even let me come back if all I’m going to get is disdain. But I don’t. Instead, I nod. Because that’s what’s expected under their roof in the role I swore I’d never play again.
The fallen daughter. The burden. The shame. The whore.
But then Dad throws another barb, voice calm like he’s commenting on the weather except it cuts deeper than anything he’s said all night.
“You’re also expected to attend church services with us. We leave in the morning at eight.”
For a moment, everything stops. The air goes still, my stomach flips, and I swear to God the world shifts under my feet.
Church?
He can’t be serious.
But one look at him tells me he absolutely is. He’s not making a request. He’s delivering an order. That same steely, unflinching gaze, daring me to challenge him, to say no. The kind of look that used to freeze me in place when I was too young to understand how conditional his love really was.
My throat tightens. I want to argue and tell him there’s no place in that sanctuary for someone like me anymore, not after everything.
Not after the whispers. The judgment. The way the pews felt like prison bars the last time I sat there, back straight, smile painted on, soul in pieces.
But I know what happens if I push back. I’ll be gone before I can even pack a bag.
Tossed out without hesitation. Banished for good. So I nod once.
“I’ll be there.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine.
Mom simply hums and passes the butter.
And me? I sit there, chewing on food that tastes like nothing, praying like hell that when I walk through those church doors tomorrow morning there’s a new pastor.
Because if it’s still him behind that pulpit I might not make it through the service without shattering.
I toss and turn all night in the stiff, unfamiliar bed, sheets tucked too tight, pillow flat and unforgiving.
Every creak of the floorboards, every groan of the old pipes reminds me where I am.
And where I’m not. Sleep never comes, not really.
Just flashes of memory looping like static in my brain.
Images I wish I could gouge out of my head but can’t.
And I’ve tried everything. Drinking. Sex.
Therapy. None of it helps. Not even a little bit.
By the time I give up, my back is aching, and my chest feels hollow.
The house is still silent when I slip out, barefoot.
The air outside bites at my skin, crisp and damp.
The sky is still dark, that eerie shade of black-blue just before dawn breaks open.
I follow the worn path to the barn. It hasn’t changed much.
Same peeling red paint. Same lopsided weather vane.
Same smell. I pause at the doors before pushing one open with a soft groan.
The horses stir, hooves shifting, ears twitching. Then I see her.
Honey.
My breath catches in my throat. She’s older, of course. A little grayer around the muzzle, slower to lift her head. But she’s still here. Still beautiful. I blink back the sting in my eyes as I step into the stall.
“Hi, Honey,” I whisper, voice cracking with emotion I didn’t know I was holding.
She nudges me gently, warm breath puffing against my neck. I press my face into her mane, breathing her in like she might be the only thing left in this place that doesn’t hate me.
“I can’t believe they kept you,” I murmur. “Guess miracles do happen.”
She snorts softly, and I swear she remembers all the rides, all the secrets I told her when no one else would listen, and even the day I left, sobbing into her coat, promising I’d be back.
I run my fingers through her mane, untangling knots, soothing both of us.
And for just a moment out here in the cold barn, under a sky about to break I feel something like peace.
It doesn’t last, but I hold onto it anyway.
Because once the sun rises, I’ll have to face a church full of people who think I’m a disgrace. People who whispered my name like it was a curse. Who smiled to my face while sharpening their knives behind my back. But for now, it’s just me and Honey. And that’s enough.
I stay with her until the roosters crow and the first streaks of gold split across the sky like a wound.
Then, with a heavy heart and heavier steps, I leave the barn behind and trudge back toward the house.
Every inch of me wants to stay out there in the cold with her.
But I know what’s waiting. And I know what’ll happen if I’m late.
Inside, the house feels colder than the morning air.
I go upstairs and stand in front of my closet, eyeing the one pair of slacks I packed like they might save me.
I want to wear them. I want to feel like myself—what little of her still exists.
But I can already hear Mom’s voice in my head.
“Slacks? To church? What will people think?”
Like that’s ever stopped them from thinking and doing worse.
So I reach for the one dress I brought that still fits. It’s black, simple, and, most importantly, safe. A shield of modesty they can’t criticize, even if it feels like I’m suiting up for war. I tame my hair. Powder the shine off my face. Paint myself into someone they might tolerate.
When I step into the foyer at eight on the dot, I’m the picture of quiet compliance.
My parents arrive moments later, punctual as always, dressed in their Sunday best like nothing in the world could touch them.
Neither of them speaks and I keep my gaze averted, staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow me whole.
I don’t want to see their faces. Not the disappointment in Mom’s tight-lipped frown, or the cold disapproval in Dad’s stare.
We move as a unit, three shadows stepping into the morning like a family. But we’re not a family. We’re a performance. And I’m the act they’re ashamed to admit is theirs.
The ride to the church is silent. No radio.
No conversation. Just the hum of the tires on the road and the mounting pressure in my chest. It’s like they’re doing this on purpose to punish me.
Normally they’re at least talking about business on the ranch.
But not today. My heart thrums. Did they tell anyone I was back?
I sit in the backseat like a child being delivered to judgment, hands folded tightly in my lap, fingernails digging crescents into my palms. The church comes into view too fast. Same white steeple.
Same aging brick. Same sign out front with the interchangeable letters that read: No one is too far gone to be forgiven.
I nearly laugh.
The parking lot is already full. Pickup trucks and sedans lined up like pews on asphalt while familiar faces drift toward the doors in clusters, all dressed in their Sunday best, smiles just tight enough to cut.
The second I step out of the car, I feel the shift.
Heads turn. Whispers start. Eyes track me like I’m a wounded animal limping into the lion’s den.
No one says anything to my face. Not yet.
But I see the recognition flicker. The half-hidden smirks.
The pity. The judgment. It clings to me like smoke.
Mom straightens her shoulders and walks a step ahead, like if she pretends hard enough, they won’t look at her the way they look at me. Dad follows, silent and stiff, as if he’s just here out of obligation. And me? I swallow the bile in my throat and keep walking.
Inside, the sanctuary smells like old hymnals and even older secrets. Every creak of the floorboards under my heels feels like a spotlight. I try to slide into a pew near the back. Somewhere quiet, somewhere invisible.
But Mom stops and turns, her voice low but firm. “We sit in the front.”
Since when? We never did before.
But I follow them down the center aisle, every step dragging like a sentence. I can feel eyes drilling into the back of my head, every whispered “That’s Juniper Quinn” like a slap across the face.
We slide into the front row. First pew, center. No escape.
And then I see him.
Pastor Chester Hilbert.
The breath leaves my lungs in a rush and my vision wavers.
He’s older now, sure. But it’s him. The same man that preached about forgiveness while twisting scripture into knives.
The same hands that held a Bible in one and damnation in the other.
The same man who called me into his office that day, locked the door behind me, and smiled like he was saving my soul when really he was taking something I didn’t offer.
His eyes flicker to mine for the briefest moment, and I swear I see it. Sinister recognition and a smug smile.
I turn my gaze away before the nausea wins. I’m not ready for this and I never will be. But here I am in the front pew of the church that crucified me…
And the man who lit the match is standing behind the pulpit like he’s holy.