Chapter 11
June
I didn’t know why I was nervous.
I’d been to dinner at the Ward house plenty of times at this point…
I’d married Rhett and Willow, for fuck’s sake, eaten at their table, blessed their house.
Delilah would be there—one of my best friends in the whole world.
Willow and Rhett, who had entrusted me with their lives and, though I hadn’t known it at the time, with their future child.
But there was one person I was incredibly anxious about seeing.
Silas.
We hadn’t spoken since I woke up from the snakebite, since I’d laid everything bare: my past, my fears, the fractured theology scarred across my soul. I’d told him I needed to pump the brakes…not that I needed him to bail for good.
And he’d just…shut down.
I didn’t blame him—I had a hell of a lot of trauma, and so did he. Maybe he didn’t want to be with someone as fucked up as I was, underneath the charisma, the vestments, the sermons.
Delilah was in the kitchen, slapping together a pitcher of hurricanes for tonight. She was being far louder than she needed to for mixing up an easy drink—but that was Delilah, always loud and always over the top.
“Can you hurry?” she shouted from the kitchen. “I’m sure Silas will be blown away, no matter what you wear!”
I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly gave myself a migraine.
“I’m not dressing for Silas,” I called back. “I’m dressing for me. And for you, punk rock queen…and possibly Willow, because she always looks like she stepped out of a cottagecore fantasy novel and I refuse to be the tragically unfashionable friend.”
Delilah popped her head into the bathroom. “What about Hazel? Let’s be real, she knows how to rock a onesie and a giant hair bow.”
I snorted. “She’s got that baby glam locked down. I’m just trying not to show up looking like the before picture in a makeover montage.”
Delilah looked me over, smiling. “You’re the after picture, babe. Always have been.”
I gave her a look, but didn’t argue—and especially tonight, maybe she was right.
Tonight I’d left the jeans behind for once.
My dress was soft cotton, charcoal gray with a low V-neck, cinched at the waist with a turquoise belt I’d picked up a few years back at a flea market in the Bywater.
It hit just above the knee, long enough to say pastor’s kid, short enough to say but not the repressed kind.
I wore it with a pair of broken-in leather ankle boots and a forest green flannel slung over my arm—Silas’s flannel, the one he’d left in my room at the clinic.
My hair was loose tonight, the way I wore it when I didn’t want to think too hard—long, wavy, and swept over one shoulder.
And…yeah, I didn’t want to think too hard.
Because I was nervous.
Because I couldn’t think too much about the guilt and the fear and the overwhelming need to kiss Silas Ward again.
The drive out to the Ward house was quiet and serene, golden hour turning the trees into silhouettes of stained glass.
Delilah fiddled with the radio in her Jeep, finally settling on outlaw country that thumped beneath the hum of the engine.
She tapped the rhythm on the steering wheel, glancing over at me every so often.
“You okay, babe?” she asked. “I mean…seemed like things were pretty tense between y’all.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Or…hm.”
“Hm?”
“Hm like I’m not fine,” I admitted. “Or…maybe hm like I’m maybe fine. But I’m not falling apart or anything, I’m just…in Purgatory.”
Delilah made a soft noise of agreement. “You want him to talk to you?”
“Yeah,” I said, too fast. Then added, “But not if he’s gonna say he’s sorry for kissing me. I don’t want anyone to apologize for kissing anyone…except if they didn’t want to be kissed, of course. I don’t know.”
Delilah looked at me for a second, a smile growing on her face…then she laughed, loud and bright.
“You’re adorable when you like someone,” she said. “Never seen that look on you.”
“Don’t start,” I said, but I couldn’t help smiling.
“What? It’s cute!” Delilah reached over to shove my shoulder. “You’re over here all flustered and philosophical like you didn’t once tell a married couple they should ‘pray naked together’ to deepen their intimacy.”
“That was good advice,” I shot back.
Delilah snorted. “It was great advice, but I’m just saying: maybe take your own advice for once.”
“I’m not married to him,” I said.
“Yet,” she muttered.
I shoved her right back.
She grinned unapologetically and pulled into the long gravel drive that led up to the Ward house, a big, rambling farmhouse with twinkle lights all along the porch. I could hear music drifting through the screen door—an oldies playlist with Sam Cooke and Patsy Cline and Linda Ronstadt.
It was so welcoming it was almost suspicious.
Delilah started to get out, then paused, frowning at me. “Why’re you lookin’ at the house like it’s gonna bite you?” she asked.
I shrugged one shoulder. “Just feel like something’s gonna happen.”
“Hopefully a sexy somethin’,” Delilah said, wiggling her eyebrows.
“Hopefully one that isn’t snake-related.”
“June, I’ve spent literal years of my life in this house and have never once seen a snake on the property,” Delilah said. “You’re safe here. Pinky swear.”
I lifted my hand, and we pinky swore right there in the glow of the porch lights.
Delilah gave my hand a squeeze for good measure, then she grabbed her artichoke dip from the backseat and strode up the porch steps.
I hopped out a second later with the pitcher of hurricanes, bracing myself for Milo’s inevitable mugging once I got inside.
Milo met me on the porch, just like I knew he would—half dog, half toddler. He launched himself at me with an eager whine, nearly knocking the pitcher from my hands.
“Hey, hey, whoa there, holy terror,” I laughed, bracing myself against the railing. “I brought snacks, not a chew toy.”
“Come on in, preacher lady,” Beau called from the living room. “We were about to send a search party.”
Delilah was already halfway through the door, dip in hand, hair catching the porch light like wildfire.
I followed her in, and for a second the world smelled like warm wood, fresh cornbread, and baby powder.
The house was alive with music and laughter—Rhett’s low voice from the kitchen, Hazel’s delighted squeals, Willow’s melodic baby talk.
It was the kind of chaos I used to think I’d never be part of again, back when my family told me I didn’t belong with them anymore.
And then I saw him.
Silas.
He was standing by the far window, beer in one hand, talking to Whit and their youngest brother, Holden—but his eyes flicked up the second I stepped inside.
He’d cleaned up. Not church-formal, but definitely not Silas-in-his-work-boots either. Dark jeans. A crisp black button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His curls were still damp, like he’d only just showered, and there was a fresh nick on his jaw from shaving.
Our eyes met.
His gaze traveled down my frame—slow, assessing, enjoying. He paused at the flannel slung over my arm.
I saw the moment he recognized it. His eyes softened, just a little. His lips parted like he might say something…but he didn’t.
Neither did I.
Because the room had gotten loud again—Willow greeting Delilah with a grin, Rhett hollering for help in the kitchen, Beau scooping Hazel into his arms—and I was still just standing there, hurricane pitcher in hand, heart beating loud enough to drown out the music.
But Silas didn’t look away.