Chapter 46
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
After Eileen and Roxanne are finished with their snack, Austin stashes the leftover bread in the barn and walks me back along the brick path. The Red Brick Road.
“I assume you still want your run?” he asks, already pulling out his phone to send me a pin—a huge park nearby. Taking care of me, even when I’m a mess.
When I return, he’s passed out on the sectional upstairs, curled around the corner. Poor guy. Stretched so thin he’s practically transparent.
A sinister voice flickers. “Because of you.”
It’s true. He was never like this before we were together.
A rush of grief and affection tightens my throat.
Last night at the pond was awful—like watching my own hands crush spun glass.
The blood, the pieces splintering apart under pressure I never meant to put there.
The horror that I could break someone so good.
And yet, somehow, I still had hope. It’s my fault—I know it is—but I had started to think we could figure this thing out together.
Because it’s too good not to. It’s just too good to be temporary.
Now? I don’t know.
Leaning on the doorway, I watch him sleep. His overwhelm last night makes perfect sense. He’s like these beloved cows, known and kept and nurtured. But I’m a barn snake, trying to sneak into their utopia, trying to consume the goodness they’ve created here.
For the first time since I met Austin, I want to belong here. I want to snuggle next to him at that fire pit outside. I want to joke with his old friends at Mabel’s. I want to fish with him in his pond. I want to be the kind of person who can help him make all of this again, for another generation.
But I don’t belong here. I can’t stay, and we all know. His family will set him straight.
I cling to the doorframe to stay upright. I miss my rose-colored glasses. I miss my ignorance. I wish I didn’t know how much I want to be this for him. But I’m not apple pie and rural charm. I’m not rest and peace. I’m the opposite. I had to be. To survive my opposite life.
When Austin groans in his sleep, I instinctively step forward, aching to curl up beside him. But I stop myself. I shouldn’t. And I’m sure that’s not allowed here.
I hate that I’m disappointing him. I wish I could have just bounded in all sunshine and laughter, like he must have expected.
So he could be glad he brought me home. Proud of me.
My throat tightens. I find a blanket and drape it over him.
Slowly, carefully. Then I settle on the floor and pray—for God to give him what he needs.
Who he needs. The best possible gifts. That he’d stop at nothing to give Austin his best.
By the time I push up from the floor, I’m trembling.
I shower. Try to look nice. Try not to embarrass him.
Try to paste on a smile, be good company.
But there’s no hope of that. Not for lack of caring—I just have no idea how to behave here.
I did some improv in high school, and I tell myself I’m on set with a pretend family.
The prompt? Don’t offend them. Don’t say the wrong thing.
Don’t let their cheery smiles turn to polite, horrified frowns.
We eat chili and cornbread at the dining room table.
Austin’s mom keeps insisting I lather more butter on my cornbread, more cheese on my chili.
Austin watches with an amused mini-smile.
I eat just to keep my hands busy. Spoons clank against bowls as everyone scrapes the last bit out before getting seconds.
Austin chats with his family about everyday things because they already know everything about his life—there’s nothing to fill them in about.
They know about me, about the things we do. They know Levi and Haymitch.
This whole family looks like they stepped off a magazine cover, all matching with dark hair and blue eyes. The subtitle would scream How to Win the Genetic Lottery! They tease. They praise. They’re at ease. Bangladesh.
First order of business: avoid making a face that screams help. Secondary goal: act more human, less startled owl.
“Sophie, sweetheart, how are you liking college?”
Channel Ignorant Sophie. I can do this. “College. Um. I love it.”
“What’s your major?” Janie asks.
“Oh, I don’t know yet.”
“She’s good at everything, so it’s hard to pick. Right, Soph?” I could swear his accent is growing stronger with every minute.
“Aw, bless your heart,” Mrs. Scott says.
Austin frowns.
“Austin says you’re from California,” Mr. Scott says, transitioning. “Whereabouts?”
“Pasadena.”
Janie leans forward. “Where the Rose Parade is, right?”
I could tell them how the floats take months to build. How they line up on New Year’s Eve, just down the street from my place. I could tell them I helped build a few. Rode on one.
But I don’t. I don’t have the words today. Or the energy. All I have is … loss.
I nod.
“What’s your family like?” Mrs. Scott asks.
The very last thing I want to talk about.
“Nothing special,” I hedge. “I’m an only child.”
“Sophie’s a beautiful singer,” Austin interjects, seeing I can’t hold my own at this table.
“Is that so?” she asks politely, and she blows on a spoonful.
I’m not impressing her. At all. Austin overpromised and underdelivered.
“This chili is incredible,” I try.
“Oh, thank you.” But she settles in her chair, like she’s finished with the attempt at chatting.
I scramble for something as Mr. Scott watches. “I love your cows’ names.”
Her polite expression loosens into a chuckle. “Thanks, honey.”
Something else. Something. “What kind of music do you like, Mrs. Scott?”
“The cow names are oldies, but mostly for lack of something better. I’m open to new cow names should I need another.
Bless their hearts, they can’t live forever.
Anyhow, I’ve got some favorites across the genres.
I was raised on country, of course. I like pop in moderation.
I had a punk rock phase when I was young. Ever heard of Relient K?”
“‘Be My Escape’ is them, right?”
“Yes! I loved them. Used to drive to Dallas for concerts whenever I could. Switchfoot too. And I mostly listen to contemporary Christian now.”
Keeping up this pleasant expression drains everything I’ve got. I’d pay them each a thousand bucks if I could escape this dinner—this whole night—without judgment. Without consequences. Just disappear.
Austin chats with his dad about sports news as Janie smiles at me.
“She’s not like other moms,” she says. “She’s a cool mom.”
“So fetch,” I say, but my voice doesn’t sound like mine. Too quiet. Timid. Lifeless.
Her eyes light up all the same. “Mama says ‘contemporary Christian’, but her music is mostly ancient. It’s actually pretty good though. Do you know Rich Mullins?”
I shake my head.
“Steven Curtis Chapman?”
“I love ‘The Great Adventure.’ It was on that camp movie on Netflix, right?”
“Yeah, that movie was decent,” Janie says. “SCC is a fixture around here. He has decades of good music.”
“I didn’t know. I’m pretty new to Christian music.” Shouldn’t have spilled that.
Janie bends forward. “That settles it. We’re gonna make you a playlist—the best from Mama’s dinosaur days and the current essentials.”
She taps Austin’s phone in his pocket, and he pulls it out for her.
“You’re only allowed to skip one out of every ten songs,” she says. “Choose wisely.”
Her fingers type away, then she hands it back and taps on her own phone.
Ding.
This is Janie Scott.
“This playlist’s a living, morphing thing, so don’t judge it till the next update.” She meets my eyes and grins.
Everything in me wants to distance myself from these weird, beautiful Stepford people, but Janie’s so … real. Opinionated. Fun. Normal Sophie would love her.
“Your contributions are nonnegotiable, ’kay? Don’t leave me hangin’.”
I agree to her terms. “Know Forrest Frank?”
“Duh. But add your faves.”
“Hulvey?”
“Genre?”
“Rap.”
Mrs. Scott cringes.
“Doesn’t ring a bell. Teach me your ways.”
“Tauren Wells?” I ask.
“Absolutely. Especially that one he sings with the guy from Rascal Flatts. What’s it called?”
“‘Until Grace.’” I almost smile, but my face can’t accept any more instructions right now.
Austin bends forward, meets my eyes in concern. I flit away.
“Rascal Flatts stands the test of time,” Janie says. As if she has the same thought I do, she straightens and recites, “‘Your standing films will time and test themselves.’”
Some part of me almost claps, like life wants to bloom inside me again. But it doesn’t. “Win a Date with Tad Hamilton,” I manage. “Such a classic.”
She nods in approval. I drink it in.
“Is that the one where Topher Grace fails at farm chores?” Austin asks.
“You’re just mad because she picks the scrawny guy,” Janie challenges.
He elbows her. “I only care who Sophie picks.” His gaze slides to me and turns flirty. “Don’t pick the scrawny guy, ’kay?”
A full smile crawls across my face for the first time all day.
“I’d pick the scrawny guy if he noticed my six smiles,” Janie says. “That speech should be in the Smithsonian.”
Austin’s jaw ticks. When Janie does find her smile guy, her giant brother’s going to lose his mind.
Over banana pudding—yes, seriously—I learn that Mrs. Scott doesn’t have a job so that she can do things around “the property” all day. Must be a lot to do. Mr. Scott works from home and sometimes drives into Dallas. He doesn’t talk much but seems content to listen.
“Before I forget, please be ready to leave by eight-thirty tomorrow,” Mrs. Scott says. “I need to help with some tables before service.”
“We’re not going to church tomorrow, Mama.”
“Of course you are.”
“I’ll come to church next visit.” I feel the exertion of his pushback from here. He hates this. “I’m not gonna make Sophie do the meet-and-greet thing this weekend.”
I almost gasp. He’s saying no to his mother for me? I meet his gaze and send a thousand wordless thank-yous.
“You can sleep in till eight,” Mrs. Scott says. It’s final.
“He’s an adult, Tracy,” Mr. Scott says. “And he’s more than earned our trust.” Locking eyes with Austin, honor passes between them. Love.
Something cracks in my chest. I drop my quivering spoon into the bowl and squeeze my hands in my lap. I try to imagine my dad and me in their seats, and whatever cracked shatters completely.