19. Faith
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Faith
By the time the knock comes, the whole house smells of cinnamon and clean laundry.
Mom’s been on a tear all morning. Vacuuming the hall runner, washing the windows even though it’s twenty-four degrees outside, and rearranging the knick-knacks on the bookshelf. She does this when she worries.
I bake when I’m the one spiraling.
So between the two of us, the house looks like it’s being prepped for real estate photos. If a realtor walked in right now, they’d immediately start talking about “natural light” and “great bones.”
I’m rolling out sugar cookie dough on the counter, flour dusted up my sleeves, when the knock sounds again. Sharp, urgent, too loud for this quiet little house.
My stomach drops straight through the floorboards.
Mom glances at me, brows pulling together. “You expecting somebody?”
“No.”
Too fast. Too thin.
We both freeze.
Dad wouldn’t drive up here.
He wouldn’t show up without warning.
He…
No.
He doesn’t know I’m here. He can’t. We were careful.
The knock comes a third time, more insistent.
Mom presses a hand to my arm. “Stay here.”
The rolling pin is suddenly slick in my hands. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. The room feels too small, the walls are inching in. I focus on breathing. In. Out. Don’t pass out into the cookie dough. That would really ruin the aesthetic.
Mom pads down the hall and peeks through the curtain.
Her breath hitches.
“Mom?” My voice comes out in a whisper. “Who is it?”
She unlatches the door and swings it open. “Charlotte?”
My baby sister barrels inside as a winter tornado, dragging a massive tote bag that looks like it weighs more than she does. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, her black coat is dusted with snow, and her gaze snaps to mine in an instant.
“You really are here.”
For a beat, I can’t move. Then she launches herself at me.
Her arms lock around my shoulders so tight it nearly knocks the breath out of me. I bury my face in her hair and squeeze her back, my chest cracking in a way that hurts and soothes at the same time.
I haven’t seen her since Thanksgiving. The version of me she hugged then was smaller, quieter, more obedient. A decorative daughter, carefully arranged.
This version is cracked and singed, smelling of cookie dough and mild panic.
When she pulls away, her eyes are already shiny.
“You scared the hell out of me,” she says. “You scared everyone.”
“I’m sorry.”
It comes out brittle, sharper than I mean it to.
She shakes her head hard. “Don’t apologize. Just… wow, I needed to see you with my own eyes. Dad is making me crazy.”
Mom closes the door and starts rubbing her hands up and down Charlotte’s arms like she’s still eight and coming in from sledding. “Come in, sweetheart. You’ll freeze standing there.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask softly. “Aren’t your midterms coming up? I thought you were swamped.”
“I am. I was.” She lets out a sharp, humorless laugh.
“But Dad keeps calling me. Over and over. He thinks you’ve ‘run off to embarrass him.’ His words.
” Her mouth twists. “He’s furious, Faith.
He’s convinced you’re hiding somewhere in the city, or with one of your ‘flaky friends,’ also his words.
He definitely didn’t think to look here. ”
It’s a punch to the ribs.
Because for years, I let him believe I hated this town.
Because for years, that was safer.
Charlotte drops into a kitchen chair like her strings have been cut. Mom presses a glass of water into her hands and then hovers, clearly one frayed nerve away from polishing the table with her sleeve.
“Did he show up at your apartment?”
“No.” She shakes her head quickly. “He wouldn’t do that. Not unless he was sure you were there. But he’s been calling constantly. I muted him, but then he started calling Aunt Lisa. And the school, Faith. He called my advisor’s office, asking if I’d shown strange behavior lately.”
My stomach lurches. “He what?”
“He said he was ‘worried about my mental stability after witnessing my sister’s breakdown.’” She does air quotes so aggressively, I’m surprised they don’t leave marks. “He’s spinning this narrative like you went off the deep end, and he’s the tragic father of the runaway bride.”
I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles go white.
“I didn’t have a breakdown,” I say quietly. “I just finally stopped pretending.”
“I know that.” Charlotte’s gaze locks on mine, fierce and bright. “Mom knows that. Most people with functioning brains know that. He doesn’t.”
“He can’t,” Mom says softly. “Because then he’d have to admit he pushed you there.”
The tension in my chest twists tighter. A rope pulled from both ends. The air feels thin.
“I need to keep baking while we talk,” I blurt. “Is that okay? I just… my hands need to be doing something, or I’m going to start climbing the walls.”
Charlotte nods, she expected that. “You do that. I’ll just… emotionally unravel from this chair.”
“Great,” I mumble. “Family multitasking.”
I dust more flour on the counter and pick up the rolling pin again, pushing it across the dough. The motion is steady, rhythmic. My grandma used to call it “kitchen therapy.” Right now, it’s the only thing keeping me from dissolving into a puddle under the island.
The kitchen fills with small sounds. The creak of the rolling pin, the faint tick of the oven preheating, the drip of melting snow from Charlotte’s coat where it hangs over a chair.
“Tell me what happened,” Charlotte says gently.
I stare down at the dough. “I walked out,” I say. “From the hotel. From the wedding. I just… left.”
Charlotte exhales. “Dad said you had a meltdown.”
Mom shoots her a look.
“I’m quoting,” Charlotte adds quickly. “Not agreeing. For the record, I told him maybe if he stopped treating his daughters like employees with no benefits, this wouldn’t have happened.”
Despite everything, a choked laugh escapes me.
I press the cookie cutter into the dough a little too hard.
“He pushed and pushed,” I say. “Work, the engagement, the wedding planning. Every decision. Every email. Every centerpiece. And I kept trying to be… whatever he needed. I thought if I did everything right, he’d finally be proud of me.”
Charlotte snorts, a harsh, humorless sound. “He doesn’t know how to be proud of anyone who isn’t a reflection of himself.”
I blink at her, startled by the blunt honesty.
She meets my gaze, eyes suddenly older than twenty. “He never was with Mom. Or me. Or you. We all kept hoping for something he’s not capable of giving.”
Mom closes her eyes briefly, pain flickering across her face. Old pain. Familiar.
I swallow. “Anyway. I walked out. Got in my car. Drove until the road disappeared under me. Literally. Hit black ice. Spun out. And the place I crashed just happened to be… the McCoy ranch.”
“Just happened,” Charlotte echoes, brow arching. “Right outside your childhood best friend’s ranch. Very subtle, subconscious.”
“Do not psychoanalyze me while I’m elbow deep in dough,” I warn. “It’s dangerous. I’m armed with cookie cutters.”
Her lips twitch. “So you crashed.”
“Yes. And then…” Heat creeps up my neck because saying his name still feels like lighting a match near a gas leak. “Dallas found me. He brought me to the ranch. Let me stay while the storm was bad.”
“So, you broke off your almost corporate wedding, crashed your car, and then your hot cowboy best friend swooped in and rescued you from a snowbank. That’s basically a Hallmark movie.”
It sounds ridiculous when she says it like that. Neat. Romantic. Like something with a soundtrack and an easy ending.
What actually happened felt messier. Colder. Hotter. Like two people grabbing at something real without knowing what it would cost them afterward.
“Charlotte,” Mom says, fighting a smile.
“What?” she says innocently. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.”
I reach for more dough, trying to ignore the flare of warmth in my chest at the phrase best friend. “We’re not… Look, it’s complicated.”
“Complicated… It sounds like you kissed him.”
I slam the star cutter down hard enough that it almost dents the counter. “We are not having this conversation.”
My body remembers it instantly… the cold night air, his warm hands, the way he kissed me.
“Oh my.” Her hand flies to her mouth. “You did. You totally did. You kissed the cowboy.”
“Please stop calling him ‘the cowboy.’ It sounds like I made out with a Halloween decoration from Tractor Supply.”
Charlotte laughs so hard she wheezes. Mom presses her lips together, trying not to smile.
“I’m telling you my life imploded and you’re making jokes,” I say, but there’s no real heat in it.
“That’s my coping mechanism,” Charlotte replies. “Yours is baking. Mine is inappropriate humor and tiny tattoos.”
“That tracks,” I mutter.
Her laughter fades. “So you like him.”
I pause, the truth sitting heavy in my chest. Liking him isn’t the scary part. Trusting myself not to disappear into him, or run from him, is.
Because what we did wasn’t casual. And pretending it was feels like lying to both of us.
Charlotte’s expression gentles. “Faith…”
“It’s different now,” I say quietly, lining cookie shapes up on the tray. “We’re not kids anymore. He’s… been through so much. I’ve been… gone. And my heart is already a mess. I don’t think I can handle another heartbreak.”
Not after how safe it felt to be in his arms. Not after how terrifyingly easy it was to imagine staying.
“Is he a jerk?” she asks.
“No.”
“Controlling?”
“No.”
“Mean to waitresses? Rude to dogs? Uses the word ‘females’ non-ironically?”
Despite everything, I snort. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Then maybe he’s not the danger here,” she says. “Maybe Dad is.”
My hands start to shake. I press my palms flat on the counter, breathing through it. In. Out. The smell of butter and sugar wraps around me, weirdly anchoring.
“What if he comes here?” I whisper. “What if he finds out? What if he decides to—”
“He won’t,” Charlotte cuts in firmly. “Not right now, at least. He’s convinced you’d never come back to Buckhorn. You spent years telling him you hated this place, remember?”
Because he hated it.
Because he called it small and backwards and beneath us.
Because little by little, I started repeating his words like they were mine.
“He’ll find out eventually,” I murmur.
“And when he does?” Charlotte lifts her chin. “Let him be mad. Let him shout. Let him stomp around his glass office and complain into his Bluetooth. You don’t belong to him anymore, Faith. He doesn’t get to decide your whole life because he paid for your prom dress and your car insurance.”
The knot in my chest tightens, hot and aching. “He can still hurt people,” I say quietly. “He can make things difficult for you. For Mom. For… anyone around me.”
“I’m not scared of him,” Charlotte says.
Mom raises a brow. “You’re a little scared of him.”
“Okay, I’m medium scared,” Charlotte amends. “But I’m more scared of you going back to that life because he yells louder than everyone else. He’s already messing with my school, and yeah, that sucks. But I came here because you matter more than his temper tantrum.”
My eyes sting.
“Faith,” Mom says, stepping closer and sliding an arm around my shoulders, flour and all, “you’ve already done the hardest thing. You left. You chose yourself. Everything after that? That’s just… building something new.”
“Messy building,” Charlotte adds. “Like Ikea, but emotional.”
I let out a wet, shaky laugh.
Mom turns to the oven. “The first batch is almost ready, sweetheart. You want to frost them after they cool?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Charlotte says. “Because I’m starving, and emotional support sugar sounds perfect.”
“Back off the emotional support sugar,” I warn. “I’m in a committed relationship with these cookies now.”
She grins. “I fully support this relationship. Much better than the last one. Cookies don’t gaslight you.”
“Or wear cufflinks,” I add.
We both shudder.
The oven timer dings. Mom pulls out the tray, and the warm, sweet smell of baked sugar blooms through the kitchen. Little hearts and stars and snowflakes line the pan, half of them a little lopsided from my overzealous rolling.
We move around each other in a familiar dance. Mom finding cooling racks, Charlotte setting up the powdered sugar, me mixing frosting because my life depends on the exact ratio of vanilla extract.
The house feels smaller now. Fuller.
Dad is still out there, angry and humiliated, looking for me.
But Charlotte is here.
Mom is here.
And I am here too, still standing. Still breathing. Still trying to figure out what comes next.
Still thinking about Dallas every time I close my eyes.
And still wondering, with a quiet ache I can’t seem to shake, if coming back to Buckhorn wasn’t an accident at all, but the first real choice I’ve ever made for myself.