35. Faith
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Faith
Time stops meaning anything after a while.
It turns syrupy and cruel, stretching thin and sticky between one shouted sentence and the next. The clock on the wall keeps changing numbers, but none of them feel real.
Evan hasn’t stopped talking.
Yelling, really. Talking implies conversation.
It doesn’t help that this house feels strange now. Everything looks sharper than it should. The clean lines, the expensive furniture, the framed photos that were chosen because they looked good together, not because they meant anything.
“Do you have any idea what kind of mess you’ve made?” he demands, turning on me suddenly. “Do you know how many calls I’ve taken in the last few weeks about you?”
“I said I’m sorry,” I whisper.
The words fall out automatically. A reflex honed over the years.
Evan laughs, sharp and humorless. “Sorry doesn’t erase embarrassment, Faith. Sorry doesn’t undo the fact that you humiliated me in front of everyone who matters.”
That word again.
Humiliated.
He moves closer, and I take a step back without meaning to. My shoulder blades hit the wall, and my pulse spikes hard enough to make me dizzy.
“We can still fix this,” Evan continues, his tone shifting smoother, more controlled. That shift terrifies me more than the yelling. “That’s the important part. We fix it before it becomes permanent.”
Fix it.
Control it.
“You come back,” he says, gesturing around the room like it’s already decided. “You lay low. We issue a statement about the wedding. You apologize publicly. Your father’s already laid the groundwork.”
My throat tightens. “What groundwork?”
He waves a hand dismissively. “Hospital. Exhaustion. Emotional collapse. People understand that brides break. It plays well.”
I feel sick.
“So now,” Evan says, watching me closely, “you do what you need to do to make this go away.”
Evan changes when he smiles like that.
It’s subtle. An absence of emotion that terrifies me most. The way his face smooths out, the way his eyes go cold and calculating, like he’s already five steps ahead and I’m standing still.
I’ve never been afraid of Evan before.
Annoyed, yes. Overwhelmed. Frustrated. Tired of shrinking myself to fit beside him. But fear crawling up my spine is new. It feels wrong in my body, like my instincts are screaming something my brain is too slow to translate.
I tell myself to stay calm. To keep my voice low. To nod, apologize, make this end.
That’s what I’ve always done with Evan.
I was good at it, once. Sweet. Easy. Agreeable. I learned early that opinions complicated things, that resistance made people withdraw affection or patience. Around Evan, I learned how to disappear just enough to keep the peace. Smile when expected. Laugh softly. Say, you’re probably right.
That version of me is right there, hovering at the edges of my mind, ready to step back in like a familiar coat.
I feel myself slipping toward her now.
“Okay,” I say again, too quickly. “I just… I need some time. I’m tired.”
Evan exhales, clearly pleased by my retreat. “That’s better. You’ve been emotional. Anyone would be, after a stunt like this.”
Stunt.
I swallow the word down, along with the instinct to argue.
He turns away from me, pacing again, already rewriting the night in his head. “We’ll keep you off social media. I’ll talk to my PR guy in the morning. Your father’s already doing damage control with his contacts.”
My stomach twists. “He knows you have me?”
“Of course he does,” Evan says, like it’s obvious. “He’s furious, Faith. Do you have any idea how this reflects on him?”
The familiar guilt presses down on my chest. I’ve spent my whole life measuring myself by that question.
“I didn’t mean to—” I start.
Evan cuts me off with a sharp laugh. “You never do. That’s the problem. You don’t think things through.”
I flinch.
“Honestly,” he continues, shaking his head, “this whole thing feels like you losing your mind because you got distracted by some fantasy version of yourself.”
Fantasy.
I picture snow falling softly in Buckhorn. A warm kitchen. Dallas’s voice asking What do you want, Faith? like it was a real question, not a test.
Evan stops pacing and looks at me again, eyes narrowing slightly.
“And that cowboy,” he says, the word dripping with contempt. “I can’t believe you blew up your entire future over him.”
My head lifts before I can stop it.
“Don’t,” I say quietly.
Evan blinks. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t talk about him like that.”
His mouth curves into a smirk. “Like what? Like he’s some kind of savior?”
My pulse starts to race.
“He’s a small-town widower with a kid and a failing ranch,” Evan continues, warming to it now. “You think that’s a future? You think that man can give you anything other than a distraction?”
Heat flares in my chest.
“Stop,” I say, louder.
Evan’s eyebrows lift. “Wow. There she is.”
I take a step forward without realizing it, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it might break my ribs. “You don’t get to talk about him. You don’t know him.”
Evan scoffs. “Oh, I know his type. Men like that love playing hero. Makes them feel important.”
“That’s not who he is,” I say, shaking now. “He’s kind. He listens. He treats people like they matter.”
Evan laughs. “He treated you like a project, Faith. Something broken he could fix.”
“That’s not true!” The words rip out of me, raw and desperate. “He never tried to fix me. He just… he let me be myself.”
Evan’s face hardens.
“That’s exactly the problem,” he snaps. “You don’t get to blow up a life that was already building.”
“We didn’t build anything,” I say, the truth spilling out before fear can stop it. “You built a life and expected me to fit into it.”
Silence slams down between us.
Evan stares at me like I’ve said something obscene.
“Is this really about him?” he asks slowly. “You’re choosing him over me? Over your father?”
“I want to choose myself,” I whisper.
The words feel dangerous the second they leave my mouth.
Evan’s jaw tightens. “You sound ungrateful.”
“I sound honest,” I say, tears burning my eyes. “For the first time in a long time.”
He steps closer. Too close.
“You’re confused,” he snaps. “And you’re embarrassing yourself.”
I shake my head, backing away until the couch hits the back of my knees. “You don’t get to decide that anymore.”
That’s when his expression changes.
Everything goes flat behind his eyes, all warmth draining out.
“You know,” he says calmly, “this is exactly why your father worries about you. You get emotional. You latch onto things that feel good instead of things that are smart.”
“In fact…” Evan pulls his phone from his pocket, glancing down at the screen. “Let’s get him here now. He wants to make sure you don’t do anything else… impulsive.”
The room feels smaller. The walls inch closer.
“Evan,” I whisper, panic crawling up my throat. “Please don’t.”
He looks up at me, something almost satisfied in his gaze. “Maybe hearing it from him will help you remember who you are.”
My hands start shaking. “I know who I am.”
“No,” Evan says. “You forget who you are when you don’t have structure.”
He taps the screen.
“No,” I say again, louder. “Don’t call him.”
Evan dials anyway.
The sound of the phone ringing is unbearably loud.
When he speaks, his voice turns smooth and professional, like this is a business call instead of my life unraveling in real time.
“William,” he says. “I’m with Faith. She’s… not in a great place. I think it would be best if you came over.”
My legs give out, and I sink onto the couch, wrapping my arms around myself as if that might hold me together.
I feel twelve years old again. Small. Managed. A problem to be solved.
This is what they do, I realize dimly.
They call each other.
They decide.
They close ranks.
And suddenly I’m the only one in the room without any power at all.
I squeeze my eyes shut, Dallas’s face flashing through my mind like a lifeline.
Hold on, I beg myself, my fingers finding my locket. Just hold on.
Because if I slip all the way back into that quiet, agreeable version of myself… I don’t think I’ll survive losing her again.