Chapter Forty-One #2
I watched realization flicker across the pastor’s face before it disappeared beneath that same polished smile. Andy climbed from the trough quickly, shoulders rigid, water dripping onto the stage floor.
Then it was my turn.
I stepped into the water carefully, cold immediately soaking through the thin white fabric wrapped around my body. The river smell rose stronger there—mud and algae and wet stone. My dress floated around my thighs like pale seafoam.
Pastor Spires extended a hand toward me with that same sweet smile that always reminded me of spoiled milk.
“Lola,” he said softly.
I took his hand because everyone was watching.
As he positioned me beneath his grip, I saw his eyes flick briefly toward Andy’s retreating figure. Then he leaned closer.
“There isn’t a river pure enough to clean a soul like yours,” he whispered, his boney fingers digging between my shoulder blades.
Rage flashed hot through me so suddenly it steadied me.
I looked him directly in the eyes and whispered back, “What does your Bible say about hitting children, Pastor?”
For one split second his expression cracked. Then his hand tightened around me, as he shoved me under.
The cold swallowed me whole.
Water rushed over my ears, muffling the church into distorted echoes and heartbeat thuds.
For one awful suspended second, panic clawed through me as his grip held firm against my spine.
My dress tangled around my legs beneath the surface like grasping hands.
I had the sudden dizzy feeling that if he decided not to pull me back up, nobody in that church would stop him fast enough.
Then I was rising again.
I surfaced hard, gasping water through my nose while applause echoed around the sanctuary.
My dress clung to every curve of my body. Thin white fabric plastered against my chest, my stomach, my thighs. Half the congregation looked away politely while the other half absolutely did not.
I wiped water from my eyes slowly, blinking beneath the bright lights. I don’t think I’d ever smiled so widely.
If there was a bigger middle finger to God than fucking the pastor’s son in a corn field after youth group it had to be flashing the entire congregation during your baptism.
The fellowship hall smelled like burnt coffee and wet wool coats, the kind of humid warmth that settled into the walls of old churches and never really left.
Someone had opened a crockpot of barbecue meatballs, and the sugary tang mixed unpleasantly with the river water still drying in my hair.
My skin itched beneath my dry clothes. I could still feel phantom hands around my ribs every time I swallowed.
I spotted Andy standing near the back doors beside our parents, his father towering over the little cluster of adults like a dark storm cloud in a pressed suit.
My stepmother laughed too brightly at something Mrs. Spires said while my father stood stiff beside her with one hand hooked through his belt loop.
The second his eyes found me, his mouth tightened.
I barely slowed down.
“I’m not going,” I announced, already reaching into my stepmother’s purse for my phone.
Her head jerked back. “Lola—”
My father’s voice cracked like a whip behind her. “Lola, don’t be rude.”
But I’d already found my phone wedged beneath a pack of gum and a tube of lipstick. The screen lit against my palm.
Thirty-three missed calls: August Brooks
My stomach dropped so violently it felt physical, like missing a stair in the dark. The room around me blurred instantly into noise and motion and too much heat. I hit the call button so fast my fingers slipped on the screen.
The phone rang as I pressed my free hand hard over my other ear, trying to drown out the sound of my father talking behind me, and my stepmother’s strained attempts to smooth things over.
“Come on,” I whispered under my breath.
No answer. The call disconnected.
I dialed again immediately, pulse hammering so hard in my throat it hurt. Around me, I could feel the conversation faltering as everyone noticed my expression changing.
Straight to voicemail.
Cold panic spread through me fast and poisonous. I called Morgan next.
Nothing. Again. Nothing.
My chest tightened so tightly I had to force air into my lungs through deep breaths. Suddenly the church felt too bright. Too loud. Like the walls were inching inward.
“Lola?” Andy’s hand settled gently against my arm, and I startled hard enough that everyone finally went silent.
I looked up and found all of them staring at me.
“I don’t know,” I heard myself say, voice thin and trembling. “Something’s wrong.”
Pastor Spires sighed through his nose. “Teenagers and their drama.”
Andy’s entire body stiffened beside me. I felt it happen before I saw it—the sudden tightening in his shoulders, the anger rolling off him hot and immediate.
“Do you always have to be such a prick?” Andy snapped.
My stepmother inhaled sharply. Mrs. Spires whispered, “Andrew.”
Pastor Spires took one measured step toward his son, jaw tightening slowly beneath his polished smile.
“What are you gonna do?” Andy asked, voice low and vicious. “Hit me in front of your flock?” He laughed, breathless. “Then who would you have left to worship you?”
The silence afterward felt biblical. My father muttered my name sharply somewhere beside me, but I barely heard him. My hands were shaking too hard as I scrolled frantically through my contacts.
One number left. I hit call. The line rang only once.
“Lola?” Penelope’s voice cracked apart the second it reached my ear. Relief and terror collided so hard inside my chest it made me dizzy.
“Pen?” I said quickly. “Where are you?”
On the other end of the line, I heard sniffling. Voices overhead. The distant crackle of an intercom. Then Penelope sniffed, her words broken and small, whispering, “The hospital.”