1. Robin #2
I shifted one hand higher on the steering wheel, watching blurry headlights pass through the rain.
Lila had been my first girlfriend. She was my first kiss, my first everything.
She dyed her hair constantly, loved old punk music, and convinced me to skip prom so we could drive two towns over to a queer film festival instead.
Honestly? It was the better choice.
We’d dated through most of senior year in that weird careful way queer kids in small midwestern towns sometimes did back then. Quiet enough to stay safe. Open enough that it still felt real.
My parents knew. My mother had figured it out almost immediately, because apparently mothers were government surveillance programs wrapped in cardigans.
But Lila’s parents… That had been different.
They found out the summer after graduation.
A person who I had thought was my best friend told her parents.
Lila’s parents were ultra-religious. They kicked her out within the week.
Just gone. One screaming match. One trash bag of clothes.
One terrified eighteen-year-old suddenly trying to figure out where to sleep.
Lantern House had taken her in.
Back then it had only been a tiny, converted house run by Maggie Flores and pure stubbornness. As hard as Maggie worked, the shelter had always operated like it was one missed electric bill away from collapse. But somehow, it kept surviving anyway, kind of like the people inside it.
I could still remember sneaking out to see Lila there one humid summer night, sitting beside her on the back porch steps while cicadas screamed in the trees.
“I’m leaving Briar Glenn,” she’d said quietly.
I can still remember the way my heart sank. “Where are you going?”
She smiled up at the sky, but it looked sad around the edges.
“There has to be somewhere better than this.”
At eighteen, I hadn’t known how to answer her.
She moved to Chicago a few months later. We tried long-distance for a while, but eventually we drifted apart. There was no giant heartbreak or dramatic ending, just distance and time and becoming different people.
Still, every once in a while, something reminded me of her unexpectedly. Apparently today it had been one overly enthusiastic redhead on roller skates.
I pulled into my parents’ driveway and smiled automatically at the sight of the house glowing warmly against the rainy evening.
My parents still lived in the same sprawling colonial I grew up in, because apparently only children with good relationships with their parents never escaped emotionally or geographically.
The front porch light flicked on before I even made it up the walkway.
Right on cue, the front door swung open and my mother leaned out wearing yoga pants, fuzzy socks, and the expression of a woman who considered feeding people her primary love language.
“There you are,” she called. “Your father already opened the wine.”
The second I stepped inside, I got hit with the smell of garlic, oregano, and baked cheese. My mother had made her lasagna.
I narrowed my eyes suspiciously as I toed off my shoes near the door. “What did you do?”
My mother pressed a dramatic hand to her chest. “Can I not simply make my only child her favorite meal?”
“No. This is emotional support lasagna, or guilt lasagna. Which one is it?”
From the dining room my father called, “Your mother bought decorative pumpkins she absolutely did not need.”
“They were on sale, David.”
“There are twelve of them, Susan.”
“Autumn is an experience.”
I snorted softly, warmth settling low in my chest despite myself.
This was what my parents had always been like. Loving. Stable. A little ridiculous. I’d spent most of my life being overly adored. Only child syndrome probably should’ve made me unbearable, but luckily roller derby had humbled me through repeated physical violence.
Mom swept me into a quick hug before fussing with the hood of my rain jacket. “You look tired.”
“I stayed up too late reorganizing a spreadsheet. It was kind of fun.”
Dad appeared in the doorway holding two glasses of wine. “That’s my girl.”
See? Doted on. Hopelessly.
I took the wine and followed him toward the kitchen island while Mom finished plating dinner. The house looked exactly like it had when I was growing up. Same dark wood floors. Same family photos lining the walls. Same enormous bookshelf Dad kept insisting he would organize... eventually.
He leaned against the counter beside me. “How’s work?”
My father was an accountant too.
“Thrilling. I moved numbers from one spreadsheet to another spreadsheet.”
He nodded seriously. “Powerful.”
“I also bullied Chad from payroll in an email.”
“Excellent. Keep him humble.”
This was how we bonded. Some people played catch with their fathers. We discussed tax codes and office incompetence. Dad had owned his own accounting firm that I joined after college, and working together had only brought us closer.
Mom set the lasagna dish down on the table with a flourish. “Dinner, before it gets cold.”
We settled into our usual spots automatically, conversation flowing easily while Mom talked about a charity gala she’d gotten roped into helping organize, and Dad complained about a client who tried classifying a boat as a “business necessity.”
“It technically hosts meetings,” Dad argued.
“Fishing with your dentist is not a board retreat,” I said.
“It could be.”
Mom rolled her eyes and reached for her wine.
“Oh,” she said casually, “that reminds me. Ascension Fellowship booked the hotel ballroom for their winter fundraiser.”
Every muscle in my body locked.
The shift must’ve shown on my face, because both my parents looked at me. “What are you doing with Ascension Fellowship?" I demanded.
My mom cocked her head and looked at me as if she were a bit confused. “Well, ever since I retired, I’ve been looking for something to do, so your father and I started attending a few services.”
“You know there is a new family that took it over years ago. It’s not run by Reverend Young anymore.” My father said, as if that was enough to change my mind about that terrible place.
“No,” I said flatly.
Mom blinked. “No what?”
“No to Ascension Fellowship.”
Dad frowned slightly. “Robin—”
“That church is awful.”
Mom looked surprised at my reaction. How was she surprised?
“Honey, it’s changed a lot over the years.”
I laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Did it though?”
“People can grow,” my father said in a serious voice.
“Cool. Did they un-traumatize all the queer kids they helped terrorize too?”
The table went quiet. I hated that my voice sounded so angry already.
I hadn’t even meant to react that hard. But hearing the name shoved me right back into being eighteen years old and watching Lila cry on the back steps of Lantern House because her parents loved their church more than their daughter.
Mom’s expression softened immediately. “Robin…”
“No, seriously. They preached that garbage for years and suddenly they add a coffee bar and a laser light show, and everyone acts like they’re healed.”
Dad set his wine down carefully. “The Pastor Dan changed a lot after they took over from Pastor Young.”
“Pastor Dan,” I laughed once, sharp and humorless. “The branding changed.”
I leaned back in my chair, frustration prickling hot beneath my skin now.
“They turned the church into a concert venue. Skinny jeans, fog machines, worship albums, Instagram clips about grace.” I pointed my fork vaguely through the air.
“It’s the same garbage underneath, just with better marketing. ”
Mom sighed softly. “They’re more welcoming now.”
“Welcoming if you’re willing to fit in a little box and donate money.”
Neither of them answered that.
I swallowed hard before continuing, quieter this time.
“Lila’s parents went there every Sunday.
They volunteered there. They listened to Pastor Young preach about family values and sin and all that bullshit for years.
” My chest tightened slightly. “And then they threw their daughter out like she was disposable.”
Mom rubbed her forehead. “I know what happened to Lila was awful.”
“It wasn’t just Lila.”
“I know.”
“And nobody at Ascension said a damn thing. If any other organization treated vulnerable kids like that, people in this town would never forgive them. But churches get endless second chances because they sing Hillsong and hand out lattes now. Fuck that.”
The room fell quiet for a beat.
Mom finally reached across the table and squeezed my hand gently.
“You have a good heart,” she said softly. “Even when you’re angry.”
Which was deeply unfair because it instantly took some of the wind out of me.
I exhaled slowly and squeezed her hand back. “Sorry,” I muttered.
“No, you're not, but it’s fine. You don’t need to apologize for caring about people.” Dad pointed his fork at me. “But maybe try caring with slightly lower blood pressure.”
“I’m fueled entirely by caffeine and spite at this point. There’s no going back.”
That earned a laugh from both of them; tension easing enough for the conversation to move on. But the name still sat heavy in my chest for the rest of dinner. Ascension Fellowship.
Dinner had mostly recovered by the time Mom disappeared into the kitchen for dessert.
Dad lingered at the table finishing his wine while I stacked plates automatically.
“You still using that custom gaming PC setup?” he asked casually.
I narrowed my eyes immediately. “Why?”
He sighed dramatically. “My laptop is doing something weird.”
“There it is.”
“It keeps opening twelve tabs every time I click on Excel.”
“What did you do?”
“I think I downloaded something.”
“You absolutely downloaded something.”
He pointed toward his office down the hall. “Can you look at it?”
My father asking me to “look at something” computer related was a long-standing family tradition. Mostly because somewhere around age thirteen, I’d accidentally taught myself how to bypass school firewalls out of boredom, and things had escalated significantly from there.