Chapter 9
Ican’t tell if my pulse has slowed down or sped up, but my head is spinning. I can barely see Ally out of the corner of my eye, yet I can tell she’s concerned by the way she sits up straighter.
“Courtney,” I say—half greeting, half warning.
Eben’s arm goes rigid behind me, and his chest puffs ever so slightly at the sound and feel of my discomfort.
“Man, Mel, it’s been years,” she says. Inside my head, her voice warps into something nefarious—almost reptilian. “Have you talked to your sister lately?”
She means Cassie. And she knows I haven’t talked to Cass—or anyone in my family—for years. Every attempt ends the same: a campaign to drag me back to the church. I’d rather chew broken glass ornaments.
“You shouldn’t be here.” My voice comes out shaky, two octaves higher. I’m not a screamer—never have been—but that won’t stop me from coming unglued. Trauma is a wild, uncontainable thing.
Luckily, with a best friend like Ally, I don’t have to defend myself—especially being thrust face-to-face with my past stuns me silent.
She knows exactly what’s happening—because she had front-row seats to the worst thing that ever happened to me.
A train wreck that ended with me leaving the cult—and my family—forever, with Courtney as the conductor who steered my life off the tracks.
Courtney was supposed to be my friend. Instead, she was my Judas.
A tiger friend to her marrow, Ally leaps to her feet.
“Hi there, Courtney, I’m going to give you exactly three seconds to walk away from our table before you’re eternally sorry.
I’m not religious. I don’t believe in your God, or any god.
But I do believe in karma—and ass beatings for loser bitches who fuck with my best friend.
And trust me, an ass-kicking from a woman with eight soccer trophies, who doesn’t believe in God, will put you in the motherfucking hospital. ”
The table is silent. Hell, the entire tavern goes silent.
Courtney stands behind me and blinks. I swear I can hear her eyelids scrape across her eyeballs.
Allison has delivered a fatal blow. Courtney says nothing, turns, and stalks off—presumably to find the manager and claim verbal assault.
Snitches get stitches, but they’ll snitch till their dying breath.
“Let’s get out of here,” Allison says, tossing a few twenties on the table as she wriggles out of the booth.
Teddy follows without a word. Eben looks down at me; I look up with a weak smile.
He rises and waits for me to walk past before following, glancing back to make sure that Courtney is nowhere near our exit. Thank God, she’s gone.
Outside, in the parking lot, Ally spins and hugs me.
“Are you okay?” she asks, squeezing tight.
“I’m fine,” I say softly. I’m still shaking, but my pulse is settling.
“Trust me, I will cut that bitch if she even glances in your direction again,” Ally says, pulling back to search my face.
“I know,” I say, suddenly feeling like a wimp. I should’ve told Courtney off myself. I should’ve told her to go to hell (even though the Heralds don’t believe in Hell). I should’ve pretended I didn’t know her. Now our night’s ruined because I reacted like a lamb cornered by a lion.
“Don’t beat yourself up,” Ally says, reading my mind. “Did you drive?”
I shake my head. “Rideshare,” I say, pulling out my phone.
“Do you want us to take you home?” Allison asks, darting a barely perceptible glance at Eben.
“I’ll take her,” Eben says, stepping closer. “If it’s okay with you, Melody?”
It’s the first time I’ve heard my name on his tongue. It sounds right there. My cheeks heat.
“Uh, sure,” I say.
“Atta boy,” Ally says with a wink at Eben. This time, he blushes.
“Glad you’re okay,” Teddy adds, still a little shell-shocked. Conflict isn’t his thing. He’s stiff as a board as they head for their car.
“This way,” Eben says, motioning toward his truck.
My mouth goes dry. I’ve got to stop acting like a virginal schoolgirl, but this guy makes me nervous. I’m used to men who talk. Eben is the silent-and-mysterious type.
He helps me navigate the giant step up into his truck. Not easy in a mini skirt, but I trust he’s a gentleman. He climbs in, hands me his phone to enter my address, the map pops up on the dash, and we’re off.
“Sorry about that,” I say, suddenly aware he probably has no idea what just happened—and bummed our night got cut short.
“Don’t apologize,” he says, pulling out of the lot. “Based on your friend’s reaction, something terrible must’ve happened between you two.”
“That’s an understatement,” I say with a snort. I uncross my arms and force my shoulders to loosen. Just thinking about Courtney ties my whole body in knots.
“Are you hungry?” Eben asks.
I sit up in my seat. I wasn’t expecting that question. I was expecting what happened? Or do you want to talk about it? Not a hunger check.
“I could eat,” I say.
“I know a place,” he says, flicking off the map. “You like classic country?”
“I dabble,” I say, trying to play it cool.
“COUNTRY ROOOOADS, TAKE ME HOOOOME, TO THE PLAAAACE I BELOOOOONG—” I scream with the windows down and heat blasting as we crest the hills toward the next town. The cold nips my cheeks and nose, but I don’t care. Eben laughs.
“You just ‘dabble’, huh?” he side-eyes me, grinning.
I shrug and stick my head out the window like a golden retriever.
The rural air is healing, and this sure beats telling him my sob story.
He says it’s a fifteen-minute drive to the place that’s open this late (it’s already after ten), but outside Cherryville, it’s all countryside.
We bump down a gravel driveway to a dive called Vinny’s. A few beat-to-hell cars dot the lot.
I clutch the armrest. “Is this the second location?” I ask, deadpan—true-crime for “the part where the bad guy drives you somewhere remote.”
A rough streak of dates a few years back sent me into a full Dateline spiral. Keith Morrison’s voice has been narrating my inner monologue with men ever since.
“Only if second locations make the best pizza you’ve ever tasted,” he says, grinning, windblown hair falls over one of his eyes.
Goddamn.
“Yum,” I say, deciding he’s too hot to be a serial killer (famous last words) and hop out.
“Holy shit,” I say, burning my mouth on a slice of extra-cheesy, perfectly crisp pepperoni.
Eben sits across from me, smug. “Told you. He folds his slice in half and takes a monstrous bite.
“How did you find this place? And why is it open this late?” I ask, wrestling a strand of molten cheese.
“College. They do a ton of late-night deliveries,” he says. As if on cue, a delivery guy hustles past with ten pizzas and a mountain of breadsticks.
“It’s Sunday,” I say, double-checking my phone to be sure.
“Haven’t you heard?” He leans in. “CSU’s top-ten for party schools.”
“Ew, you went to Cherryville State?” I wrinkle my nose.
“Go, Cardinals,” he says, making a talking beak with his hand that somehow manages to be both ridiculous and charming.
“Oh, God. Don’t tell me you joined a fraternity.”
“Nope.” He folds another slice. “I was working. I lived at home and commuted to school. No time to test-drive the party scene.”
“No wonder you’re single,” I blurt. He freezes mid-bite. Open mouth, insert foot. “I mean—you look like you, so I figured you’d have married your college sweetheart, but now all of this makes sense because—oh, God.”
I try to hide my face with my wrists; my hands are covered in pizza grease
He laughs, and his leg brushes mine under the table.
“What about you? Where’d you go to school?” he asks.
“Well, I… didn’t,” I say. I’m not apologetic—just factual.
“Oh!” he says, reacting to how I said it. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed…”
“No, it’s fine. I…” Here goes nothing. “I was raised in a cult.”
He doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He just watches me—listening. Which is nice.
“A religious cult,” I add. “They call themselves Heaven’s Heralds.”
“And you’re out? You’re safe?” His voice goes husky; his blue eyes turn puppy-dog sweet. The fact that his first instinct is to ask about my safety has me half feral. I could climb across the table and jump his bones right now.
“Yes. I’m fine.” I smile. “Physically, anyway. Emotionally, they did some damage. As you’ve seen.”
“That woman at the bar—she was one of them?” he asks. We’ve both stopped eating.
I sigh, buckle in, and tell him the whole story.
Four years before I left the cult, Courtney and I were “friends.” We worked at the same mom-and-pop diner that loved hiring Heralders because we never needed holidays off, were “trustworthy” with the register, and generally had a grateful-for-scraps mentality.
Translation: we were easy to exploit.
One night, a manager—wannabe football star with a big nose and bigger ego—cornered me into staying late to help with dining room “repairs.”
It felt off, but there were three other Herald girls in line for my job, and management loved reminding us how replaceable we were. So I stayed. Nothing happened—or so I thought.
The next day at work, no one would look at me.
Imagine receiving the silent treatment from twenty people at once.
Turns out, the scumbag manager told the entire restaurant staff we’d stayed late to hook up—bragging that he’d gotten the best blowjob of his life (flattered, but it didn’t happen).
I was barely eighteen. I stayed home the next day, humiliated.
When Courtney called, I thought she was checking on me.
Instead, it was an ambush with the church elders. They harassed and punished me, and the story of my “misconduct” spread to every congregation in the state. The last conversation Courtney and I ever had was me sobbing, begging her to stop torturing me, and please, please, believe me.
“Jesus Christ,” Eben swears, jaw slack.
“He wouldn’t want anything to do with those people,” I say, defiant. “That’s what I realized when I left.”
“What was she doing at a Christmas bar if she’s not allowed to celebrate?” he asks.
“You know, I have no idea,” I say. I had one lucid moment of telling Courtney she shouldn’t be there—and then I blacked out.
“Maybe you should report her,” he says, finishing off his Pepsi. “Give her a taste of her own medicine.”
“I’d rather smash my favorite Christmas ornament and eat it than ever speak to any of them again,” I say, pushing my plate away.
“But your family?” he asks, accidentally poking the softest spot I have.
“Yeah. Of course I miss them,” I say. Oh no—tears incoming. Knock it off, Mel. Change the subject.
I don’t have to. I only notice Eben’s leg touching mine when its warmth disappears. “I’m gonna go pay,” he says, picking up the check. He squeezes my shoulder as he walks away.
We head back to Cherryville. It’s below freezing now, too cold to roll the windows down.
I shiver in the passenger seat, and Eben nudges the heat higher—no doubt roasting himself like one of those chestnuts from earlier.
I know all the songs on his playlist, but I don’t sing.
I watch the winter stars—always the most vivid—glitter beyond the glass.
Eben doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. The pity hums between us.
At my apartment complex, he doesn’t kill the engine, but he turns the music down.
“Thanks for the pizza,” I say, opening the door.
“Wait a minute,” he says, and my heart drops to my butt.
I turn. “Yes?”
“I still don’t have your number,” he says, tossing his phone onto the passenger seat.
“Oh.” I pick it up and add my number as Mrs. Claus. He looks down, laughs.
On the stairs to my second-floor apartment, my phone dings.
Ho ho ho ;)