Chapter 1
Ana
“... In Jesus' name we pray,” he says.
I nod, my voice a murmur in the quiet room. “Amen.”
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he starts. I can feel the weight of his stare pressing against my face, but I keep my focus locked on the plate in front of me.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Then look at me, Ana.”
My jaw tightens, my teeth grinding together until the muscle in my cheek twitches. With my hands clasped on top of the table, I force my head up slowly, letting my focus settle on his grey eyes.
I give a slight nod. “See? I’m not avoiding you.”
Fred squeezes his eyelids shut, taking a slow breath as if he is searching for the right words but cannot find them. “We’ve talked about this, Ana. This is something we’ve established.”
“No. No, Fred,” I cut in, my tone hardening. “It is something you established.”
“But—”
I let out a long sigh before he can launch into his defense. I bite my lower lip, using the pain to stop myself from letting out the frustration burning my throat. I simply wait.
“I thought you said it was all good, Ana,” he begins, leaning forward. “I explained the reasons behind our arrangement, and the Bible is clear on this: we must flee from all appearance of evil.”
His voice cracks on the final syllable. His pristine eyes, fanned by long lashes, blink at me with a striking layer of innocence.
But his words only trigger a wave of irritation in me.
He makes me feel like a wanton woman. He makes it seem as though wanting to be with my own husband is an unnatural craving, a boundary I am wrong for pushing.
The same scripture that always flashes behind my eyes whenever he brings this up returns with full force. The hunger I felt a moment ago evaporates, leaving a bitter taste on my tongue.
“The wife does not have authority over her own body but yields it to her husband,” I say, looking him square in the eyes. “In the same way, the husband does not have authority over his own body but yields it to his wife.”
Before he can process the verse, I push back from the table and stand up.
“Grace,” I call out toward the kitchen. “Please come clear the table.”
I slide a look toward my husband. He sits perfectly still, frozen in his chair, with his Bible resting on the wood beside his plate.
“I’ll wait for you in the car, Fred,” I tell him.
I turn on my heel and walk away, crossing the empty living room to step out of the house. The entire time, I can feel his stare burning against the back of my neck.
It is only after the front door clicks firmly shut behind me that the reality of my exit hits me.
I don’t have the keys to either of the cars.
Pushing past the annoyance, I walk over to the driveway and lean my weight against the side of the Tesla, waiting for him while my mind begins to travel back through the years.
***
We met at a general meeting for widows and widowers—a picnic organized by the administration of a new church.
My friends had practically dragged me to the gathering, their intentions loud and clear: it was time for me to pick out a husband.
I was sitting on a spread blanket with them, pretending to match their enthusiasm, when he walked toward our group.
I had already been tracking his movements, watching him weave through the crowd, pacing up and down the lawn for the past hour.
He possessed a distinct swagger that didn't seem to suit a man who would willingly come to an event like this, especially given the title the girls whispered the moment he came into view.
Anointed Fred.
My friends had laughed at the nickname, but the moment his focus locked onto mine, a strange thrill sparked in my chest. He had an intense stare, a gaze that said he knew exactly what he wanted and wouldn't hesitate to go after it.
The confidence entranced me. I felt an instant wave of excitement, far too intense for a man I hadn't even spoken to yet.
The next morning was Sunday. We gathered in the main hall of the new sanctuary for service, and a wave of surprise hit me when I spotted him standing near the aisle.
He was working as an usher. Fine, confident, and humble, I internally concluded, watching the smooth efficiency of his movements as he guided people to their seats.
After the closing prayer, he walked straight through the crowd to reach my side.
“Hi. My name is Fred, short for Frederick.”
He smiled, revealing a set of white teeth that looked like they belonged in a toothpaste commercial.
A playful smirk touched my lips. “Or Anointed Fred.”
He let out a low chuckle, his shoulders shaking with amusement. “Yes. Or that. So, who do I have the opportunity of speaking with?”
My smile returned, my lips lifting with a lightness I hadn't felt in years. “It’s Ana, short for Hannah.”
“Hannah?” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “It’s great to meet you. You know, the biblical Hannah was famous for her unbelievable prayer life. Just out of curiosity, did you pray for a handsome man of God to talk to you today, or is this just a happy coincidence?”
I laughed it off, but even though the line was incredibly corny, a weak part of me loved every second of it.
Three months in, and I still hadn't managed to talk myself out of him.
We were at the lake behind the church campgrounds, three months into whatever this was. Fred had his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, skipping stones across water gone orange with the sunset. He was good at it — of course he was. Six skips, seven.
"Your turn," he said, pressing a flat stone into my palm, his fingers lingering a beat longer than the handoff required.
I threw it. It sank on contact. He laughed, and I shoved his shoulder, and for a second the swagger the girls whispered about was nowhere in him — he just looked like a boy who was happy.
Then my hand caught the hem of his shirt as I stumbled on the rocks, and it rode up an inch at his side.
He stepped back so fast he nearly lost his footing on the shale.
"Careful," he said, but his voice had gone somewhere else. He yanked the fabric back down, both hands, like I'd caught him at something.
"Sorry," I said, though I wasn't sure what I was apologizing for.
Is he insecure about something? The thought surfaced before I could stop it.
I almost laughed at myself. Look at him — the jaw, the shoulders, the easy confidence that had half the church whispering his nickname before he'd said a word to any of them.
Whatever that flinch was, it couldn't be what I was thinking.
Men who looked like Fred didn't have anything to hide.
He recovered so quickly I almost believed I'd imagined it — the smile back in place, another stone already in his hand. "Eight skips. Beat that, Hannah."
I let him change the subject. But that night, lying awake, I kept circling back to the half-second before he stepped away — the flash of something that wasn't embarrassment. It had looked more like fear.
I told myself it was nothing. A man was allowed his privacy about his own body.
What if it's a tattoo he regrets, I thought, turning the stone over in my palm. Something from before he found the church. What if it's just a scar from something stupid — a childhood accident, nothing worth flinching over.
What if it's nothing at all, and I'm the one making something out of a half-second on a lake shore.
I looked over at him, already crouched for another throw, already laughing about something one of the other men from the picnic had said earlier that day, and I decided I was overthinking it.
***
Seven months after that conversation, we tied the knot.
I love Fred. I truly do. I just never expected that for all the bold swagger he displays in public, he would be the type of husband who sets rigid, calendar appointments for when he sleeps with his wife.
I tighten my palms against the cool metal of the car body, my fingers curling until my knuckles turn white under the afternoon sun. Just then, the front door clicks open. Fred steps out onto the porch, a soft, apologetic smile plastered across his face as he walks down the path toward me.