Chapter 19
chapter nineteen
The house smelled like garlic and simmering tomatoes, something rich and heavy baking in the oven. It was a smell meant to be comforting, but Christine felt anything but.
The décor was a time capsule from a world she never belonged to. The dark wood trim had the heavy, outdated elegance of a past century, its polish dulled by time. An ornate chandelier flickered overhead, casting long, uneven shadows that made the space feel smaller than it was.
Modern religious images lined the walls like silent sentries, their watchful eyes unwavering. A digital news tablet sat on the coffee table, buried under stacks of handwritten notebooks and dog-eared magazines that no one bothered to throw away.
Elena Pratt stood in the doorway, her posture just a little too perfect for someone welcoming guests into her home.
She was short and round. Her graying hair pulled into a flawless twist, not a strand out of place.
The smile she offered was polite but not immediate, not warm.
It was the kind of smile that felt given, not earned.
Christine clocked it instantly—the calculation behind it. The restraint. The way Elena seemed to be managing the moment.
It reminded her of Oakland.
That same practiced poise. That same instinct to smooth the edges before anyone noticed they were sharp. Christine saw it in how Oakland laughed when she was uncomfortable and how her hands stilled when things got tense. In the way she softened her voice to keep a room from tipping.
Now she saw where it came from.
This wasn’t just learned behavior.
It was survival. Passed down like fine china or family recipes. Polished, presentable, and never entirely at rest.
“Oh,” Elena said, voice warm but measured. “And who’s this?”
Beside her, Oakland stiffened.
“This is Christine,” she said quickly, voice clipped. “A friend.”
Elena nodded once, but Christine noticed the slight tension in her hands as she pressed her fingers together.
“I didn't expect another guest, honey,” she said smoothly. Then, after a beat, almost too casual. “Please come in.”
Oakland’s jaw tightened. “Another guest?”
And then Christine saw the dining room.
The long, polished table was already set. Two older men in business attire sat beside Bishop Pratt, their postures straight, expressions unreadable. Across from them sat Kiley, arms folded, expression too pleased.
And then there was Derek.
She knew Derek.
Christine’s mind flashed back to the last time they saw each other.
Derek was in his element at Xavier’s Saloon, a popular gay bar in the city.
His shirt unbuttoned, sweaty, twirling across the dance floor like a deranged Broadway star.
“This is what freedom looks like, bitch!” he shouted right before tripping over his own feet and crashing into a table.
Christine barely managed to breathe between laughs as he popped up, unbothered, adjusting his shirt like it had all been part of the choreography.
Of course, Christine already knew about Derek’s double life due to Oakland. But he didn’t know she knew.
That much was clear because he looked like he wanted to disintegrate.
Bishop Pratt gestured toward the table.
“Well,” he said smoothly, “I hope you’re hungry.”
The conversation started as expected—surface-level pleasantries.
Christine played along, keeping her expression neutral, her hands steady, and her breathing even. Keeping herself in check.
The lasagna smelled familiar. Its edges bubbled with browned cheese, and steam curled from the dish as Elena set it down. The plates were delicately arranged, and the silverware was perfectly polished. It was a picture-perfect family dinner.
But Oakland’s knee bounced under the table.
Christine could feel the tension radiating from her—the way she fidgeted with her napkin, picking at the embroidery like it might unravel something besides her nerves.
Derek, across from her, was actively avoiding eye contact.
Kiley, of course, noticed the tension.
She leaned back in her chair, a smirk already tugging at her lips. “Oakland, you wanna say the blessing? You’re so good at it.”
Oakland stiffened, shoulders rising just slightly.
There was a pause, too long.
Then Derek leaned forward, voice smooth and cheerful. “I got it tonight,” he said, already bowing his head.
He launched into a short, sweet grace:
“Heavenly Father, thank you for this meal, for the hands that made it, for the chance to be with family and friends tonight. Please bless this food and help us all walk in kindness—and maybe patience. Especially tonight. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
A quiet round of “amen” followed.
Then Derek shot a wink across the table at Oakland, subtle but unmistakable.
Oakland didn’t smile, but the bounce in her knee finally stopped.
Dinner barely started, the clatter of forks filling the silence. Oakland stayed quiet, her eyes fixed on her plate. Derek cracked a joke about the rolls, but no one laughed. Christine was only two bites in when, of course, Kiley struck again.
“So, Christine,” she said, all sugar and venom. “What do you do for work?”
Christine reached for her water, took a slow sip, and bought herself a second. “I own a brewery. Well, I co-own it.”
Elena was halfway through blotting her lips with a napkin when she paused, still and sudden.
Bishop Pratt’s expression didn’t shift, but the older man beside him hummed.
Oakland shifted beside her. “Mom, this looks delicious,” she said quickly, trying to change the subject.
“Thank you, honey.”
Bishop Pratt set his napkin down and glanced around the table. “Can I have everyone’s attention for a minute?” he said, his voice calm but serious—the kind of tone that immediately signaled this wasn’t just casual dinner talk.
He folded his hands like he was choosing his words carefully. “We are celebrating something tonight. I learned about a new bill that’s being finalized. It’s big. Big for the Church.”
He looked from face to face, letting the weight of his words hang in the air like smoke.
“There will be a rally at the state capitol,” he said, “and I’ve been given the honor to speak on behalf of the church.” His gaze shifted to Oakland, sharp and expectant. “I trust we’ll be attending together. As a family.”
Oakland’s brow furrowed. “What’s it for?”
Her father’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’re moving forward with a full repeal of gay marriage. Statewide.”
Christine didn’t move. She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. The air left her lungs in a slow, quiet exhale, and she made sure nothing showed: no twitch, no gasp, no tell.
But inside, it felt like the floor dropped out from under her.
Oakland’s whole body tensed, her voice edged with irritation. “Why is Derek here?”
“Well,” he continued. “I thought it would be nice if you two attended together.”
Kiley leaned forward, a smirk playing on her lips. “What do you think about that, Christine?”
Christine didn’t take the bait. She set her fork down slowly, as if she could disarm the moment with silence alone.
Bishop Pratt turned his gaze to Christine and folded his hands, settling in like a man about to deliver a rehearsed line. “You know,” he said, almost offhand, “I’ve been trying to place it—your look. Fair skin. A little pink in the cheeks. Freckles. The bone structure.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, zeroing in.
“Irish Catholic, aren’t you?”
Christine stilled. The question wasn’t innocent—it hung in the air like a trap, dressed in curiosity but laced with assumption.
She met his gaze, voice calm. “Actually, yes, sir. I am a bit Irish.”
Pratt’s smile widened, satisfied. He tapped the table once with the flat of his hand. “Knew it. You can always tell—it’s those cute little cheeks!”
He leaned forward slightly. “So I assume your family supports Governor Tate? I’d imagine you see the value in what he’s doing.”
Across the table, Oakland’s jaw flexed. “Dad?—”
He didn’t look at her. Just lifted a hand.
“Let her answer,” he said, smooth and dismissive.
Christine’s heart pounded. But her voice came steady. “I think Governor Tate has made his priorities very clear.”
He hummed in approval. “But you do understand why these reforms are necessary?”
Christine nodded slightly, which could be mistaken for agreement if you weren’t paying close attention.
Inside, her chest felt hollow.
She wasn’t sure when the heat drained from her fingertips or when her heart started thudding so loud she could barely hear the clink of silverware around her. Every instinct screamed to rise, speak, and spit the truth back in their faces. But she didn’t.
She couldn’t do that to Oakland.
She smiled instead.
Tight. Polite. A mask.
The weight in the room was too heavy, too practiced. She could feel the eyes on her. Bishop Pratt’s calm satisfaction, Kiley’s smug delight, Derek’s quiet panic. And Oakland, frozen beside her. Present, but unreachable.
Christine picked up her fork. The metal was cold against her skin. Her hands shook just slightly, barely enough to notice, as she speared a piece of lasagna and brought it to her mouth.
It tasted like ash.
The table moved on without her. Someone said something about church attendance. Someone else laughed. Christine nodded along, chewed, swallowed, smiled.
She barely heard any of it.
Inside, it felt like she was disappearing one layer at a time. Like her silence was stripping her down to something hollow, something palatable.
The conversation drifted on, polite and shallow as a puddle: property taxes, local elections, a sermon someone enjoyed last Sunday.
Christine nodded when she was supposed to and laughed once or twice when the timing called for it.
She even complimented the lasagna, her voice just bright enough to sound authentic.
No one noticed how tightly she clutched her water glass.
The stem pressed into her palm like a lifeline. Her knuckles were white.
Oakland sat beside her like a statue—one hand resting flat on the table, the other loosely around her glass.
Her jaw twitched whenever Kiley giggled or her father began another monologue.
She wasn’t touching Christine. Wasn’t looking at her.
But Christine could feel her, like heat from a flame you couldn’t get close to.
Derek tossed out another weak joke—something about the weather or traffic, Christine couldn’t even tell. It fizzled on impact. No one laughed. Bishop Pratt gave a small chuckle, the kind meant to signal amusement, not feel it.
Christine nodded again. Another mask. Another layer of herself filed away for later.
She could feel the weight of her own silence, pressing harder with every minute. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could sit here and pretend she was someone else. Someone easy. Someone safe.
It was Elena who asked the next question. Harmless on the surface.
“Do you have a boyfriend, Christine?”
Christine froze for half a second, her fork hovering above her plate.
Then she laughed, too quickly. “A boyfriend? Oh… no. No boyfriend.”
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes darting briefly toward Oakland before looking elsewhere. “Just me. And my dog. And my… roommate.”
Oakland stiffened beside her.
“A girl’s gotta have someone to split the Wi-Fi with, right?” Christine added, forcing a chuckle.
A silence followed, brief but loaded.
Elena smiled politely. “Ah, well. Good to have the company.”
Bishop Pratt nodded. “Better than living alone.”
Then, he smiled, gesturing between Oakland and Derek. “We’ve been trying to get these two together for years. They’ve got so much history.”
Christine nearly choked on her water. She coughed, covered her mouth, and barely managed to sound sincere.
“Oh, absolutely,” she said, nodding earnestly, voice just a touch too high. “I think they really get each other.”
Her lips twitched. “They’re practically family already.”
Oakland shot her a warning glance. Derek turned an alarming shade of pink.
Bishop Pratt beamed. “Exactly what I’ve always said.”
Christine just smiled sweetly and reached for her water again—anything to keep the laughter from bubbling up and giving her away.
The conversation drifted, polite and dull, until Elena rose to offer dessert. Both Christine and Oakland declined in unison.
Christine offered a soft, apologetic murmur. “Early start tomorrow.”
Oakland stood almost instantly, like the moment finally cracked open just enough for her to escape. Her chair scraped quietly against the floor, the sound almost a relief.
They offered polite goodbyes and shallow thank-yous. Bishop Pratt barely looked up from his apple pie. The older men nodded curtly. Elena touched Oakland’s elbow with the same controlled grace she’d worn all night and said nothing more.
But Kiley?
Kiley watched Christine the entire time.
Eyes sharp. Smiling like she knew a secret.
Outside, the porch light hummed overhead, casting a sickly gold wash over the steps. The air was colder now—damp, heavy. Christine didn’t say anything until they reached the edge of the driveway.
Then she exhaled.
Not relief. Not really.
She looked sideways at the woman beside her.
Oakland’s posture was perfect. Shoulders back. Hands tucked in the pockets of her coat. Chin lifted like she was still at the table, still being watched.
But it wasn’t her.
Not the Oakland who lit up rooms with her grin and turned every conversation into something electric.
This Oakland looked like she was carved from stone.
Her eyes were distant. Dull. Not angry—not even guarded—just… gone.
Christine swallowed hard, guilt thick in her throat.
If two hours at that table left her feeling this hollowed out and scraped thin, what would it do to someone who’d grown up inside it? Who still lived inside it?
She wanted to say something. Anything.
But the words felt too small, too sharp, too late.
So, instead, she just walked a little closer. Close enough for their arms to brush. Close enough for Oakland to lean if she wanted.
She didn’t.
They walked in silence toward the rail station.
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