Chapter 29
chapter twenty-nine
Oakland sat stiff-backed in a wooden chair, her spine straight, hands clenched in her lap, facing down the six men seated across from her.
The membership council. A row of severe expressions, pressed shirts, and gold wedding bands that glinted under the harsh fluorescent light.
The air was thick, not just with judgment, but with something more profound.
A quiet knowing. The kind that made her skin crawl.
Brother Keller, her father’s first counselor, sat in the center, hands steepled in front of him. His face was carved into a mask of practiced concern. His voice was careful and measured. “Thank you for coming, Oakland. I know today is difficult.”
She swallowed. Was he referring to the meeting? The accusations? Or was this a test?
“I’m here because I have to be,” she replied evenly, her voice calm and controlled. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her skirt, pressing hard, grounding herself.
Brother Renshaw, a stocky man with graying hair and an expression like he was permanently disappointed in the world, cleared his throat and flipped open a folder in front of him. “We’ve received reports,” he began, his tone clipped, his eyes cool. “From multiple sources.”
Multiple. Not just Kiley. God, how many people had a hand in this?
Renshaw looked up. “Reports that you’ve been engaging in behavior that directly contradicts the values we strive to uphold.”
Oakland forced herself not to shift under the weight of their scrutiny. “Reports?” she echoed, keeping her voice neutral. “From who?”
“That’s not important,” Renshaw said smoothly. “What matters is the pattern.”
Keller sighed as if this was all very unfortunate. “We know you’ve been spending time at an establishment called Birkenbrew.”
A beat of silence.
“You’re aware of what kind of space that is, aren’t you?”
Oakland’s stomach twisted.
She knew exactly what he was implying. They all did. She was careful, so careful, but it didn’t matter.
“We also know,” Renshaw continued, flipping through another sheet of paper, “that you’ve been working fewer hours at your practice and spending considerable time with a woman.” He let the moment stretch, then adjusted his glasses. “Christine Rayner.”
“I've been spending less time at my practice because I lost a significant portion of my clientele,” she started. “Do you know anything about that?”
The men didn’t answer. Silence filled the room before they pivoted the conversation. “Let’s talk about Christine.”
She felt something cold snake through her.
“It would appear, based on her social media, that she is an openly gay woman,” Renshaw added as if reading from an arrest warrant. “She’s been seen at your apartment.” His gaze lifted, sharp, pointed. “You can understand how this looks.”
The room was suffocating.
“Are we not permitted to have gay friends now?” Oakland took a slow, measured breath. “That’s all this is.”
Keller’s expression remained unreadable, but the flicker of something—pity? Doubt?—flashed across his face.
Renshaw leaned back, clasping his hands together. “Is that the truth?”
Oakland clenched her fists beneath the table, the lie seeping out like smoke through a cracked window. “It is.”
A knowing glance passed between the men.
“This is what you’re sticking with?” Keller pressed.
“Sticking with?” She asked, one brow arched.
Her pulse roared in her ears. She planned to lie, of course. But how did they have this information? Did someone follow her? Were they watching all this time?
And if they knew so much about Christine, did they know about the influx of hate posters plastered outside the brewery? Was this why? Were people following her there, taking notes, reporting back? The idea made her stomach churn.
Her breath hitched, and suddenly, everything came crashing down on her. She lost Christine. Last night, when she let her walk away and chose silence over truth, that was it.
Christine wasn’t coming back.
And for what?
For this?
For a group of old men sitting at a table, picking apart her life like it was theirs to dissect? For a father who made it clear she was only worth something if she followed the rules? For a church that watched her like a criminal?
Her throat tightened, a crushing weight settling in her chest. The room blurred at the edges, shapes and colors smearing together. She didn’t even realize she was crying until she felt the warmth of tears spilling onto her lap, silent and relentless.
Before she could speak, Brother McKay, who was silent until now, leaned forward slightly. Unlike the others, his expression wasn’t cold or calculating—it was something closer to concern.
McKay had known her since childhood. He attended her baptism and youth conferences. He always asked about school and her mother. Of all the men at this table, he was the one who never made her feel small. She always saw him as a good man.
His tone was softer than the others, almost hesitant. “Maybe we should hold this meeting at another time.”
Oakland barely processed the words.
McKay offered a tight smile. “We appreciate you coming, Oakland, especially given the circumstances with your father.”
The room went still.
Oakland blinked. “What circumstances?”
A pause.
She watched as confusion spread across McKay’s face.
“His… um, heart attack,” he said pointedly.
The words punched her directly in the gut.
She instinctively reached for her phone, but then remembered that it was shattered. No calls. No messages. Nothing.
The men observed her, their expressions ranging from unreadable to outright wary.
“You didn’t know,” McKay murmured. It wasn’t a question.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Her father.
Her dad.
A heart attack.
Her hands clenched against the armrests. The urge to stand simmered under her skin, but she held herself still. “Where is he?”
“He was admitted to Spectra North,” McKay affirmed, “Oakland, if you need-“
“I need to go.”
“Oakland, we?—”
“I need to go,” she snapped again, voice cracking. The room blurred at the edges, her vision tunneling.
Silence hung thick in the room, but Oakland didn’t wait for permission. She pushed back from the table, her chair scraping faintly against the floor as she rose.
“How could she not know about her own father?” someone muttered, but she didn’t look back.
Her heart pounded like a war drum against her ribs as she strode to the door, shoving it open so hard it banged against the wall.
She could feel their eyes on her, their whispers pressing down like a weight she couldn’t shake.
Let them watch. Let them talk. Let them dissect this moment in hushed voices and self-righteous nods.
She stepped outside into the biting cold but barely felt it.
Was he alive?
The thought was a wrecking ball to the chest, knocking the wind out of her.
Her hands and whole body shook, but she forced herself forward, even though the world felt like it was tilting beneath her.
She had no idea what she was walking into.
But she knew she needed to be there.
Panicked, she let out a scream when she grabbed her phone to call a car, only to be reminded it was still fucking broken.
“Come on, please.”
She took off, sprinting full speed toward the light rail.
* * *
The hospital waiting room was too bright, too sterile, and unnervingly quiet, broken only by the occasional ping from the reception console or the low hum of the vents adjusting to the winter air outside.
The sharp scent of disinfectant clung to everything layered with something stale—old coffee, maybe, or just the heavy residue of waiting and worry soaked into the chairs.
Oakland spotted her sister instantly. Kiley sat rigid in a chair, arms locked around herself, foot tapping impatiently against the seamless tile floor. Their mother was beside her, hunched forward, fingers twisting the edge of a tissue to shreds in her lap.
As soon as Kiley saw her, she tensed, eyes flashing.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Still breathing heavily, Oakland dropped into the seat across from them and pulled out her phone, holding it up like evidence. The cracked screen stayed dark—dead, useless.
“My phone’s fried. I didn’t know about Dad until I got to church.”
Kiley scoffed, shaking her head. “Of course.”
“I came as soon as I found out,” Oakland said, voice level but firm.
Their mother looked up then, her exhausted eyes flicking between them. “Not now,” she said quietly.
But Kiley wasn’t done.
“You think you’re the only one dealing with shit?” Kiley snapped. “This has been hell. I’ve been here since last night. Mom hasn’t slept, and meanwhile, you were—what? Too busy with your girlfriend to check your damn messages?”
Oakland bristled. “Are you serious right now? I just showed you my broken phone.”
Kiley scoffed. “I don’t care. It’s not even about that. It’s about you. Do you think Dad’s stress just magically appeared? Do you think it’s a coincidence this happened right after your whole… situation?”
Oakland’s stomach clenched.
“You don’t know that,” she said, but tears welled in her eyes, and the words didn’t come out as sharply as she wanted them to.
Kiley let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, come on, Oakland. He’s been worrying himself sick about you for weeks. Did you even think about how any of this would affect him?”
“That’s not fair,” Oakland snapped, heat rising in her chest. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t wake up one day and decide to ruin his life.”
“No, you just decided to shove all your issues in his face,” Kiley shot back.
“I’ve spent my entire life being exactly who he wanted me to be.”
“Well, congratulations,” Kiley said coldly. “Now you’re someone he doesn’t even recognize.”
Their mother inhaled sharply. “Enough, Kiley!”
Before she could say anything else, a nurse approached, a tablet in hand.
“Elena Pratt?”
Their mom straightened. “Yes?”
“The surgery is about to begin,” the nurse said gently. “We’ll send updates at different stages. Kiley, your number is on file, so please keep your device nearby.”
***