Chapter 25
Lily
Sunday morning found me grinning into my pillow, eyes still closed against the day. My whole body felt buoyant, like it was still carrying the echoes of laughter, music, and sunshine from the past two days.
For once, the memories didn’t feel like work. They weren’t bullet points for an article or notes in a binder. They were… mine. And the thought of another day in Willowbrook, of whatever came next, had me practically bouncing out of bed.
A small-town life. The kind I used to tell myself I never wanted, because wanting something like that was dangerous when you knew it could be taken away.
Still, I couldn’t stop imagining it—walking into Joni’s and waving to half the room, checking stalls at the farm on a Saturday, sitting in a theater seat already knowing who was about to step on stage.
The picture was so vivid it almost scared me.
I’d built my whole world on never needing roots.
And now here I was, wondering what it would feel like to have them.
A plaintive meow snapped me out of it. My kitten sat at the foot of the bed, tail twitching like he’d been waiting for me to remember he existed.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” I told him, scooping him up. He batted my chin, unimpressed. “Yes, yes, I know—you’re the star of the crash course. Forget Ethan Calloway and his surprise field trips.”
I carried him to the kitchen, poured his food, and watched him dive in. “Lucky boy,” I muttered, smiling despite myself. “You don’t have to worry about fitting in or finding your place. You just… exist. And everyone loves you for it.”
I said it without thinking. Lucky. And the word caught on something soft inside me.
“Okay,” I breathed, the morning light silvering the countertops. “Lucky. The name suits you.”
I touched a finger to his small head, making a deal with both of us. “Here’s the plan. You’re mine for the summer. I’ll feed you, love you, keep you safe, and when August rolls around, I’ll find you the best home with one of my new friends, someone who bakes cinnamon rolls or builds porch swings.”
He glanced up.
“Family,” I told him, feeling the word settle without scaring me. “For the summer.”
I leaned against the counter, letting the morning light pour in, and shook my head at myself. “Alright, Harper. Last day of boot camp. Time to pull it together.”
Lucky gave me a single dismissive flick of his ear before burying his face in his dish.
In my room, I tugged open the closet doors and frowned at my options. I knew we were going to church. Ethan had made that clear last night, but after? He’d just given me that maddening smirk and said, “Crash course rules, Harper. No spoilers.” Which meant I had to be ready for… anything.
I settled on my safest bet: a soft floral dress with puff sleeves and a swingy skirt that hit just below the knee.
It was the kind of thing that looked dressy enough for Sunday morning but wouldn’t look ridiculous if he dragged me to the farmers market or wherever else he had planned.
I slipped on a pair of chunky black Mary Janes with a low heel, the kind every girl in my junior year choir had sworn by, and added a pair of sheer nude tights because church felt like a tights kind of occasion.
In the bathroom, I wrestled my hair into a half-up style, the way I used to in high school. A swipe of berry lip gloss, a dusting of powder, and a delicate silver cross pendant I hadn’t worn in years finished the look.
By the time I made it downstairs, Lucky had claimed the sunniest patch of the rug. I pointed a finger at him. “Don’t wait up. And no clawing the couch.”
A knock on the door saved me from further negotiations. When I opened it, Ethan Calloway was standing on the porch, pressed button-down and easy grin, like Sunday mornings had been made for him, and my stomach swooped before I could stop it.
“Ready?” he asked.
I grabbed my purse, locked the door behind me, and smoothed a bright smile into place. “As I’ll ever be.”
The cab of his truck smelled faintly of leather and cedar, the kind of clean that seemed unfairly natural on Ethan Calloway.
As we pulled onto the road, the soft hum of the radio filled the space between us, a mix of upbeat tunes and old favorites that made it feel like we were in our own little world.
We chatted about everything and nothing—local gossip, the upcoming Summerfest plans, even shared laughs over the quirks of small-town life.
I found myself stealing glances at him, enjoying the way the sunlight caught the angles of his jaw and the faint smile playing on his lips when I joked.
Each moment felt simple yet perfect, a delightful escape from the chaos of my thoughts.
We pulled into the parking lot a few minutes later, tires crunching as rows of cars came into view. The little white church sat ahead, steeple rising against the bright morning sky, and already clusters of people were gathering outside.
The moment Ethan killed the engine, neighbors were waving, hands lifted in greeting, someone calling his name across the lot.
“Calloway!” A man in suspenders strode over, shaking Ethan’s hand before pulling him into a clap on the back. A woman nearby squeezed his arm and asked after his mom. A little boy tugged at his sleeve, showing off a toy car.
And somehow, without even trying, I was folded into it too.
“Lily!” Sarah waved me over, Lucas balanced on one hip while Ava darted in circles around her dress shoes. “You made it. We saved a spot near the front if you want to sit with us.”
Before I could answer, Maggie appeared, Ian tugging impatiently at her hand. “Hey girl, long time no see!” she said warmly. “Hey—prom’s coming up fast. We still need to pick out dresses if you’re serious about helping us chaperone.”
I laughed. “As if I’d miss a dress-up moment. You’re not leaving me alone with the snack table, are you? Total social death.”
Her grin widened. “Not a chance.”
Rachel joined us a moment later, and soon the four of us were caught up in easy chatter about what we were going to wear, how to fix our hair, and all the little details that made it feel like we were back in high school ourselves.
The conversation carried us forward, our steps naturally falling in line with the rest of the crowd heading toward the sanctuary doors.
Close by, Kayla and Jason drifted near the steps, shoulders brushing in that awkward, sweet way only high school almost-couples could manage. Kayla’s face lit up when she spotted me. “Hey! See you at the bookstore after school tomorrow!”
Carol, alongside Margaret, swept by with a gentle pat on my arm, already mid-conversation with Lynn, who leaned over just long enough to tell me she had an idea for a petting zoo for Summerfest and wanted to run it by me after the service.
Ms. Darley waved her bulletin at me from a few feet away, and Ray called out something about fishing again soon.
Even Mr. and Mrs. Durbin told me they have more eggs waiting for me at the farm.
Introductions blurred into greetings, smiles, familiar names tumbling one after another. A butterscotch candy landed in my palm, courtesy of an older woman with a wink.
I laughed and kept pace with the conversations, but under the surface, something tugged at me.
This ease, this belonging, it was everything I used to dream about when I was a kid, dragging a suitcase from one foster house to the next.
What would it have been like to grow up in a place where people waved from across the parking lot, where everyone already knew your name?
I pushed the thought away before it could settle, lifting my chin and smiling brighter. For now, I let myself belong, at least for this Sunday morning.
Inside, the sanctuary was bright with morning light streaming through tall windows, dust motes catching in the beams. The pews creaked as we slid into a row already crowded with familiar faces—Maggie on one side, Rachel on the other, Kayla waving from across the aisle.
Hymnals with scribbled names sat stacked at the ends, and kids fidgeted with crayons pulled from their parents’ purses.
The music and prayers moved along, a rhythm I didn’t know but somehow felt part of anyway. Then one of the deacons stepped forward, clearing his throat.
“We’ve got a need this morning,” the deacon said, voice steady but heavy. “The Johnson family lost their home in a fire on Friday night. They’re safe, praise God, but they don’t have much left.”
For half a heartbeat, the sanctuary went still. Then the quiet broke wide open.
“I’ve got an extra twin bed,” a man in the back called out.
“We can take their dogs until they’re settled,” someone else added.
A woman leaned forward from the next row. “I’ll bring casseroles tonight. Tomorrow, too.”
Another voice rose over the hum: “We’ve got a crib they can use. And extra blankets.”
It wasn’t polite murmurs or vague promises.
It was loud, certain, like a chorus of we’ve got you.
Within minutes, the deacon could hardly keep up, scribbling down names and offers as more hands went up.
The Johnsons hadn’t even stepped into the room, and already their house was being rebuilt in bits and pieces—meals, clothes, shelter, safety—by the people sitting in these pews.
The deacon offered a final prayer of thanks, and then the organ stirred to life, low and steady at first, before spilling into the opening notes of “Great Is Thy Faithfulness.” Pages rustled as hymnals opened, the congregation rising almost in unison.
The first voices joined the melody, some strong and sure, others wavering, but together they swelled into something that wrapped around the whole sanctuary.
I stayed seated a beat longer, the hymnal heavy in my hands, my mind still back at the moment when needs were met before they were even fully spoken.