Page 1 of Held-
CECE
The worst partabout coming home with your tail tucked between your legs isn't the pity—it's the way everyone pretends they're not giving it to you.
I drag my suitcase up the front steps of my childhood home, the wheels catching on every crack in the concrete like it's protesting this whole mess as much as I am. The yellow paint on the porch railing is peeling worse than I remember, curling away in long strips that remind me of my marriage. Something that looked fine from a distance but fell apart the moment you got close enough to really see it.
“Cecelia Marie!” Dad's voice booms through the screen door before I even reach for the handle. He must have heard my car in the driveway—he always does, like he’s wired into the damn gravel. He’s been waiting; I can feel it in the sharp edge of his tone. “Get yourself in here before Mrs. Henderson sees you and starts running her mouth.”
Too late for that, catching a glimpse of our neighbor's curtains twitching back into place. The San Salona gossip network moves faster than wildfire in August, and I've just given them premium fuel. Divorced daughter crawling back home at thirty-two with nothing but a beat-up Honda and enough emotional baggage to fill a storage unit. To be honest, I’m surprised the local paper isn’t here taking my photo for a front-page news story. It’s not every day that the preacher’s daughter and the mayor’s son get divorced.
“Hi, Dad.” I let the screen door slam behind me, wincing at the sound. Some things never change. Like the way this house makes me feel twelve years old again, all scraped knees and disappointment.
He's standing in the hallway wearing his best attempt at a welcoming smile, but I can see the worry lines around his eyes have deepened. The last time I saw him, I was still pretending my marriage was just going through a rough patch instead of a total demolition.
“You look thin,” he says, which is Dad-code forI'm worried about you but don't know how to say it.
“Divorce diet.” I force a smile. “Very effective. Might write a lifestyle book about it.”
He doesn't laugh. Instead, he takes my suitcase from me, his weathered hand brushing mine. “Your room's all ready. Didn't change a thing.”
That's exactly what I'm afraid of.
I follow him up the stairs, each step creaking in the exact same places they did when I used to sneak out to meet my first boyfriend, Jake, behind the high school bleachers. Jake, with his motorcycle, leather jacket, and the smile that promised trouble worth having. The town bad boy who ended up becoming a dentist in Tallahassee. Life's funny that way. Apparently, marrying the born to be successful mayor’s son wasn’t as safe of a bet as I had originally thought.
“I made pot roast,” Dad says over his shoulder. “Figured you'd be hungry after the drive.”
My stomach growls in response. It's been nothing but gas station coffee and stale donuts since I left Boulder this morning. “Thanks.”
The room is exactly as I left it fourteen years ago when I left for college. Floral bedspread. Faded posters of bands I pretended to like because the cool girls did. Cheerleading trophies I earned to make my parents proud more than myself. The whole room is like a museum exhibit:Teenage Dreams, Circa 2010.
I drop onto the bed, and the mattress squeaks in protest. “How long before the whole town knows I'm back?”
“Oh, honey.” Dad sits heavily in my old desk chair, making it spin slightly. “They already know. Mrs. Patterson called as soon as you crossed into the city limits.”
She would. I can practically see her perched at that lace-covered window of hers, phone already unlocked, waiting for the exact moment my Honda’s bumper touched Maple Street. She lives for this—information delivered like a prayer request.
“And?” I brace myself.
“Well, she wanted to know if you'd gained weight. I told her you looked beautiful as always.” He clears his throat. “She also asked if it was true about Ethan and his secretary. She called her something else, but it doesn’t bear repeating.”
Even a hundred miles away, Ethan managed to humiliate me in my hometown. “It wasn't his secretary.”
Dad raises an eyebrow.
“It was one of the flight attendants for his company’s private jet. Well, the current one, anyway. Before her, it was his yoga instructor. And probably half the women at his country club, if I'm being honest.” The words taste bitter, but there's relief in finally saying them out loud. “I was the last to know, apparently. Very cliché of me.”
“Cecelia—”
“It's fine, Dad. Really.” I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, at the glow-in-the-dark stars I stuck up there in seventh grade. Most of them barely hanging on now. Kind of like me, and my sanity.
Dad sighs and I can hear everything he's not saying. The disappointment that I didn't try harder to save my marriage. The unspoken “I told you so” about marrying into the Kincaid family in the first place. He's too good a preacher to say it, but I know he's thinking it.
“You ready to eat?” he asks finally, changing the subject in that classic Montgomery way. Feelings are messy, whereas pot roast is straightforward.
“Starving,” I admit, though the knot in my stomach suggests otherwise.
We eat in near silence, just the scrape of forks against plates and the occasional “pass the salt” breaking through. Dad tries to keep things light, updating me on church gossip—Mrs. Daniels' fight with the choir director, the youth group's car wash fundraiser that turned into a water balloon fight. The women’s group has been protesting a movie they want to shoot in town. Normal, safe topics that don't venture anywhere near my failed marriage or uncertain future.
It's when we're clearing the dishes that he finally breaks.