Page 3 of Held-
Sorry. Old habit. How long do you think you'll stay there?
I stare at the ceiling, at the faded glow-in-the-dark stars.
Until I figure out what comes next. Or until someone kidnaps me. Whichever comes first.
Call me if you need me. Seriously. I will drop the boys off at my brother’s and run.
I love her for the offer, but this is something I need to figure out on my own.
I set the phone aside and pull the covers up to my chin. The house settles around me with all its familiar sounds—the furnace kicking on, the old pipes groaning, the grandfather clock in the hallway chiming eleven times. Sounds that used to comfort me, back when this place felt like home instead of a retreat.
Sleep doesn't come easy. Every time I close my eyes, I see Ethan's face when I confronted him about the earring. Theway he tried to gaslight me, making me feel crazy for asking questions. “You're being paranoid, Cece. It's probably yours from months ago.” As if I couldn't tell the difference between my simple gold studs and someone else's gaudy diamond hoops.
I roll over and punch the pillow into submission. Tomorrow I'll have to face the town properly where everyone will stare and whisper. The thought makes my skin crawl, but I can't hide in this house forever. Well, I could, but that would give them even more to talk about.
CECE
I'm standingoutside the First Baptist Church at eight-thirty in the morning, clutching a cup of Dad's nuclear-strength coffee and wondering if volunteering for the toy drive was a mistake. The December air bites through my sweater, and I'm already regretting not grabbing a heavier coat. But after tossing and turning all night, I figured I might as well make myself useful instead of hiding in my childhood bedroom like some tragic heroine.
I take a deep breath and steel myself for what's coming. Just get the toys sorted, avoid eye contact, then escape. Simple.
But I barely make it to the bottom step when they descend like vultures spotting fresh roadkill.
“Cecelia Montgomery!” Mrs. Whitaker's voice cuts through the morning air, sharp as a straight razor. She's leading the charge, a flock of church ladies in sensible cardigans and judgmental smiles right behind her.
They surround me before I can retreat, forming a circle that feels more like a trap. I'm caught in a perfume cloud of White Diamonds and barely concealed curiosity.
“Oh, honey, we've been just dying to see you,” says Barbara Fletcher, her hand squeezing my arm with false sympathy while her eyes catalog every detail of my appearance. “How are you holding up?”
“I'm fine, thank you.” I try for a polite smile that probably looks more like a grimace.
“We were all just devastated to hear about...well, you know.” Linda Peterson leans in, lowering her voice to a whisper that could probably be heard in the next county. “Such a shame when a man strays. Was it really with three different women?”
My coffee sloshes close to the rim of my cup. “I wouldn't know the exact count.”
“Your daddy says you're staying indefinitely,” Mrs. Whitaker says, emphasizing the word like it's a terminal diagnosis.
“That's very generous of him to share my personal business.”
The women exchange meaningful glances, the kind that communicate volumes without words. I've been on the receiving end of these looks my whole life—whenever I got caught sneaking out, or when I chose the state university over the fancy Christian college they all thought was more appropriate.
“Well, we just want you to know that we're praying for you,” says Margaret Hutchins, patting my shoulder like I'm a wounded bird. “And if you need anything at all—a casserole, alistening ear, help finding a nice Christian man to settle down with—we're here.”
“I just got divorced three weeks ago.” The words come out sharper than I intend. “I'm not exactly in the market for a replacement husband.”
Their collective gasp could power a small wind farm.
“Not at all, dear,” Mrs. Whitaker recovers first, her smile tightening at the edges. “Though you know what they say—the best way to get over one man is to get under another.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. Did the head of the church ladies' auxiliary just give me sex advice?
“I think you mean 'the best way to get over someone is to find someone better,'“ Barbara corrects, looking scandalized.
“That too,” Mrs. Whitaker says with a wink that makes me question everything I thought I knew about this woman. She’d been married to the same man since she was in high school. She is the least qualified person to offer me dating and sex advice.
I'm searching for an exit strategy when Dad appears at the top of the church steps like an answer to a prayer I didn't know I was saying.
“Ladies,” he calls out, his pastor voice carrying authority even in that single word. “I hate to interrupt this reunion, but I need to borrow my daughter. We've got donations that won't sort themselves.”