Page 51 of Omega's Faith

"I don't let her—"

"You married me because she told you to!" The words explode out of me. "You show up where she tells you, wear what she tells you, say what she tells you to say. You're thirty-four years old and you've never had to make a real decision in your entire life, but my faith is the problem?"

He steps forward, eyes flashing. "At least I can leave whenever I want. Can you say the same? What would happen if you went back right now and told them you're getting divorced?"

The question hits too close to something I don't want to examine. "I don't believe in divorce."

"Because you chose not to, or because you were told not to?"

"Because marriage means something to me! Because I take vows seriously! Because I actually believe in commitment and family and—" My voice cracks. "And children. Which you apparently think are too much trouble."

Something flickers across his face. But I'm already moving, pushing past him toward the door.

"Jonah, wait—"

"What's the point?" I don't turn around. I can't look at him. "We both know what this is. So let's just—let's just stay out of each other's way, keep it looking good for the cameras until we work out what we’re going to do"

I leave him standing there in his perfect library with his perfect newspapers sharing everything about our perfectly wrong marriage.

In my room, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at my phone.

Mom answers on the second ring. "Sweetheart! I’ve been wondering how are you? How is everything?"

The lie comes automatically. Another lie to my mother. I’m already corrupted. "It's fine, Mom. Everything's fine."

"You sound tired. Are you getting enough rest?"

Rest. If she only knew what the last three days had been like. The heat, the desperate coupling, the way we'd torn into each other like animals.

"I'm okay. How is everyone?"

She launches into family news—Emma lost a tooth, the Parkers’ new baby is colicky, Dad's now leading the men's prayer group. Normal things. Home things. Things that happen in a cult, apparently.

"Mom," I interrupt. "Do you think... are we too controlling? The Fellowship, I mean?"

Silence. Then, carefully, "What brought this on?"

"Just... thinking."

"Oh, sweetheart." Her voice is gentle. "Every community has rules. Ways of doing things. We choose ours based on scripture and love. That's not control, that's structure. There's a difference."

Is there? I want to ask. But I can hear Dad in the background, asking if everything's alright, and I can't bring myself to worry them.

"I should go," I say instead. "Give everyone my love."

"We love you too. And Jonah? God doesn't give us more than we can handle."

After she hangs up, I lie back on the bed that doesn't smell like Alex, in a room that doesn't feel like mine, in a house that will never be home.

Maybe God doesn't give us more than we can handle. But apparently, He has a pretty high opinion of what I can take.

13. Alex

I'm running again: the second run of the day. My legs are killing me but I need to get this frustration out somehow and apparently I'm not allowed to play music too loud in own home according to Little Mister Priss.

Little Mister Priss who might be pregnant with my child.

Do I want children? I don't know. I don't know what I'd even do with one. Everything I know about parenting I've learned from TV. I'm supposed to make them breakfast, steal the last 'must have' toy out of someone's hands in a Black Friday sale or track it down in some harebrained scheme across the city, check in closets for monsters that may or may not be there depending on the film I'm watching.