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FAITH

“N ever marry for love,” Aunt Miranda told me when I was eight.

I don’t remember much else from that year, but for some reason, that stuck.

“If you do, you’ll end up like me,” she said. “With a man who walked out on you, and too old to be working Saturday night shifts managing a busy restaurant. Marry a good man with a good family who’ll take care of you.”

Once, I asked her, “Why not marry for both?”

She laughed, rolled her eyes. “Don’t be a silly romantic. That’s not possible.”

Now that I’m heading into my senior year of college, that wisdom—or is it just bitterness? Jury’s still out—has stayed with me.

And while I do consider myself a romantic… I also happen to be in love with my fiancé.

At the moment, though, I’m not thinking about love. I’m hiding in the back of our family restaurant, catching a quick breather during my shift, when Aunt Miranda finds me.

“Well, hello there,” she says, wearing her signature faded smile.

“Hey, Aunty M. Just taking a quick break.”

This is my dad’s place, and after a full year away at college, I’m back working here for the summer. I’m glad to be making extra cash for school, but I’d somehow forgotten how physically brutal this job is. I’ve probably walked five miles today, and I’m halfway convinced my arches have collapsed. I need new work shoes. Maybe orthopedic ones.

Sexy, I know.

Aunt Miranda stares at me like she’s waiting for an apology. I don’t plan to give her one.

“It’s been nonstop since two p.m.,” I say. “This is the first break I’ve taken.”

“I know, I know. But we can’t be on break during the six o’clock rush, now can we? Won’t you check on table twenty-two?”

I smile, even though I want to frown. Classic passive aggression. I could point out I’ve been running around since brunch at nine a.m., or that table twenty-two probably just sat down thirty seconds ago—but I don’t.

“Of course. I’ll be right out.”

“I know you will—it’s been a long day,” she says, sighing like she’s carrying the weight of the world. “I’m sorry to be the wrangler. You know how I hate to have that role here. But someone has to stay in touch with reality.”

I bite the inside of my cheek instead of my lip. If I bite my lip, she’ll notice—and if she doesn’t say anything, she’ll give me that look.

Truth is, I don’t have anything against Aunty M. She’s solid. Much more responsible than her sister, my other Aunty M—Misty.

Misty moved to California when she was seventeen. I see her every few years, and every time she shows up, she’s got:

A) a new boyfriend—usually an actor or a musician

or

B) a new tattoo—either a romantic flower or some Latin phrase like amor fati

My dad, the family’s pride and joy, is a preacher, so Misty gets side-eyes and headshakes every time she rolls back into town.

I don’t have any tattoos myself, but I don’t judge. And if I had to choose between living like Miranda or Misty…

Let’s just say I’d be headed for California.

When I head back out to the floor, I’m startled to find my fiancé, Keith Stinson, sitting at table twenty-two—with his best friend, Dave Smalls. Those two have been thick as thieves since they sat next to each other in second grade.

“Hey, you!” I grin. I’d kiss Keith, but tables are watching and that’s against policy. Maybe some girls would risk it, but that’s not me. I don’t get in trouble. Ever.

Keith shifts in his seat, avoiding my eyes. “Faith, I need to talk to you.”

Dave stands up and gives me a polite nod. “I’ll leave you two for now.”

Adrenaline flushes through me as Dave walks off. I turn back to Keith, nerves pricking at my skin.

“Okay,” I say. “In the middle of my shift, you need to talk to me? Is everything okay? Did someone… pass away?”

Keith swirls the ice in his water, not meeting my eyes. “Faith… you know I care about you. And our engagement.”

Goosebumps rise on the back of my neck. Not the good kind.

“Of course,” I say. “I do too.”

Why is he bringing this up?

My mind flashes—unfortunately—to the first time Keith and I had sex.

We said we’d wait. We promised. And then, one night, we didn’t.

It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good, either.

It was… fine.

But ever since, something’s been off.

Like a subtle shift I couldn’t name at first—a flicker in his eyes when he looked at me, like I was suddenly less shiny.

Like he’d won.

Like he was already halfway out the door.

“Faith,” he says, breaking into my thoughts, “have you heard of Rumspringa?”

I blink. “Rumspringa?”

My eyes dart toward Aunt Miranda, who’s shooting me a look to greet a new table.

“Yeah,” I say slowly. “You mean that Amish rite of passage? Where teens go out into the world to see what it’s like before they commit to the community?”

Keith nods, too eagerly. “Exactly. They get, like, a free pass to explore. Then they come back ready to choose their life with clarity.”

I pivot on my heel, scanning my section. Everything looks okay—for now. I glance back at him, my voice flat. “Okay... and what does that have to do with us?”

He clears his throat. “I just found out I’m going to D.C. for the summer. Working with my dad.”

A small chill slides down my spine. “So we’re not spending the summer together.”

“Right. And I was thinking—since we’re getting married next summer, and we’re still young?—”

“We’re still young,” I repeat. My pulse is starting to spike. Aunt Miranda’s still staring at me, but I can’t move. I feel nailed to the floor. “Just say it, Keith. Whatever it is.”

He exhales, like this is a monologue he’s been practicing in the mirror.

“Washington’s a big opportunity. And you’ll be here, doing your thing. So I thought—maybe we take a little break. Just for the summer. Like a Rumspringa of sorts.”

He chuckles, as if this is charming. “Then when I’m back in July, we pick things up again. No pressure.”

I stare at him.

“Wait. You want to break up?”

He shakes his head quickly. “Don’t call it that. That makes it sound final. It’s more like... a breather. Time to grow. Explore.”

“Explore,” I echo. “As in… sleep with other people?”

“Potentially,” he says, like he’s suggesting we try a new brunch spot.

A knot forms in my throat. “But I already know I want you. I’m not the one with doubts.”

“I’m doing this for you,” he says smoothly. “Because I love you. I want to be honest.”

“So you’re being honest about how you want to hook up with other people,” I say, blinking back tears. “And you’re wrapping it in a cute little Amish metaphor.”

He shrugs. “We’re leaving tonight. My dad’s jet. Big meeting in D.C. I didn’t want to do it over the phone.”

“How considerate.”

He squeezes my hand. “This isn’t the end, babe. We’re still getting married. The Stinsons and Eastons—your dad’s dream, remember? I just think this could be... good for us.”

“You mean good for you. ”

He nods automatically. “Right. Yeah. For you. For us.”

One tear slides down my cheek. I wipe it fast, inhale deep, steady.

“This feels like being railroaded,” I say. “Like one of those midnight bills Congress sneaks through when no one’s paying attention.”

He laughs softly. “Don’t be so traditional. We’ll talk soon. It all came up fast.”

“It feels like a big deal, Keith.”

“Oh, honey,” he says with that condescending grin I suddenly want to slap off his face. “It’s just Rumspringa. We’ll be back together in no time. I’ve always seen myself with you long-term. You know that.”

I look at him, and I swear I can feel something inside me crack.

I glance toward the front—one of my tables is flagging me down again. Aunt Miranda is still watching me like a hawk, arms crossed, lips tight.

Dave returns from smoking, the door slamming shut behind him.

“Keith,” he mutters, jerking his chin toward the front, “those idiot Holloways are coming in again.”

Keith groans. “Seriously? Those dogs think they can eat here?”

I exhale hard through my nose.

Vansborough’s not a big town—just big enough to pretend we’re civil. But the feud between my family—the Eastons—and the Holloways runs deep. Generations-deep. The kind of deep that no one even remembers how it started, just that it’s sacred.

Keith’s dad, Tim Stinson, is the mayor, and he hates the Holloways too.

Why does the mayor of a Tennessee town have a private jet? Great question. I assume he sold his soul and a chunk of stolen land back in the 90s. No one talks about it. One of those small town things we’ve just accepted.

At the entrance, the Holloway crew lingers, waiting for a table. I recognize a few of the usual faces—but one pair of dark eyes stops me cold.

Hunter Holloway.

Tall. Broad. Still somehow looking like trouble in a button-down shirt. His eyes sweep the restaurant like he owns the place.

Then they land on me.

He doesn’t smile.

Just clenches his jaw— Why haven’t we been served yet? —and stares like he could burn holes through me.

I look away quickly, a chill rolling down my spine.

Then I turn back to Keith.

“I think we’ve got more to talk about,” I say, quiet but firm. “Please don’t get on that plane tonight. Can we talk more tomorrow? When I’m not waiting on seven tables and trying to process this?”

Keith sighs. Says nothing.

I stare at him, stunned. We’ve spent months talking about marriage. About names for future kids. About the house with the wraparound porch we both liked on Zillow.

And now he’s sitting here like this is some simple, sensible detour. Like my entire life isn’t shifting under my feet.

Another table waves me down.

“Please,” I say again, softer this time. Desperate. Underneath, I’m burning.

Keith shrugs.

“Faith, this is how it’s going to be,” he says casually. “You’ll finish your degree in… whatever. I’ll have the connections. We’ll build a good life. It’s all going to work out.”

My degree is in journalism , I want to scream.

“Now,” he adds, picking up his menu like this is normal, “can you bring me and Dave a bottle of wine—and one to go? We’ll also take the fresh perch.”

I nod.

Then I walk away, shaking.

Before I cry.

Before I scream.

Or do something really reckless—like look at Hunter Holloway again.