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FAITH

S unday afternoon, I work the lunch shift. It’s busy enough to keep me distracted, but not enough to forget.

By nightfall, I’m in bed—phone to my ear, comforter pulled up, talking to my best friend from college, April.

I give her the rundown on what’s happening with Keith.

Or… whatever it is.

Not a breakup. Just “time apart.”

“Wait,” April says slowly. “How is he going on Rumspringa if he’s not Amish?”

I groan. “It’s just his metaphor.”

“That’s not a metaphor, Faith. That’s a strategy. ” Her tone sharpens. “He’s feeding you a charming, pseudo-spiritual line so he can sleep around without feeling like the bad guy.”

“I thought of that,” I mutter. “But I don’t know, maybe he just needs a mental reset. Like some space.”

April sighs—long and loud. I can practically see her rolling her eyes on the other end of the line.

“You’ve been long distance for three years, Faith. You’ve already had space. This whole Rumspringa thing? It’s bullshit.”

I roll onto my side. “I don’t want to think about it like that.”

“Well, maybe it’s time you did.”

She’s quiet for a second, then adds, more gently, “Look. I don’t want to use the word sheltered ?—”

“Yes, you do.”

“Okay, fine. You’re a preacher’s daughter. You’ve been a great girlfriend. You’re amazing . And maybe a little too trusting.” She exhales again. “But hey—if Keith wants a taste of freedom? That just means you get to play the Rumspringa game too.”

“No.” I sit up a little. “No, I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not single. I can’t be single. I’ve… never been single.”

I swing my legs out of bed and walk to the mirror, for no reason other than to avoid her voice.

“I don’t even know what that feels like.”

April’s voice softens. “Yes, you are. And yes, you can. Take off the ring.”

“My dad will kill me if he sees it missing.”

“Okay. Remember my ex Matt?”

I blink. “Of course.”

“Remember how all of you told me he was trash, but I couldn’t see it?”

“Yeah…”

“That’s what this is. You’re in it. You can’t see what we all do.”

“I don’t think this is the same,” I say, but even as I say it, it feels weak.

“Let me ask you something.” Her voice shifts into serious-mode. “Are you happy about this engagement?”

I hesitate. “Yeah. I mean… I think so.”

“No. Not logically. Not on paper. When you picture the wedding—when you really sit in it—what feelings come up?”

I close my eyes.

“The whole town would be there. Keith’s parents are, like, really important?—”

“No,” April cuts in. “Keith’s parents shouldn’t be the first thing you think about when it comes to your wedding.”

Her voice is gentler now. “This is your life, Faith. No one else’s. Forget what your family wants, or what looks right on a holiday card. When you picture yourself married to Keith, how do you feel ?”

I blow out a long sigh.

“I feel… good. I guess. I mean?—”

April doesn’t say anything.

I stare at myself in the mirror.

She and Morgan talk about everything. They fight, they make up, they check in all the time. Their relationship feels like a partnership.

And mine?

Mine feels like a plan everyone agreed to years ago, and I just didn’t stop it.

April sucks in a breath. “Faith, last year, when I was falling apart over Matt? You were the one who pulled me out. You were steady. You were smart. You were honest with me even when I didn’t want to hear it.”

I sit on the edge of my bed, heart pinching.

“I’m just trying to return the favor,” she says gently. “If a guy is making excuses to sleep with other women, that doesn’t sound like love. Does it?”

I don’t respond right away. Her words land in the pit of my stomach and settle there—heavy.

“April, I just don’t know what else to do, okay?” I say finally. “I love my family. And I do love Keith. I wasn’t expecting him to pull the rug out like this, but I know he still wants to marry me.”

“Does he?” she asks, not cruel—just firm.

“I think he just needs… I don’t know. Space. We’re young. Maybe he needs to sow some wild oats. That’s what guys do, right?”

There’s a pause.

“Yeah?” April says. “And what about you?”

I blink. “What do you mean?”

“Do you need to sow some oats?”

A huge, involuntary laugh escapes me. “Me? No.”

But even as I say it, I swallow hard.

Because Hunter Holloway’s eyes flash in my memory—dark, sharp, knowing. His forearms. That smirk. That silence that somehow said everything.

April lets it go, but I can hear the smile in her voice.

“Well, we’re pumped to visit next Saturday. The whole crew’s coming. It’s going to be a blast.”

I smile. “What do y’all want to do while you’re here?”

There’s a pause. Then April giggles.

“What was that?”

“Maya did some investigating...”

“April…”

“Did you know,” she says sweetly, “that there’s one of the most exclusive —ahem— sex clubs in the country about thirty minutes from your house?”

My jaw drops. “No, I did not know that.”

“We were thinking it might be fun to check it out.”

I snort. “There’s no way I’m going to a sex club.”

April hums like she’s not convinced.

And honestly?

Neither am I.

* * *

Later in the week, after a late shift, I water the plants behind my parents’ house and think about how this past week has gone.

I tried throwing myself into work, but it hasn’t helped. I’ve been distracted, frustrated. On edge. My heart’s been on a roller coaster ever since Keith and I last spoke—if you can even call it speaking. A few awkward texts don’t count.

Is this really how I want my future husband to act?

I feel like I have so much love to give—so much I’ve already given. This is what he does with it?

I’m carrying around a brick in my chest. And no one knows the full story but April. My parents don’t have a clue. I can’t bring myself to tell them—it would break my dad’s heart.

The truth is… ever since Keith and I did the whole shebang, I’ve been dying to do it again.

It was fun. And honestly? I want more .

More practice. More connection. More of whatever that was supposed to be.

Maybe it’s corny, but I want to be a really good wife someday. And to me, that includes pleasing my husband—in all the ways he wants to be pleased. I might not be experienced now, but I’m not naive. I know how important sex is in a relationship.

One of my roommates in college used to say, “As sex goes, goes the relationship.”

And I think she was right.

But ever since Keith’s little stunt last weekend—since the Rumspringa Declaration—he’s been even weirder over text. Now that he’s off in D.C. for the summer, I’ve got all this energy and nowhere to put it.

I sigh, set down the watering can, and head back inside.

My dad is still up. He’s in his robe at the kitchen counter, sipping water when I come in through the back door. I’m still in my work uniform.

“Sweet pea, you’re watering the plants at this hour?” he asks.

“Don’t plants like it better at night?” I respond, and bite my lower lip. Why does that sound dirty? I think I really do have some energy that has nowhere to go.

“Yes, but… what’s the deal? You don’t usually do them.”

I pause. My throat tightens. I don’t want to tell him what’s going on with Keith. Not yet. Not until I know what it means.

“I just thought they looked thirsty,” I say.

He gives me a soft smile and pulls me into a hug.

“I just worry about you being outside so late.”

“I’m fine, Daddy.”

Later, as I lie in bed, trying to will myself to sleep, Hunter Holloway drifts into my mind.

I try not to let him in.

But the more I push him out, the more he lingers.

Why Hunter ?

Maybe it’s his eyes. The way he looked at me. Ate me up like he didn’t care who was watching.

Like he already knew how I tasted.

Just the thought makes my body buzz.

Okay, nope . I am not getting turned on by a guy my father would probably kill if I ever spoke to him.

Still... I’m tempted to search for him. Just a quick peek at his Reels. Nothing serious. Just curiosity.

But that feels stalker-ish. I don’t do that kind of thing.

Instead, I kick off the covers and head downstairs to the living room, hot and restless.

I turn on the TV, volume low.

SportsCenter is still on.

Of course.

The feature segment?

“Hunter Holloway: NFL’s Newest Sensation?”

I drop onto the couch, stunned.

The reporter is talking, but I’m not listening to a word. The screen cuts to locker room footage. Hunter grinning. Shirtless. Flexing like it’s just another day.

He’s… ripped.

Okay, understatement. He’s obscene. He could quit football today and do arm porn for a living. Or sell cutting board rights to his abs. Hell, maybe both.

I stare a second too long. Then switch off the TV, because clearly the universe is trying to mess with me.

Or maybe I’m just spiraling.

I head back to bed.

And somehow—by pure miracle—I fall asleep.