Page 107 of Her Ex-Husband's Brother

I didn’t lay down with pigs. I told Jake I was leaving him before I— And I didn’t know August was his brother or I wouldn’t have?—

But I swallow down all my knee-jerk self-justifications.

One thing is clearly true: I’ve caused a mess of August’s life.

This is for August and his son. To set things right.

So I bow my head. “I ask for forgiveness.”

Another squeeze of my hands from Pastor Sean. “Remember,” he says, finally releasing my hands. “The Prodigal Son begged. On his knees.”

My head pops up and I frown in confusion. Does he mean he wants me to get down on my knees? Right here with everyone flooding into the service all around us?

But he’s already clapping Jake on the back and moving to welcome other congregants, so I allow Jake to shackle my arm again and direct me to our usual pew.

Halfway there, we run into Jared and Brianna. Her face lights up at seeing me.

“I always loved you in that dress.” She rushes forward to squeeze me in a hug. “I’m so glad you came to your senses,” she breathes in my ear. “Now everything can go back to normal.”

She’s beaming at me when she pulls back and sits down in the pew beside me, her children settled between her and Jared. “Let me catch you up on all you’ve missed.” She leans in again. “Just ignore everyone who’s staring. They’ll get over it.”

She chatters on about milestones the children have been reaching, meanwhile I feel all the stares like tangible things.

Oh my God, it’s like back in high school.

There was a mean girl, McKenzie Davis who used me as her favorite target practice because I was one of the few girls on scholarship at the expensive Dallas prep school. I was a freshman and she was a junior and she made my life absolute hell when I was just trying to fit in.

And now like then, it wasn’t just paranoia that everyone was staring at me—it was because theywere. The fear was real, too. Often it meant they were plotting their next little torture. From tripping me in the hallway to shoving me into lockers—don’t believe it when people tell you girls are less violent in their bullying than boys. When I brought kittens to school early in sophomore year because my stepdad threatened to drown them if they stayed at home, I thought: no one can resist an adorable kitten. I figured I’d be able to tempt somebody into giving one or two a safe home. When I tried to let them out in the backyard, the little fools kept coming back.

But any reminder of McKenzie inevitably brings reminders of high school. My one real friend I’ve ever had in the world who protected me from the bullies.

Just like August tried.

Harper ended up destroyed, in part by my bullies.

Just like August will be if I don’t play my part well enough here.

So even though I’m dying of humiliation inside, reliving high school with all eyes on me, and feeling no stronger than I did then, I try to square my shoulders and fight back tears.

I set this in motion.

I deserve to bear the consequences, even if none of it feels fair.

What did fair ever have to do with anything?

I’ve never been so glad for a church service to start in my life. My eyes blur as the lights darken slightly so that the screenreflecting the worship song lyrics up front can be read more clearly as the worship band starts up.

Usually I find this part meaningful, in spite of my wobbly relationship with this church’s version of God.

Today, though, I’m swallowing back tears the entire time.

God, I pray silently, looking towards the ceiling.If you’re up there… And then any tangible words die off and all I can beg is:Help me. Help me.

And maybe God does, because the next twenty minutes of the service pass mostly painlessly. Everybody sings, and in the dark, I can feel like one more nameless face in the crowd. Maybe thiscanbe a sanctuary of mercy. A respite in the storm.

And then Pastor Sean takes the pulpit and reads the verse he’s preaching on.

“This is from the New Living Translation.” He clears his throat and holds the large Bible high as he begins to read: “My son, pay attention to my wisdom: For the lips of an immoral woman are as sweet as honey, and her mouth is smoother than oil. But in the end she is as bitter as poison… Her feet go down to death… For she cares nothing about the path to life. She staggers down a crooked trail and doesn’t realize it.”