Page 82 of Halo

“I know … and it’s still my favorite.” She winks before grabbing a pimento cheese sandwich.

I place the last cookie before standing back to see what adjustments need to be made.

“So …” She follows me, arching an eyebrow. “Declan?”

I recoil. “No.”

Rachel bursts into laughter. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“You’ve said enough.” I bend down and straighten a platter of macarons.

“I thought maybe you were daydreaming about him or something.” Her smile fades. “Like maybe God was softening your heart toward him to reconcile.”

I groan. “Rach, not you too …”

“What?”

“I’ve heard it from everyone. My folks. From Matt. The ladies at church.” I shake my head. “I don't know if I can handle my only friend from church condemning me too.”

“Lee, I’m not condemning you.” She saddles up next to me, resting a hand on her belly. “I’ve always believed God can restore anything if we let Him. Marriage especially.”

I don't doubt that she believes it. That's the hardest part.

We grew up in the same church. We memorized the same verses, listened to the same sermons, read the same marriage books. We watched divorced Christian leaders, authors, and musicians quietly disappear from conference stages while pastors praised the couples who ‘fought for their marriages.’ Somewhere along the way, divorce stopped being something tragic and became something shameful.

“It would be an amazing testimony too,” she continues, “one that could save other women from … well, you know.”

Making my mistake.

I smooth the front of my dress and paste on the same polite smile I’ve been wearing since the divorce papers were signed.

“Listen,” I say, giving Rachel's hand a squeeze. “We’re not doing this today. Okay? I love you, but … let’s not.”

She searches my face before nodding. “Okay.”

“Besides, today’s about celebrating my favorite little nephew or niece.”

“And her mother?” Rachel asks hopefully.

I shrug, feigning disinterest. “Meh, she’s alright too.” We giggle, bumping each other's shoulder as we put the finishing touches to the table.

Before either of us can say another word, my mother glides into the dining room, already smiling in her pressed skirt and cardigan. Her blonde hair is perfectly styled, unlike my brown waves she never quite knew what to do with. “There you two are.” She clasps her hands together. “I just heard car doors. I imagine our guests are starting to arrive.”

Rachel brightens.

Mom's attention shifts to me. “Oh, sweetheart.” She reaches up to smooth an imaginary wrinkle from my shoulder. “One tiny favor. Your father and I were talking, and … well, if anyone asks what you’ve been up to lately …” She tilts her head, her smile never wavering. “Maybe just keep certain things private. That bar isn’t exactly ..." She lets out a sardonic laugh. "Well, you know how people can be. I’d hate for anyone to get the wrong impression when we're celebrating Rachel today.” Her hand pats my arm. “I know it’s only temporary, hon." She says it with all the warmth of a loving mother—which somehow makes it hurt even more.

“Of course, Mom.” I smile brightly.

“Wonderful.” She pulls me into a tight hug and kisses my temple. “Love you, sweetheart.”

She sweeps from the room just as the doorbell rings, leaving behind the faint scent of perfume and the burn of criticism.

Rachel winces. “I’m sorry. You know she’s just protecting you and the family.”

Protecting us from more scrutiny and judgment. I know the drill well.

“Of course.” I force another smile. “Now, let's go celebrate your baby.”