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With a deep breath, I shake those feelings off. I’ll be able to do that one day, but right now, I just need a break.
Breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
I walk through the cemetery, unlatching the small gate and closing it behind me. Grass crunches under my sandaled feet, the sound of the water from Barry’s lapping in the distance as the breeze sashays through the trees. It’s a symphony of nature, reminding of the beauty the world has to offer.
Right now, with my heart raw and emotions high, breathing in the air perfumed by wildflowers, I pause. Even if my life goes to shit again, if I lose everything and everyone I’ve ever loved, I’ll still have this. The beauty and freedom of the world. Of nature. Of all the things that remind me what it’s like to be alive.
My eyes drift to the time on my phone again, and all the hope that just filled me, disappears.
It’s been hours.
I tell myself I don’t care. I try to force myself to believe the words, too. But it’s hopeless.
I’m hopeless.
The church is halfway between the cemetery and our house. It usually takes no time to get to the midway point, but today it feels like it’s dragging on forever. The white shiplapped building, the sardonic cross atop it, feels like a hallucination, like a figment of my past that still lingers as I try to claw myself away.
As I step in front of the gate that leads to the pathway toward the rickety church steps, I stare up at it, at the House of God, and wonder how differently my life would’ve been if I’d never left Haven.
My gaze scans the peeling paint, the splintered wood. From afar, you can’t tell how dilapidated it’s becoming, but upclose, you can see every imperfection. You can see it cracking under the pressure God and His disciples have put on it. The once perfect structure is now nothing more than a faint memory of the glory it used to live in.
The slightly open door catches my attention, and my eyes narrow. No one is supposed to be inside today. Anxiety swirls in my stomach as I shuffle a step forward. Maybe it’s Roman. Maybe he came here to think. Not to pray—never to pray.
Maybe just to burn more Bibles.
I scoff. If he keeps going at this rate, we won’t have anymore, and Lord knows we can’t afford to replace them.
My feet glide me along the path toward the stairs, and I hesitantly take a step up, then another. I keep going until my foot hits the landing and the old wood creaks under my weight. The door is only open a crack, but it’s enough for me to wonder if it’s a silent message from him, one telling me to enter. To come find him. To chase him.
I shake myself. That’s ridiculous. Only I can look too much into the possible hidden meaning of an open fucking door.
But I can’t help myself from pushing it open further and stepping inside, hesitantly calling out, “Roman?”
I look around the dark room, the aged pews and worn floodboards a mix of comfort and anguish. Lately, this place has been feeling less like a sanctuary, and more like a prison.
Slowly, the sunlight fades away, the creaking hinges slicing through the calm air before the deafening click of the door closing.
“Not Roman,” a voice says, and I gasp, spinning around, a hand pressed firmly to the center of my chest. The shadow looms over me, tall and imposing. It takes my eyes too long to adjust, my heart pounding under my hand.
I squint as the figure steps forward, the muted sunlight shining in through the window beside us, illuminating his face. “Marcus,” I breathe, relief flooding me. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you,” he mutters, stepping toward me. My breath catches, and I stumble away, trying to put distance between us. I hadn’t realized how close he was. “I thought you came here every day.”
“Not every day,” I say. My heart is wildly beating for an entirely different reason now. “Do you need something? Help with more directions?”
“I don’t need fucking directions,” he spits. I jolt at the harshness of his tone, shuffling back another step. His chest heaves, and his eyes are wild as he watches me—tracks me.
“Then what do you need?” My voice quivers, the words escaping in a breathless rush. I’m trapped by his piercing gaze, a knot of fear tightening my stomach.
His brows furrow, eyes narrowing, lips pressing into a thin line as he practically snarls, "You don't recognize me?" He advances, and I'm paralyzed, unable to move. "Golden Girl."
