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Emmett doesn’t look scared. He isn’t trying to leave. He has a look of curiosity on his face. Great.
“I didn’t always know,” I say.
“But you know now? You know it’s a cult?” he says.
He doesn’t say it with judgment or pity. His words still seem to be coming from a place of curiosity.
“Officially, it’s not a cult. It’s a religion. But yes, I realized a few years ago it’s anything but typical,” I admit.
Emmett doesn’t say a word but he’s staring at me intently so I continue.
“I read a few books on cults from the library and everything fit. The way the church requires devotion and obedience. The fact they keep us all from normal society as much as they can. The charismatic self-appointed leader. We call him Pastor Johnson. All of our Bibles and documents are—different. They’re all printed by the church and have things added and taken away by Pastor Johnson at seemingly random. We’re sworn to secrecy on so much and those who manage to leave the church usually end up being harassed to the point that they have to move far away or they give up and come back to the church.”
I don’t know why I spilled all of that out into the air between us. I thought it was because I wanted him to be scared and leave me alone, but dammit if it doesn’t feel good to say all of that out loud to someone else.
“Aubrey,” says Emmett as he lays his hand on my upper arm.
Even through the fabric of my sweatshirt, the weight of his large hand burns my skin in a way I didn’t know I’d find thrilling.
“Are you–are you safe? Do you need help?” he asks, his voice low and thick like molasses.
Should I say yes? Should I tell him I’m terrified every day that my parents will find out, somehow, that I’ve been reading and learning behind their backs for years? That I’m stashing away money in hopes of getting away from them and the church. That I’m constantly at war with myself. Some days I’m overcome with relief that Mom and Dad haven’t tried to court me with anyone. Some days, the me who was subjected to the church doctrine her whole life, is hurt and confused by the fact that almost all the other girls my age have already been paired with their future husbands.
I don’t share any of these thoughts with Emmett. How could I? How could I explain years of demons right now with the guy I hardly know?
Instead, I ask, “why do you care?”
Chapter eleven
Emmett
WhydoIcare?Well shit, that’s a good question.
Pre-cancer Emmett–even,thinking he’s dying of cancer Emmett–would not give a flying fuck about this girl and the likely crazy dangerous situation she’s in. He would see the warning bells of drama and complications and run like hell. I don’t have a good answer for her, but I try my best.
“Honestly, Aubrey–I don’t know. I hardly know you. But I–I care about you. A lot.”
There it is. Laid out on the line. The closest I’ve ever gotten to telling a girl I have feelings for her. And dammit if I didn’t even realize what I was saying or what I was feeling until the words were falling out of my mouth. A part of me wants to take them back. To shove every word back in.
Of course, now Aubrey isn’t saying a word. She’s just staring at me. Her beautiful eyes narrowed in irritation, like I’ve seen so many times now. I glance at her hands hanging off the railing and notice she’s ritualistically squeezing her knuckles between two fingers on one of her hands. I don’t dare ask if that’s some kind of cult thing.
“Can we talk about something else?” she says finally, turning her attention out toward the town.
“Sure. We can talk about anything you want,” I say.
As long as you’re talking to me, I think to myself.
“I don’twantto talk about anything, really.”
She finally allows her hands to hang loose in her lap. The skin on her hand she was squeezing has turned pink and puffy from the pressure it was under.
“Oh, I don't think that’s true,” I say, leaning toward her and bumping her shoulder with mine gently.
A wayward thought occurs that my shoulder isn’t as large as it used to be and maybe she can tell how boney it is. I dismiss the thought and smile at her as she scowls at me. I move on with my questioning in an attempt to thaw out her icy demeanor.
“Do you enjoy working for Bea?”
Her eyes are still fixed on the town below us, but they light up, a fresh sparkle shining in them.
