What the actual fuck did I just see?
My mother. The woman who’s always demanded compliance, who preached quiet servitude to my father, half-brother, and every man in my life simply because I was born a woman. Because of some supposed sin recorded eons ago that had nothing to do with me. A curse I was meant to carry. And the whole time—the whole fucking time—everything she’s said has been a lie.
“Sweetie, please let us explain.”
The deep tenor of Dean Whitehouser’s voice has me stopping in my tracks. Rain howls around us, soaking through my thin jacket and drenching my jeans, but I turn to face him with a viciousness I’m proud of.
“Do. Not. Call me that.” The words are a growl as much as a promise. Of what, I’m not sure, but suddenly the image of Silas with a Glock in his hand and blood splattered across the canyon doesn’t seem so scary. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Dean Whitehouser stands there, glancing back to where my adulterous mother huddles beneath the administration building’s overhang, avoiding the worst of the storm. Because of course she is.
“This isn’t how we wanted to do this,” he says, shifting on his feet.
“We?” I snap. “How long has this been going on?”
I’m not sure why I ask, only that I expect the question to hurt him. And I want it to. I want my mother’s shame, but I’ll settle for his. And then his eyes soften.
“A little over twenty years. It started as a friendship. The early days of her marriage to Roy and having to be a stepmother to Jonathan were tough. I was there for her. Platonically at first, but then one thing led to another and… Trisha became pregnant.”
I blink as the silence stretches between us, fat raindrops hammering the concrete.
“With you,” he adds, searching my face, studying me with eyes the same color as my own.
“No,” I whisper, waiting for him to laugh or to explain that this is all some kind of twisted prank, but he just stands there with an idiotic smile on his face. Like he expects me to run into his waiting arms.
“Yes, sweetie,” he says, and just like that, the lens through which I view the world shatters. A cold sweat breaks out across my forehead, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he doesn’t care because he keeps talking, keeps unraveling my reality.
“I’m your biological father. Your mother and I discussed the possibility of raising you together, but there was the whole thing with Roy and Jonathan… and well, I don’t exactly have a lot of free time. Being the dean of a prestigious university is a significant commitment. Parenting would’ve been a burden.”
I flinch as if he slapped me.
“I have to go,” I mumble, needing to get out of here.
“Of course,” he says, keeping pace with me for a few steps. “But now that it’s out in the open, I’m happy to cover your costs of attendance. Tuition, room and board. Just send me the bill. It’s the least I can do.”
Numbly, I nod, holding on to the last shreds of my dignityuntil he turns away, joining my mother at the edge of the building.
I keep it together until I’m out of sight.
Then I run, splashing through murky puddles and muddy sidewalks. The rain has softened to a hazy mist, but the vast doors of the cathedral rise through the grey ahead.
It’s the time of day where morning services have ended and afternoon ones haven’t begun, which means no one is there to see the mess I’ve become as I crash through the doors—rain and grime and heartbreak clinging to my heels.
Rows of pews stretch before me. Dark stained glass looms overhead, judging me. Weighing my battered heart and finding it wanting.
“Am I being punished?” I ask the flickering candles and silent saints.
Thunder rolls a few moments later, as if in answer.
I drop to my knees, my soaked jeans pressing against the cold floor, my wet hair clinging to my face. And cry.
42
EVIE
I’m not sure how long I stay there with my knees pressing into the marbled floor of the cathedral, but it’s long enough for a puddle of tears and rainwater to form. My cheeks have dried, but I continue to stare at the reflection beneath me. The storm must have passed because the light streaming in through the stained-glass windows brightens the cavernous space.
There’s a resounding silence, filled only with the faint trickle of water and the rhythm of my now steady breathing. Focusing on the light, I drag myself upright. My legs are sore and stiff, joints aching, but I raise my head and close my eyes, basking in the warmth of the sun’s rays as I process all that’s happened.
