was the lucky winner.
I heard a cross between a huff and a growl behind me, but I didn’t turn around to see the face of the girl I’d just insulted. I couldn’t bear to see her anger, just as I couldn’t be bothered to apologize for my own. I didn’t owe Ruby Grace anything, anyway. What did it matter if I upset her?
I shoved it out of my head as I walked, hell bent on getting home, into a hot shower, and then into my bed.
I’d had enough bullshit for one day.
Ruby Grace
That Sunday at church, I was everything I was supposed to be.
I was dressed prim and proper, thanks to Mama picking out a gorgeous, sunshine yellow dress that hugged my waist and flared at the hips, cutting off just below my knees. It was covered with lace, and she’d paired it with a large white hat with a yellow ribbon that matched the dress, as well as white designer heels — the same ones I’d worn to the barrel tasting my first week back in town. My hair was curled and smoothed to perfection, makeup classy and well done.
I was on time, in the third-row pew where Mama always liked to sit, and sitting like the young lady I was.
I was smiling, shaking hands with the congregation as they chatted before taking their own seats.
I was proudly and properly representing the Barnett name, the town of Stratford, the mayor everyone knew and loved.
And I was happy.
I am happy, I told myself, over and over and over.
This is me. This is my family. This is everything I’m supposed to do and know and be on a Sunday morning.
But right in the center of my chest there was an ache. A tight, unfamiliar pressure, like I was in a glass box sinking deeper and deeper into unmarked waters, sipping air as casually as I could and ignoring the feeling that there would soon be none left to sip.
I felt marginally better when the congregation was fully seated, our pastor taking to the podium on stage to open service with a prayer. Soon, we’d sing and praise the Lord, witness a few baptisms, hear the message of God through our pastor, and then I’d be set free for the afternoon.
At least for the next hour, the attention would be off me.
I hadn’t realized what I’d been feeling until Noah Becker pinpointed it with the perfect word.
Smothered.
And ever since he’d said it, I couldn’t shake it.
When Mama wanted to plan, to spend hours and hours every single day working on the tiniest details of the wedding, I wanted to crawl out of my skin. I felt the collar to any dress or shirt I wore growing tighter as the days grew longer, summer in full swing. The only bit of relief I got was when Anthony would call and talk to me at night, calming my breaths and easing my mind by assuring me he would be there soon, that he’d help, that no matter what, it would all be okay.
No matter what, we would be married in five weeks. And that was what mattered.
Those conversations with him that drifted into late night laughter were the only things that saved me.
That, and the night with Noah.
But that had been tarnished.
I found him one section over in the front row, sitting with all his brothers and his mom. Last Sunday, I’d watched him with a curious smile, thinking about our night at the Black Hole together.
Today, I wanted to shoot laser beams through the back of his head with my eyeballs.
I frowned, narrowing my eyes as I stared at his perfectly styled hair, the collar of his olive green button up, the tan skin of his neck. I’d been naïve to think Noah Becker could be anything less than an asshole. I thought he’d shown me a softer side of him that night at the Black Hole — he listened to me, saw that I was anxious before I did, and even opened up to me a little. All week, I’d caught myself thinking about that night, about the way it felt to ride Tank in the moonlight, to have the heat of a man behind me, the ear of the last person on Earth I expected bent to listen to every word I had to say.
But it was just an act, or a drunken game, or some way for him to mess with me.
He’d shown his true colors again when I’d run