Grace

DO YOU remember the first book you read all by yourself?

Like, all by yourself, without any help or assistance to sound out the words—just the power you had to know it all by yourself.

I do.

My lips pull up into a smile as the sun spills across the room in golden streams, pooling at the base of the window seat. I trace the velvety space between Ellie, my cat's ears leans into my touch. I hug my book in my lap close to my chest, its weight grounding me, and close my eyes just for a moment. I can almost see myself then—smaller hands, a furrowed brow, and that single book that made me believe I could do anything.

It was Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?

I adored that book.

I remember being seven years old and sitting on the worn carpet of my first-grade classroom. My teacher, Mrs. Block, said I had worked so hard on my sight words and sounding out letters that she gave me the book as a reward. I clutched it to my chest like a treasure, and for the first time, reading didn't feel like a wall I had to climb anymore. It was a victory.

A big victory.

I rushed off the bus that afternoon, my feet barely touching the ground as I practically skipped to the front door. My heart was racing, eager to share my little victory. I found Mom sitting on the couch, folding laundry, her face relaxed as she hummed an old hymn. I practically begged her to listen as I clutched it in my hands, bouncing on my toes. At first, my words stumbled, tripping over the rhythm I hadn't quite mastered.

But Mom's eyes never left me. Her smile never wavered, and soon, my voice grew steadier, more confident. By the time I reached the last page, I felt like I was on top of the world.

When I finished, Mom clapped her hands together, her face lighting up with pride. Her hand reached out, tucking a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. Her fingers lingered there for just a moment, brushing softly against my hearing aid. "You've worked so hard, my sweet girl."

For just a moment, I felt like I'd done something good enough to be noticed—like maybe I could make Mom proud in ways that mattered, ways that would make her smile that way all the time.

I rest my chin on my book gazing out the window. I carried that book with me everywhere, its edges fraying from my grip, the spine softening with use. I read it over and over, as though each read would unlock something new.

I begged Mom for more books, and then another, and she did what she always did—she found a way to give me what I needed. Soon enough, my room wasn't just a place to sleep. It became my library, filled with stories that took me places I couldn't go in real life. Mom even got me a little bookshelf from a yard sale, and even painted it together.

She doesn't paint much anymore.

But one book stood out above the rest—Oh, the Places You'll Go. Every night, Mom would read it to me before bed, her voice soft, her finger tracing the words like a gentle guide. The words came alive in her voice, but it was more than the story that captivated me. It was the way she looked at me, her eyes.

When we reached the end, her voice always faltered, just a little. She'd get teary-eyed, brushing my hair back from my face and cupping my chin in her hands. "You can go anywhere, Grace," she'd whisper, her words trembling with conviction. "There's nothing too far if you can reach it."

And for a while, I believed her.

I believed anything was possible.

Yet, Dad saw things differently.

He didn't care for bedtime stories or the books I treasured. What he cared about were talents—the kind you could show off to prove your worth. Rachel had her singing, Caleb had his guitar, and me? I had books.

But books weren't talents in his eyes; they were distractions, indulgences, obsession.. An addiction.

I sigh rubbing my lips together and play the edge of the pages of my book. I swallow hard at thinking how the love for Books comes with a cost.

Every Friday, we would have a formal planned family night to show off our 'talent' for the lord. I was determined and practiced that entire week to read Brown Bear, Brown Bear aloud, my first-ever book, the one I knew I could read perfectly.

I thought he'd be proud.

I started to read, my voice small but steady, I noticed the look on his face—his brows furrowed, his lips pressed tight. He reached out, took the book from my hands mid-sentence, and flipped through it with a sharpness that made me shrink in my chair.

"This isn't the kind of thing we bring into this house," he voiced over all my dreams. "It promotes evolution! God is our only creator!"

Darwinism.

I didn't know what it meant, but I knew by his tone it wasn't good. Before I could ask, he walked over to the trash can and threw the book inside.

I froze, my chest tightening, tears burning my eyes. I wanted to argue, to tell him it wasn't fair. It was just a book, a little story about animals and colors.

How could it be wrong?

I was too small to fight back. My words stayed trapped in my throat as he walked away yelling at mom, leaving me staring at the trash can.

Even worse.... Mom didn't say anything.

That was the first time I felt like my love for books, something so pure and innocent, could be used against me. It wasn't just a book Dad had thrown away. It was my confidence, my excitement, my little victory.

It was the first time I learned that stories could be dangerous, at least in my house.

I take a deep breath in smelling the salty breeze drifts through the open window, brushing against my skin. It stirs the loose strands of hair framing my face.

The second time my dad caught me reading a 'bad book' I was eight.

I can still picture the moment in my mind. There I was, sitting in my little nook by the window, the one where the moonlight spilled in just right for halloween, bathing the pages of my book in golden warmth. My knees were pulled up to my chest, and the smell of Halloween candy lingered in the air—Mrs. Gordon had sent us home with bags full of treats just that afternoon. In my hands, I held the sparkliest little book, a harmless story about witches that I had pulled from the school library. The cover was what caught me first—the broomstick glittering like it had caught some of the magic from the season itself.

We didn't celebrate Halloween.

I was lost in the pages, the rhythm of the words filling the silence around me. It was silly, really, a simple story of witches and mischief.

Nothing more.

But as the words flowed, I didn't hear my dad's footsteps until they were right behind me. He didn't say anything at first. He just stood there, staring at the book I was holding, his fingers brushing over the cover like he could feel something dark seeping from it. His voice burned with something far worse than anger—it was condemnation.

Before I could even find the words, he was yelling at Mom, demanding to know why she'd let such "blasphemy" into our house. My stomach dropped. I didn't understand then—how could a book, a silly little story about witches, be such a terrible thing?

But I could see the fire in his eyes, the way he shook the book in front of me like it was some sort of dangerous weapon. I barely had time to react when he tore it in half.

The whole night he made me sit with him, opened the Bible to the Book of Numbers and read passages about law and obedience until my throat was raw. His words cut through me as much as the tearing of the book had. He told me that the words would "cleanse my soul," but all I could feel was shame, like there was something wrong with me—something wrong with what I loved.

By the time I was thirteen, I had learned the hard way. I knew better than to get caught. I had become skilled at hiding my books, at keeping my secrets tucked away where no one could find them. Also Ellie and her movements cause me to be quick. I giggle as she snuggles her head into me.

Dad only wanted me to read books that were character building for my salvation so Mom took me to this new opening of the Christian book store. I picked something safe, something I thought he could approve of—an innocent Christian romance about a high school quarterback falling for the girl who tutored him. It was sweet, full of hope, just like I wanted my life to be.

That book became my treasure. It sat, hidden under my mattress, read over and over in secret. The way the two characters were so pure and just loved each other.

Even kissed at the end of the book.

I craved that reality and my curiosity grew.

When I was sixteen, I finally dared to borrow a steamier novel from the local library. It was graphic and it hinted at a world I had only ever dreamed about, one of desire and forbidden attraction. I wasn't sure what I expected, but I knew I wanted to know more.

That is, until my mother found it while cleaning my room. She didn't say a word. She just held it in her hands, stared at it for a moment, and then walked straight to my father.

What followed was worse than the time with the witch book.

I could feel the tension in the air before he even spoke. He gathered the entire family in the living room—my siblings, my mother—like we were about to be lectured. I sat there, my heart pounding, the weight of the book heavy in my chest. He didn't shout this time, but the coldness in his voice was far worse. He held it up like it was poison, his fingers barely touching the cover.

"Grace has invited sin into this household," he announced.

My cheeks burned as he made me stand in the center of the room and confess—detail by humiliating detail—how I'd been drawn to "sinful words" and "worldly desires." I could feel my siblings' eyes on me, a mix of pity and judgment, as I mumbled my apologies.

But that wasn't enough.

The following Sunday, during his sermon, he preached about the dangers of temptation. He spoke of the devil creeping into hearts and homes, warning the congregation about the "spirit of Jezebel." He never said my name, but everyone knew. I could feel their eyes on me as I sat in the front pew, my head bowed, wishing I could disappear.

Ellie's claws scraping lightly against my arm. I froze, my pulse quickening.

A warning.

She always knew when someone was coming. Quickly, I place my white tassel bookmark— and snap it shut. I lift the lid of my ottoman and tuck it away, nestled under an old blanket where no one will think to look. Turning around, I reached up and turned my hearing aids back on. Just as the soft hum of sound returned, my door swings open.

My mom stood there, framed in the doorway like a portrait. Her blonde hair—soft waves, the kind you'd see in a magazine—fell gracefully down her back, though a few strands clung to her cheek, as if she'd hurried to come upstairs. Her light blue dress, simple and modest, swayed slightly with her movement, clinches neatly at the waist and flowing gently to her calves.

"Grace, it's  time. We're leaving for church. Didn't you hear me?" She arches her brow scanning my room. She walks over to my desk where my sweater is picking it up. My eyes focused on her a upper arms red like she bumped into something's

I shake my head, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "Sorry. I turned them off. What happened to your arms?

Her eyes widened looking down, biting her lip softly, "oh just ran into the banister, and don't change the subject you can't turn off your hearing aids. It's just not safe."

"I'm sorry," I mumble, glancing at Ellie, who's perched on the edge of my window seat, her tail flicking lazily.

Mom sighs, her shoulders loosening slightly as she holds up my white crochet sweater. "It's fine. Here, cover your shoulders. I don't want to hear your dad complain."

The fabric is soft in my hands as I slip my arms into it. I grab my Bible and my boho crossbody bag, its leather warm and worn under my fingertips.

The chiffon of my baby-pink dress swishes lightly against my knees as we walk downstairs, the sound nearly drowned out by the click of Mom's nude pumps on the hardwood steps. Her Michael Kors bag hangs neatly from her shoulder, the gold accents catching the morning light.

Dad waits in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his phone in one hand and his to-go coffee cup in the other.

"Finally," he flicks his wrist to check the time on his sleek black watch. He takes a sip of coffee. He had a fitted white polo with the sleeves snug around his arms and dark wash jeans, not a wrinkle or scuff in sight, and the white sneakers on his feet look freshly cleaned, the kind of shoes that never see dirt.

"You're always on time when it comes to your job," His tone is cold, his eyes fixed on me. "But when it comes to God, suddenly time doesn't matter?"

I freeze, the grip on my crossbody bag tightening. "I didn't hear you—"

"Then turn up your hearing aids," he snaps, cutting me off.

The words sting more than I want to admit. My cheeks burn as I glance down at the floor, biting my lip to keep any response from spilling out.

"Jared," Mom's hand brushing his arm as if to calm him.

He shrugs her off, shaking his head as he grabs his keys. "I'm just saying. Maybe if she spent less time with her head in the clouds and more time focusing on what matters..." He lets the sentence hang in the air.

My stomach twist, but I don't look away. "I told you, I didn't hear—"

"You didn't hear because you chose not to," Dad cuts me off, his voice sharp and unforgiving, slicing through the air. "You turn them off because you don't want to hear. That's the real problem, Grace. You don't want to listen to anyone—not to me, not to your mother, and certainly not to God."

Mom lets out a short, frustrated breath, her hand resting on her hip. "Okay, Jared, that's enough," she says firmly. "She's twenty years old. Relax."

"If she's under my roof, she obeys my rules," he snaps, his tone biting as he strides toward the side door that leads to the garage. "Let's go. We're actually late."

I sigh heavily as the door slams behind him, the sound reverberating through the room like the final gavel of judgment. Mom gives me a weary look, her lips pressed tightly together, before she walks ahead. I follow silently, clutching my crossbody bag.

Outside, the sleek black SUV gleams under the morning sun, its polished surface reflecting the cobalt sky. I slide into the backseat, the cool leather sticking to my legs as I settle in, tugging my white sweater tighter around my shoulders.

The faint scent of Mom's vanilla perfume mingles with the bitter aroma of espresso that clings to the car. The engine purrs softly as the SUV glides down the winding coastal road. The ocean stretches endlessly beside us, shimmering like liquid gold in the late morning light. I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, letting the rhythmic crash of waves fill my mind. My fingers trace circles on the hem of my dress, the soft chiffon slipping under my touch. My phone vibrates in my purse and I take it out reviewing a few messages that bring my lips upward.

A soft vibration from my purse breaks through the silence. I pull out my phone, my lips curving upward as I read the screen.

Hunter: GIRLY POPS! I'M HOMEEEEEEEE! I'm back bitches! Cheer season is officially OVER, and I am READY to live my best non-stretchy-pants life. Are you excited to see me because I'm excited to see YOU both. Andddddd, don't think I forgot about your twenty-first birthday,  Amazing 🍺 🍸 🥂✨ We're celebrating ALL. WEEKEND. LONG.

Willow: It's too early to be this extra Hunter! 🙃

Amal: Extra is putting it nicely

Hunter: In the words of T-Dog haters going to hate hate hate hate 💃🏻 🙂‍↔️

Amal:T-Dog? Lol stop ✋🏽 😂 I'm all for drinks 🍹

Hunter:  And that's what they don't see, mm-mm
That's what they don't see, mm-mm 🙂‍↔️🙂‍↔️

Amal: you woke us up for quote Taylor!

Willow: shut up!!!!!' but sadly I agree with Hunter! Have thought about plans? I'm always down for a nice Marg!

The corners of my mouth pull into a smile as I read his message. Only my best friends Amal, Hunter and Willow can turn a bad morning into something bright.

Me: Maybe a root beer float 🙈

Hunter: 😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😬😵‍💫

Amal: With Baileys?

Willow: 😂🫢 you are going to make him have a seizure Grace!

Grace: What?! I like Root beer floats 🥳

Hunter: BOO, YOU WHORE! Don't be boring! This your one time to live and didn't you tell me you wanted your belly button pierced!

Dang it I thought he would forget about that

Me: You know why not and don't call me that!

Amal: I'll get my nose pierced if you will get your belly button pierced Grace!

Willow: Me too, Grace, live up on your birthday!

Hunter: 1. You are a whore, I've see your book selection! 2. I'm not afraid of your daddy, 3. You're an ADULT, HELLOOO, and 3. You DESERVE a proper celebration after surviving twenty-one years in THAT house.

Me: Please don't call him that!

Willow: I second that

Amal: classic

Hunter: 😘 Fine, but only because I love you. And listen, birthday girl, you WILL have fun. I don't care if I have to carry you out of that house myself. Just you, me, Willie and margs and tacos!

Me: No margaritas, Hunter.

Hunter: We will discuss more later but It's the misfit gang against the world, baby you can even invite that bitch you call a friend Mary. Also, tell Ellie to prepare for Auntie Hunter snuggles because I'm on my way.

Willow: Misfit gang forever! And please no Mary.

Amal: For the love of mercy no Mary!

We sure are a bunch of misfits in this town. And this town definitely will let you know that quickly.
An email pops up from Seabrook County Jail. My stomach tightens as I bite my lip and open it, dreading the usual news.

Subject: Commissary Account Balance – Immediate Action Required

Dear Grace Carrington,

We would like to inform you that Intimate 10915 Caleb Ezekiel Carrington's commissary account balance is critically low. In order for him to continue purchasing necessary items, we recommend that you deposit funds into his account as soon as possible. Please visit our online portal to refill his account.

Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.

I sigh and close my eyes, my heart sinking. I've been trying to keep up with his commissary, but it's hard, especially with my dad putting red tape on me working so much at the library instead of going to bible study.

"Oh my." Mom's voice draws my attention as she scrolls on her cellphone. "Did you hear about Carlos Reyes?"

My ears perk up because Mr. Reyes has the best bookstore in town and it's perfect on the boardwalk! I hope he is okay he is so kind and always letting me know about new releases. 

"Yes, Parkinson's Disease such a shame" Dad matters-of-fact, like he's reading off a medical report. "It's unfortunate. He's been a pillar of the church for decades. But these things happen, Beth. We'll add him to the prayer list."

My heart sinks at the thought who would help him run the bookstore let alone take care of him because his wife is just as old as he is.

"Is he going to be alright?" I chime in.

"With God anything is possible Grace, you know that." Dad huffs.

"Maybe we could do a sick-and-shut-in basket with the women's ministry," Mom offers hesitantly, glancing at him for approval.

"That's a good idea Mom!" I chirp.

Dad's eyes remain fixed on the road, his voice clipped. "Sure, Beth. That's fine. Grace let your mother take care of it." He glances at the review mirror at me. I sink in my seat and swallow softly.

"We should try to start a food meal prep for them too." Mom typing on her phone probably already messaging the woman's ministry.

He exhales sharply through his nose, a sound more dismissive than sympathetic. "Let's not overdo it. We can't play favoritism to the congregation. We'll pray, maybe send something through the church. That's enough."

Mom's face softens in disagreement, but she persists, "But I think—"

Dad's hand raised to silence her, "There's no time for that," Dad dismisses, his tone growing more rigid. "Between preparing for next Sunday's sermon and the Republican convention, my schedule's full. Besides, what could we possibly do for him? It's a death sentence. Plus, his son is coming down from Boston to help out, and he has a wife, Beth."

What could we possibly do for him? How about showing a sliver of compassion?

Isn't that what he's always preaching?

Mom hums in response, her voice carrying a touch of warmth, "The Republican Convention is a big deal, I'll just keep praying for them." She sounds almost pleased with herself. "Promoting Christian values to the nation—it's such an honor."

I can practically hear the smile in her voice, and it makes me sick. The way she always tries to please him, always seeking his approval, it's suffocating.

Dad's smug grin spreads across his face, like a man who believes he's part of something much bigger than he is. "Exactly. This country needs guidance now more than ever. God's work doesn't end at the pulpit—it extends to the Capitol and our nation."

I roll my eyes, unable to hold it back. My fingers drum against my thigh as I stare out the window, trying to avoid the bitterness that's rising in my throat.

How can he say that?

How can he talk about the country's needs when he's too blind to see what's right in front of him? His own son, his family, his church—it's all just a backdrop for his own image.

The spire of the church rises first, a gleaming white tower that seems to pierce the sky, flanked by towering glass walls that reflect the sunlight in brilliant flashes. It's massive, more like an arena than a house of worship.

The sleek, modern structure makes a bold statement—imposing, pristine, and undeniably extravagant. The parking lot is packed with high-end SUVs, luxury sedans, and sports cars, all glistening under the sun, a sign of the prosperity gospel Dad preaches.

Near the entrance, a giant digital screen flashes Bible verses and sermon quotes in gold script, mixing with announcements for upcoming events: "Join Pastor Carrington this Sunday for a message of hope and abundance!" Rows of palm trees line the path, their leaves swaying in the coastal breeze like they're bowing in reverence. Everything, from the glass façade reflecting the ocean to the polished mahogany doors flanked by marble-like pillars, screams perfection.

Dad slows the car as we approach the reserved parking spot. "Pastor Carrington—Reserved Parking Only," it reads in bold letters. He pulls into the space, stops, and parks.

"Beth, Grace," he says with a glance, his voice clipped. "Remember who you are representing."

He steps out first, walks around the suv and opens the door for Mom. She steps out, graceful and poised, like they're walking down a red carpet. I follow, trailing behind them, as they stride toward the church with perfect synchronization, a united front for the congregation. People standing near the steps greet them with wide smiles and enthusiastic voices. I offer a polite nod in return, but the tightness in my chest only grows.

We walk inside, the chatter of the congregation buzzing around us, and upbeat Christian pop fills the air. Dad breaks away from us as he heads toward the green room, while Mom and I walk toward the sanctuary.

Inside, the sanctuary is stunning, designed with high, arching ceilings and rows of cushioned chairs that stretch toward the stage. The stage itself is grand, bathed in light, with a full band set up on one side and a massive LED screen behind the pulpit. The entire space feels more like a concert hall than a church—slick, modern, and overwhelming in its grandeur.

"Mom, Grace," a familiar feathery voice calls from behind us.

We turn to see my older sister Rachel, holding my newborn nephew Luca against her chest. She's in a flowy beige dress and wedges, her look still polished as always. But her hair, usually perfectly styled, is gathered in a messy bun—something I've never seen her wear. It's a small thing, but it hits me harder than I expect.

Rachel is different now.

Rachel steps forward and immediately wraps her arms around Mom for a hug, squeezing her tightly before offering me a quick side hug, "I saved you guys a spot," she says, her voice light, though there's an undeniable strain in her words.

"Thanks, Rachel. How are you feeling?" Mom asks, her eyes searching Rachel's face with a tenderness.

"Oh, you know, postpartum, but it's a blessing," Rachel replies, flashing a quick smile that doesn't reach her eyes. Her gaze flickers briefly to Luca, who is snuggled close to her, and I see the way her fingers twitch.

Mom brushes a hand over Rachel's arm. "Rachel, I told you—if you need anything—"

"I'm fine, Mom. God's got me," Rachel interrupts, her voice sharp, as if she's forcing herself to believe it. The words feel like armor, a shield against the vulnerability that's creeping in.

But I can see the cracks in her facade.

Mom smiles gently, her hands still hovering around Rachel's arm, her worry hidden behind a veil of maternal grace. "You know I just worry about you, sweetheart."

"It's my calling to be a mom," Rachel insists, her lips pressing together into a tight line, the words too rehearsed to sound natural.

The weight of those words hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. Mom's expression softens again, but there's a flicker of something else behind her eyes—something unreadable.

"Right, well, let's get seated. Here, I can hold him, so you can worship" Mom offers, reaching for Luca with hands that tremble ever so slightly, her smile blooming like it always does when she's in 'Mom Mode.'

"Oh, look at him!" someone near us coos, and I feel the collective gaze of the congregation on Rachel and her baby. "What a beautiful boy."

I watch Rachel's shoulders stiffen slightly, her lips pressing into a tight smile.  "Yes, he is," she murmurs, but the softness in her voice doesn't quite match the stiffness in her posture.

Mom's attention is now fully on Luca, her fingers brushing through his soft curls. "Here, sweetheart, let me take him." She gently slides her arms around him and shakes her head no. "Thanks, Mom, but I have it" she  sighs.

"I'm going to go find Mary," I interject, stepping back, the tension in my shoulders loosening slightly as I put space between me and the scene unfolding in front of me. The last thing I want is to get caught in the middle of this unspoken battle between my mom and Rachel.

Walking through the crowd, I'm already feeling the weight of being Pastor's Daughter. The smiles, the nods, the polite chatter—it all gets a little overwhelming sometimes. Everyone expects so much, especially after Caleb's struggles. It's like I'm walking through a spotlight, and I can't escape the heat of it.

"Hi, Grace!" A familiar voice calls behind me, raspy and warm.

I turn to find Zack, leaning against the pillar near the entrance, a coffee cup in hand. His look is effortlessly laid-back: a faded plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, with a simple white T-shirt peeking underneath. His jeans are well-worn and a bit too tight, and his sneakers—white with a scuff on the toe.

"Hey, Zack!" I smile, a little relieved to see a friendly face.

"Mission Mary?" He straightens, taking a step closer, his eyes crinkling with a soft smile.

"Always," I laugh, the corners of my mouth twitching.

"I can walk you to her, if you want. How've you been? Big two-one coming up, huh?"

"Oh yeah," I shrug, pretending I'm not a little stressed about it. "I don't really know what I'm doing yet."

"You should do something beachy," he offers with warmth. "Maybe some games, worship, bonfire? I can help set it up for you."

"That sounds fun," I admit, but my mind drifts to Hunter. He'd probably hate that idea. He never really liked the whole church thing.

Zack's eyes soften, and he takes another step toward me, his hand moving toward the sleeve of his plaid shirt like he's considering something. "Let me know. I'll help. It'd be fun."

Before I can respond, I feel a sharp presence beside me. "There you are!" Mary's voice rings out, her cheerful pitch cutting through the air. "Of course, Zack is with you," Mary says with a small smile, looking at me with a sort of superiority that feels almost rehearsed.

Zack chuckles softly, clearly not fazed "Is that a bad thing?"

She turns to Zack, her voice dripping with sweetness. "Guilty?"

"He helped me find you." I bump into her shoulder.

"Or maybe he just wanted an excuse to walk with you, Grace," Mary teases, her lips curling into a sly smirk as her eyes flicker to Zack, biting her lower lip playfully at him.

Zack shifts his weight, his stance still casual but now more defensive. "It's not like that, Mary," he says, his tone even but firm.

Mary sings the next words, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "That's what they all say." She links her arm with mine, tugging me away from Zack. As we walk, I glance back at him. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, his gaze fixed somewhere on the stage.

I pull my arm free from Mary's grasp. "Why'd you do that?" I ask, trying to steady my voice.

"Do what?" Mary asks, her voice almost too sweet. "He needs to man up."

"He doesn't like me," I reply firmly.

"And I don't like Zaxby's," Mary retorts, her tone dismissive. "But the guy is crazy about you."

"Mary," I mutter, rolling my eyes as I try to push past the conversation.

"Grace," she teases back, nudging me playfully with her elbow.

We walk past a small group of people near the back of the sanctuary, and I catch sight of my mom speaking with Mrs.Reyes holding a young boy—maybe four or so—who is gazing around with wide, curious eyes along with a young girl tugging at her dress. Mrs.Reyes lets out a smile agreeing with something my mom said as she rubs the little boys back.

"Oh," Mary mutters, noticing where my attention is. "I feel bad for Mrs. Reyes, did you hear about her husband?"

"I did, I hope he gets better." I twist my lips to the side as I see Mr. Reyes walk up to his wife putting his hand on the small of her back holding a cane at his left side.

Mom points at me and I wave at them.  "They must be their grandchildren," Mary continues as we stop at our seats.

I sit down placing my purse on the ground and put my Bible in my lap. "I didn't know they had a son." I mention.

"A daughter too but she likes doing mission work or something in Thailand doing English as a second language." Mary waves at Savannah and Kylie, girls in our young adult group.

"Hey!" Kylie waves first and sits down next me while Savannah next to Mary.

"What are you guys talking about?" Savannah digging in her purse.

"Oh just the Reyes family" Mary points as Rachel comes back with Luca covered with a blanket.

"Oh yeah so sad." Kylie glances at them.

"Ugh your sister is so perfect." Savannah gushes as she traces her lips with lipgloss.

"Yeah perfect." I murmur.

"Well what I was telling Grace is that Reyes family son back and I believe that's their grandchildren." Mary returns back the conversation.

"Oh," Savannah seems surprised.

I'm surprised too.

It's weird because they never mention grandchildren but then again I never really asked when it comes to their store I'm so consume of the amount books they have.

They have the best store right on the boardwalk.

"That's Rio and Teal, their little bundle of joys You know, it's crazy... their son Chris had children outside of marriage, too. Can you imagine? The Reyes family is so God centered too, but I don't think anyone saw that coming." She shakes her head, clearly enjoying the drama of it.

"But hey, it's not our business, right?" Mary laughs along with Savannah and Kylie.

I twist my lips observing the Reyes family engage with Mom while getting settling in their seats.  I know Mom probably has already put some organizing into helping out thats who she is.  But I hope when she does it  for the best interest of them to show we do care instead of just sending 'thoughts and prayers'.

Author's Note

I've been inspired and I'm fully in love with Grace and Chris's journey.  This story has been super hard to right but being in a bible school and the events that occurred in it. I would love to share the tea and you guys join in the journey ;) Let me know your thoughts and predictions about the story. ALOT to unpack in this first chapter it took me awhile to make sure I included everyone who is important in this story!