Chapter 2

“She’ll be right down. Can I get you some coffee?”

Layla paused at the last step, her hand still on the banister. She could see the edge of Marcus Webb’s shoulder, the crisp line of his church suit. He sat in the armchair her father never let anyone else use, a coffee cup balanced on his knee.

“No, thank you, William. I’m fine.”

His voice was low, measured. Layla had heard it a hundred times from the pew behind him, offering prayers and announcements. It had never sounded like this before—close, expectant.

She stepped into the room.

Marcus stood immediately. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair silver at the temples. His face was kind in a worn way, like leather left too long in the sun. He smiled, and it seemed genuine enough.

“Layla. It’s good to see you.”

“Deacon Webb,” she said, because she didn’t know what else to call him.

“Please, call me Marcus.”

Her father cleared his throat. “I’ll give you two a moment to talk. Ruth, let’s check on the pie.”

Her mother rose from the sofa, and for a second her eyes met Layla’s. There was something there—apology, maybe, or fear—but she looked away quickly and followed William into the kitchen.

The grandfather clock ticked.

Marcus gestured to the sofa. “Please, sit.”

She sat, perching on the edge of the cushion. He lowered himself back into the armchair, setting his coffee on the side table.

“I know this isn’t what you expected,” he said. “And I know it’s not easy.”

Layla said nothing.

“I want you to know I’ll do my best to be a good husband.” He said it simply, like he was reciting a fact he’d already accepted. “I’m not a young man, and I don’t have fancy words. But I’ll provide for you. You’ll have a home, and I won’t raise my voice or my hand. That’s my promise.”

It was more than her mother had gotten, Layla thought. But that wasn’t saying much.

“Thank you,” she managed.

They sat in silence for a long minute. Marcus asked about her job at the library—she’d worked there since high school—and she answered in short sentences. He told her about his grown children, both married, both in Atlanta. He mentioned the house, a three-bedroom on Oak Street with a porch swing and a garden.

“You can change anything you like,” he said. “The wallpaper, the furniture. It’s your home now too.”

Layla nodded. The words felt hollow, but she couldn’t tell if that was because he didn’t mean them or because she couldn’t hear them past the roaring in her ears.

After half an hour, William and Ruth returned with coffee and a plate of pecan pie. The conversation turned to church business, the fall festival, the roof leak in the fellowship hall. Layla excused herself and went to the kitchen to wash dishes, even though Caleb had already loaded the dishwasher.

She was drying a casserole dish when her mother walked in.

“Let me help with that,” Ruth said, reaching for a towel.

“I’ve got it.”

Ruth stood beside her, not touching anything. The silence stretched.

“I know you’re angry,” Ruth said finally. Her voice was small, like a child’s.

Layla set the dish down and turned to face her mother. “Are you?”

Ruth blinked. “Am I what?”

“Angry. At Dad. At the church. At the whole mess.”

Ruth’s hand tightened on the towel. She said nothing.

“I thought so.” Layla’s voice came out harder than she intended. “You’ve been doing what he says for twenty-five years. Are you happy?”

Ruth’s face crumpled. She looked away, toward the window above the sink, where the evening light was fading.

“Happy isn’t always the point,” she whispered.

“Then what is?”

Ruth turned back, and for a moment she looked like the woman in old photographs, the one who had married William Johnson at nineteen. “You stay. You keep going. You make a life out of what you’re given.”

“That’s not a life. That’s survival.”

Ruth swallowed hard. “And sometimes that’s enough.”

Layla stared at her mother. She’d never seen Ruth’s shoulders slope like that, never heard her voice crack on a word that small. For years she’d thought her mother was content, that she had made peace with her choices. Now she wondered if Ruth had simply given up hoping for anything else.

“I don’t want that for you,” Ruth said, barely a whisper. “But I don’t know how to stop it.”

Slowly, Layla reached out and took her mother’s hand. Ruth’s fingers were cold, the wedding band loose on her finger.

“I know,” Layla said.

They stood like that for a moment, two women holding hands in a yellow kitchen while a man they barely knew talked football with the man who ruled their home.

Then Ruth pulled away and wiped her eyes. “I should get back. He’ll wonder where I am.”

Layla nodded, and her mother walked out.

She stayed in the kitchen for a while longer, listening to the low murmur of voices from the living room. When she finally returned, Marcus was standing by the door, his coat on.

“I’ll see you Sunday,” he said, and his eyes held hers for a moment too long.

“Yes,” she said.

He nodded to her parents and let himself out. The door clicked shut, and the house fell quiet.

William turned to Layla. “That went well. He’s a good man.”

Layla said nothing. She walked past him and up the stairs, her hand trailing along the same worn banister. At the top, she paused and looked back down. Her father was already settled in his armchair, the television remote in his hand. Her mother stood in the kitchen doorway, dish towel still clutched in her fingers.

Neither of them looked up.

Layla closed her bedroom door and sat on the edge of her bed, the old springs creaking beneath her. The wedding was in thirteen days. She could count them off like a sentence, each one a step closer to a life she hadn’t chosen.

But her mother’s words stayed with her: I don’t want that for you.

Maybe that meant something. Maybe it meant nothing. Either way, Layla knew one thing: if she was going to walk into that church, she was going to do it with her eyes open.