Tag: Meghan’s Son

Chapter 1

Sunday, June 5, 2005

Meghan Orr knew fifteen distinct creaking patterns in the hallway floorboards outside her bedroom door. Each one told its own story: her mother’s hesitant approach, soft-footed and uncertain; Elder Wilson’s heavy, self-important stride during his monthly home visits; the synchronized steps of her older twin sisters, Melissa and Melanie, when they were still at home. But the pattern approaching now—slow, deliberate, with the groan of the third board from her door frame—that belonged to only one person.

Her father.

Meghan’s fingers found the edge of The God Delusion beneath her mattress and pushed it deeper into its hiding place. Sixteen seconds. That’s all she had, based on hundreds of previous approaches. Her eyes darted to the calendar on her wall, its pages filled with neatly written church events and youth group obligations. Only she knew about the tiny dots in the bottom corners, counting down. Eighty-two days until the Duke University scholarship letter arrived. Eighty-two days until she might have a way out.

Fourteen seconds.

She smoothed her bedspread, adjusted her posture on the edge of her bed, and opened her Bible to Proverbs. The worn leather binding fell open easily to the most-visited passages—the ones about obedient daughters and submissive women that her father had made her copy as penance so many times before.

Ten seconds.

Her gaze flicked to the ceiling panel above her closet, checking that no corner peeked out of place, betraying the books hidden there—college-level physics texts and dog-eared paperbacks on evolutionary biology. Her advanced placement science teacher had been quietly supplying her with the materials for two years, each one a fragment of the bridge Meghan was building toward freedom.

Six seconds.

She took a deep breath and arranged her features into what she privately called her “Sunday morning face,” placid, attentive, with just the right touch of devotional serenity. She had practiced it a thousand times in the small mirror above her dresser.

Three seconds.

Three light taps on the door. At least he was knocking now. That change came last year, after she turned sixteen. A symbolic acknowledgment of growing up, though not an actual grant of privacy, the lock had been removed from her door the day she’d gotten her first period.

“Come in, Daddy,” she called, her voice modulated to the perfect pitch of daughterly respect.

Pastor Mel Orr filled the doorway entirely, six-foot-two of imposing certainty. His eyes swept the room with practiced vigilance—checking the desk (homework displayed appropriately), the bookshelf (only approved titles), the bedside table (Bible open, devotional beside it), the walls (scripture verses in cross-stitch, nothing worldly).

“You missed dinner,” he said. Not a question.

“I’m sorry, Daddy. I was finishing my calculus homework and lost track of time.” A partial truth—she had been doing calculus, but only for twenty minutes. The rest of the afternoon had been spent reading Hitchens while sitting on the floor of her closet.

He studied her face, looking for signs of deception. Meghan had learned years ago not to blink too much, not to touch her hair, not to swallow noticeably. She had learned to believe her own lies the moment she told them.

“Your mother saved you a plate.” Another pause, another assessment. “You’ve been spending a lot of time on schoolwork lately.”

Meghan felt the familiar tightening in her chest. This was dangerous territory. Her academic excellence had always been tolerated—even encouraged to a point—if it didn’t interfere with her spiritual duties or suggest ambitions beyond what was appropriate for a good Christian daughter.

“I want to be a good steward of my abilities,” she replied, using his own language. “Like the parable of the talents. To whom much is given…”

“Much will be required,” he finished, nodding with approval that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But we must be careful about worldly wisdom, Meghan Ruth. Knowledge without godly discernment leads to pride.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

He stepped further into the room, and Meghan fought the urge to glance at the mattress beneath her. The core of her hidden library—five books that would get her immediately pulled from public school and possibly be sent to Redemption Academy in Tennessee, where her cousin Elizabeth had been dispatched after being caught with a boy—was less than two feet away from where her father now stood.

“Pastor Wilson’s daughter received an acceptance letter from that liberal arts college in Asheville.” His tone made the words liberal arts sound like a contagious disease. “Full of ideas that lead young women away from God’s purpose for them. Her father is heartbroken.”

Meghan kept her expression sympathetic while her mind raced through implications. This wasn’t a random conversation. Her father never engaged in random conversation.

“That’s sad,” she offered carefully.

“Indeed.” He picked up her chemistry textbook from the desk, flipping through it with casual suspicion. “Knowledge is a double-edged sword, Meghan. The serpent knew this in the garden. ‘Your eyes shall be opened,’ he promised Eve. And they were opened—to sin and shame.”

He set the textbook down and turned to face her directly.

“I’m preaching on higher education this Sunday. On daughters who are led astray by the false promises of worldly knowledge.”

There it was. Not about Pastor Wilson’s daughter at all. Somehow, he suspected something. Meghan’s scholarship application, perhaps? The extra college catalogs she’d requested through Ms. Whitaker. The late nights in the school library?

“I look forward to hearing it,” she said, the lie smooth as silk on her tongue.

He nodded, his expression softening slightly. “You’ve always been a good girl, Meghan. Special. Different from other teenagers with their rebellion and disrespect.” His hand rested briefly on her head, a gesture both blessing and possession. “Your sisters followed the godly path and now look at them—Melissa with her husband in the church mission, Melanie married to that fine Christian businessman in Alabama. I thank God every day that he’s protected your heart from the world’s corruption just as he did theirs.”

The irony might have made her laugh if the stakes weren’t so high. Instead, she lowered her eyes appropriately.

“Your mother wants you to come down for your dinner before it gets cold.”

“Yes, Daddy. I’ll be right down.”

He turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. “Remember what Proverbs tell us: ‘The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge.'”

“But fools despise wisdom and instruction,” Meghan completed automatically.

As his footsteps receded down the hallway, Meghan released the breath she’d been partially holding. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached beneath the mattress and extracted Dawkins once more. The book’s corners were soft from repeated handling, its pages dense with her own tiny notes in the margins.

She ran her fingers over the cover, a physical talisman of everything she was fighting for. Then she crossed to her closet, pushed aside the row of modest dresses, and slid the book into its hiding place behind the base heater vent. As she did, her fingers brushed against the sealed envelope containing her Duke application essay—the one Ms. Whitaker had called “brilliant” and “your ticket out.”

Eighty-two more days. If she could just maintain the performance for eighty-two more days.

At her desk, Meghan pulled out her journal from beneath a stack of church bulletins. This one was permitted—a devotional journal her father periodically reviewed for signs of appropriate spiritual growth. She opened it to today’s entry, already completed with acceptable reflections on Philippians.

Beneath it lay a second journal, nearly identical but for a small ink mark on the spine. She opened it to a blank page and wrote a single sentence:

He knows something—sermon on higher education Sunday.

She would need to warn her mother, adjust their plans. Perhaps accelerate some preparations.

She glanced at the single framed family photograph on her nightstand—taken three years ago at Melanie’s wedding at Mount Olive Baptist Church in Boone. Her twin sisters stood identical in their bridesmaid dresses; eyes downcast, gentle smiles fixed on their faces. The perfect daughters. The blueprint she was expected to follow.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to their images. Not for disappointing them, but for the fact they had never known there was another choice.

Meghan stood and straightened her modest calf-length skirt. She would go downstairs, eat the dinner her mother had saved, and perform the role of the obedient daughter for the evening Bible study. She would smile and nod at her father’s pronouncements. She would help clear the table afterward and kiss her parents’ goodnight.

And then she would return to this room, to the ceiling panel and the loose floorboard and the hollowed-out devotional, and she would continue building her bridge to freedom, one forbidden page at a time.

Because knowledge wasn’t just power.

Knowledge was escape.

Chapter 2

The Great Flood covered the entire earth, destroying all living creatures except those safely within Noah’s ark,” Pastor Mel explained, his voice resonating through the Sunday School classroom. “Every mountain was covered. Every valley filled. A complete cleansing of mankind’s wickedness.”

Meghan sat in the back row of the youth classroom, her posture perfect, her Bible open on her lap. She wore her designated Sunday dress—pale blue with a white collar, modest in every possible way—and her long brown hair was pulled back with a simple clip. To anyone watching, she appeared the model pastor’s daughter: attentive, reverent, a living testimony to her father’s teachings.

Inside, she was screaming.

“The ark itself,” her father continued, drawing a crude representation on the whiteboard, “measured three hundred cubits long, fifty cubits wide, and thirty cubits high. Approximately four hundred and fifty feet by seventy-five feet by forty-five feet.” He turned to face the dozen teenagers. “A massive vessel, constructed exactly to God’s specifications.”

Meghan’s eyes flicked to Tyler Jenkins, seated two rows ahead. Last Sunday, he’d been forced to stand before the entire congregation to confess the sin of questioning the literal interpretation of Noah’s flood. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the slight tremor in his hand as he dutifully took notes. The memory of his public humiliation hung in the air between them like an unspoken warning.

“Any questions about the dimensions or construction?” her father asked, scanning the room with expectant authority.

Silence. No one dared speak after what happened to Tyler.

“Meghan?” Her father’s eyes settled on her with a familiar mixture of pride and scrutiny. “Perhaps you could remind everyone about the types of wood used in the ark’s construction?”

“Gopher wood,” she answered promptly, the expected response flowing automatically. “Though some translations call it cypress.”

Her father nodded, satisfied. “Excellent. And why did God specify this wood?”

A simple question with a simple approved answer. But something shifted in Meghan as she looked at Tyler’s bowed head. The countdown on her bedroom calendar flashed through her mind: seventy-eight days until the Duke University scholarship letter. Seventy-eight days until potential freedom.

“The Bible doesn’t actually specify why,” Meghan said, her voice calm and thoughtful. “It simply states that God commanded Noah to use that wood. But archaeologists and historians have suggested that cypress would have been remarkably durable and resistant to rot, making it a logical choice for a vessel meant to withstand a catastrophic flood.”

Her father’s expression flickered. She had deviated from the expected script: “Because God in His wisdom knows the perfect materials for His divine purposes.”

“Archaeologists and historians,” he repeated, his tone suddenly cooler. “And when did human wisdom become equal to divine revelation, Meghan?”

The room went utterly still. Everyone recognized the dangerous territory she had entered.

“I wasn’t suggesting it was equal, Daddy,” she said, using the familiar address deliberately, a subtle reminder to the others that she was his daughter. “Just that God’s wisdom often reveals itself through practical means that we can understand and appreciate. The properties of cypress wood demonstrate His foresight.”

It was a careful dance she had perfected over years, appearing to retreat while actually holding her ground. Wrapping resistance in the language of submission.

“An interesting perspective,” her father said with the slightest edge. “Though we must be cautious about elevating human understanding above scriptural truth.” He turned back to the whiteboard, but Meghan knew the matter wasn’t closed. “Now, regarding the animals on the ark…”

As her father continued the lesson, Mrs. Wilson—Elder Wilson’s wife and the designated female Sunday School assistant—slipped into the seat beside Meghan. The woman smelled of artificial roses and disapproval.

“That was dangerous, Meghan,” she whispered, barely moving her lips. “After what happened with the Jenkins boy last week, you should know better.”

Meghan nodded slightly, the picture of repentance. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wilson. I’ve been doing extra research for my science paper. I sometimes forget what’s appropriate for church discussion.”

Mrs. Wilson’s features softened marginally. “Your father expects more from you. You’re his example to the other youth.” She patted Meghan’s hand with bony fingers. “Perhaps you should spend less time on schoolwork and more time in prayer this week.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for the correction.” The words tasted like dust in her mouth.

At the front of the room, her father was describing the impossibility of the flood waters covering Mount Everest, explaining that the earth’s topography was dramatically altered by the catastrophic event.

Meghan knew the counterarguments intimately. She had read extensively about plate tectonics, sedimentary layers, and geological evidence that directly contradicted her father’s claims. The knowledge sat inside her like a burning coal, simultaneously warming her with truth and threatening to burn through her carefully constructed exterior.

“Meghan,” her father called out again, interrupting her thoughts. “Since you’ve clearly been doing additional research, perhaps you can tell us how long the flood waters prevailed upon the earth?”

It was a test, delivered with the intonation he used when setting a trap. The entire class turned to look at her.

“One hundred and fifty days,” she answered correctly. Then, seeing Tyler’s defeated posture, she added, “Though some scholars suggest that number may be symbolic rather than literal, representing a divinely complete period of judgment.”

A sharp intake of breath from Mrs. Wilson. A tightening around her father’s eyes.

“Those ‘some scholars’ are not welcome in this classroom,” he said flatly. “We teach Biblical inerrancy here. The flood lasted one hundred and fifty literal days because God’s Word says so.”

Tension crackled in the air. Meghan had pushed too far, and she knew it. But as she looked at Tyler, who had raised his head slightly, a flicker of something like hope or gratitude in his eyes, she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.

“I apologize for the confusion,” she said, lowering her eyes appropriately. “I only meant to highlight how God’s divine patterns appear throughout scripture.”

Her father studied her for a long moment before nodding curtly. “Indeed. Though we must be careful not to confuse divine patterns with human interpretations that undermine literal truth.”

As he returned to his lesson, Meghan felt Mrs. Wilson’s disapproving gaze boring into her. But she also noticed something else: Tyler sat slightly straighter, his shoulders no longer curved in shame. Two girls in the front row exchanging glances that weren’t entirely compliant. A subtle shift in the energy of the room.

She hadn’t openly rebelled. She hadn’t directly challenged her father’s authority. But she had created a tiny crack in the monolithic certainty he demanded—a crack through which a sliver of questioning might enter.

As the lesson concluded, her father announced, “We’ll close in prayer. Tyler, would you lead us?”

The boy froze, clearly unprepared for this public test of his renewed obedience. He stood shakily, hands gripping his Bible.

“Um… Dear Heavenly Father,” he began, his voice barely audible. “Thank you for… for your Word and its perfect truth. Thank you for…” He faltered, clearly struggling to find appropriately pious words under her father’s scrutiny.

“For showing us the consequences of disobedience through the flood,” Meghan supplied quietly, loud enough for Tyler to hear but soft enough to seem like she was just helping a fellow student.

Tyler seized the lifeline. “For showing us the consequences of disobedience through the flood,” he repeated, stronger now. “And for the ark that saved the faithful. Help us to be like Noah, obedient to your commands even when we don’t understand them. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

“Amen,” the class echoed.

As they filed out of the classroom, Tyler passed close to Meghan. “Thanks,” he whispered, not looking at her.

She didn’t respond, couldn’t risk being seen in conversation with the recently disciplined boy. But she felt a small, fierce glow of satisfaction. Seventy-eight days until the Duke letter might arrive. Seventy-eight days until she might escape this suffocating world of enforced certainty.

But until then, perhaps she could create a few more cracks in the walls of her father’s fortress.

Her father caught her arm as she tried to exit. “A word, Meghan,” he said, his voice carrying that special timbre she had learned to fear. “About your additional ‘research.'”

Mrs. Wilson shot her a look that clearly said “I warned you” as she closed the classroom door behind her, leaving Meghan alone with her father.

Pastor Mel Orr set his Bible down deliberately on the desk. “What was that display about?”

“I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn, Daddy,” Meghan said, her voice modulated to perfect daughterly contrition. “I was only trying to show how science actually confirms the Bible’s wisdom.”

“Don’t.” His voice cut through her explanation like a blade. “Don’t insult my intelligence by pretending that’s what you were doing.”

The mask of contrition slipped slightly. “I was answering your questions correctly.”

“You were deliberately introducing doubt. After what happened with the Jenkins boy, you chose to undermine my teaching.” His eyes narrowed. “The question is why.”

Meghan carefully recalibrated. Too much submission would seem insincere now, too much defiance would be dangerous. “I felt bad for Tyler,” she admitted, offering a partial truth. “He’s been so ashamed, and I thought showing how his questions actually had scholarly support might help him feel less… sinful.”

Her father’s expression remained hard, but she detected a flicker of uncertainty. Playing his pastoral role sometimes worked when direct obedience failed.

“Compassion is admirable,” he said finally. “But not when it leads others astray. Tyler needed correction, not encouragement in his error.”

“Yes, Daddy. I understand.”

He studied her for a long time. “I’m concerned about these outside sources you’re consulting. What exactly are you reading for this ‘science paper’?”

Dangerous territory. “Just our textbook and some articles Ms. Martinez recommended.” The lie fell easily from her lips, practiced and smooth. “It’s on geological formations. Nothing controversial.”

“I’d like to review these articles.”

“Of course,” she said, maintaining eye contact. “I’ll bring them home from the school library tomorrow.”

She would spend tonight fabricating suitably innocuous articles, just plausible enough to pass inspection without revealing her actual research into evolutionary geology and the mythological patterns of flood stories across ancient cultures.

“See that you do.” He picked up his Bible, signaling the conversation was ending. “And Meghan? Your sisters never gave me this kind of concern. They understood a daughter’s role is to uphold her father’s teachings, not question them.”

The comparison to Melissa and Melanie was intended to sting, and it did—not because Meghan wanted to be like them, but because she knew what their compliance had cost them. Their lives mapped out by their father’s expectations; their minds carefully limited to approved thoughts.

“I’ll do better,” she promised, the words hollow in her throat.

As they walked together toward the main sanctuary for the regular service, Meghan noticed Tyler standing with his parents, his posture once again submissive, but his eyes briefly met hers with something that hadn’t been there before—a tiny spark of awareness, of possibility.

One small crack in the wall. Seventy-eight days to create more before she might finally break free altogether.

Chapter 3

Sunday dinner at the Orr household followed the same pattern it had for as long as Meghan could remember. Her father sat at the head of the table, her mother at the foot. The food was served precisely at one o’clock, after her father’s lengthy grace. The conversation followed its prescribed path through sermon reflections, church announcements, and carefully curated current events that reinforced the worldview Pastor Mel approved.

Today, however, carried an undercurrent of tension that twisted through the predictable routine like a dark thread.

“The pot roast is excellent, Ruth,” her father said, using her mother’s proper name rather than the “Mama B” that Meghan and her sisters had called her since childhood.

“Thank you, Mel.” Her mother’s voice was soft, almost transparent. At forty-five, Ruth Orr had once been beautiful in a delicate way. Now she seemed faded, as though years of careful compliance had bleached the color from her. Only her eyes, the same deep brown as Meghan’s, retained their quiet intensity, though she rarely met anyone’s gaze directly.

“Meghan had some interesting contributions in Sunday School this morning,” her father said, cutting his meat with precise movements. “About the flood.”

Her mother’s hands stilled momentarily over her plate. “Is that so?”

“She seems to have been consulting some questionable sources for her science paper. Introducing alternative interpretations to Biblical literalism.”

The accusation hung in the air between them. Meghan focused on her food, waiting for her cue in this familiar performance.

“I’m sure she meant well,” her mother offered. “Meghan has always been thorough in her studies.”

Her father’s knife scraped against the plate with slightly more force than necessary. “Thorough is one thing. Introducing doubt to impressionable young people is another.”

“I wasn’t introducing doubt, Daddy,” Meghan said, her voice calm and respectful. “I was trying to show how even secular science can support Biblical truth when understood correctly.”

It was the expected response, the one that had the best chance of defusing his anger. Meghan had spent years learning the precise language that would satisfy him—or at least not provoke him further.

Her father studied her for a long moment. “Your Advanced Placement courses are becoming a concern to me, Meghan. They seem to be leading you toward worldly thinking.”

“They’re important for college applications,” her mother interjected, then immediately looked down when her husband’s attention shifted to her.

“College,” he repeated, as though the word itself was distasteful. “Melissa attended Bible college, and she’s doing the Lord’s work in New Orleans with her husband. Melanie took secretarial courses and found a godly husband in Alabama. Neither needed so-called advanced placement.”

“Every child is different, Mel,” her mother said quietly. “Meghan has been blessed with a scholarly mind.”

“A blessing that becomes a curse when not properly directed,” he countered.

Meghan’s throat tightened. This was dangerous territory—her academic future being questioned openly. The Duke scholarship suddenly seemed even more critical.

“I’ve maintained my 4.0 GPA and my perfect attendance at church,” Meghan reminded him. “Ms. Martinez says my science grades could open doors to scholarships.”

Her father set down his fork. “And what doors would those be, exactly?”

Before Meghan could answer, her mother knocked over her water glass. The liquid spread quickly across the tablecloth, threatening her father’s Bible that always sat at his right-hand during meals.

“Oh!” Her mother stood quickly. “I’m so sorry, Mel. Let me get that.”

She hurried to grab a towel from the kitchen, her movements uncharacteristically clumsy. As she blotted the spill, she locked eyes with Meghan for the briefest moment. A deliberate diversion.

“I’ll help,” Meghan said, rising to assist. Her father sighed with exasperation as the women fussed over the tablecloth.

“Perhaps we should continue this discussion another time,” her mother suggested as she worked. “The roast is getting cold.”

It was a weak excuse, but her father seemed to lose interest in pursuing the college question, turning instead to his weekly review of the sermon’s reception among the congregation.

“Elder Wilson was particularly moved by the passage on parental authority,” he noted. “He mentioned it might make a good topic for the regional pastor’s conference.”

The moment of danger had passed, deflected by her mother’s timely “accident.” It wasn’t the first time such a convenient interruption had occurred precisely when conversation veered toward Meghan’s future.

After dinner, as Meghan helped with the dishes—her father having retreated to his study to prepare the evening service—her mother placed a hand briefly on her arm.

“Be careful, Meggie,” she whispered, using the childhood nickname never spoken in her father’s presence. “Tyler Jenkins’s father told Elder Wilson about your comments in class.”

Meghan’s stomach tightened. “Mr. Jenkins wasn’t even there.”

“Tyler told him. He thought you were defending him.” Her mother handed her another plate to dry. “He meant well, but…”

But he had inadvertently drawn attention to Meghan’s subtle rebellion. The irony wasn’t lost on her. Her attempt to help Tyler had only put herself at greater risk.

“I’ll be more careful,” Meghan promised.

Her mother glanced toward the study door, then reached into her apron pocket. “I was at the grocery store yesterday. Near the school supplies.”

She slipped something into Meghan’s hand. A small USB drive, dark blue and innocuous.

Meghan palmed it quickly. “What’s on it?”

“Mrs. Whitaker’s son sent those research papers you wanted. About geological evidence.” Her mother’s voice was barely audible. “Scientific journal articles about sedimentary layers and carbon dating of flood plains. Things that might help with your… school project.”

The subtext was clear. Information that directly contradicted her father’s teaching on the Biblical flood—precisely what Meghan had been subtly alluding to in Sunday School.

“Thank you,” Meghan whispered, tucking the drive into her pocket. “I’ll be careful with it.”

Her mother nodded, then raised her voice to normal levels. “Don’t forget to polish the silver before the evening service. Your father likes everything to shine for the Lord’s Day.”

The sudden shift in tone signaled the end of their private exchange. But as they continued washing dishes, side by side in the afternoon light, Meghan felt the familiar, complicated gratitude she always experienced during these moments of conspiracy with her mother.

Ruth Orr had never openly rebelled against her husband’s authority. She attended every service, prepared every meal, maintained a perfectly ordered Christian home. To all appearances, she was the ideal pastor’s wife—supportive, submissive, silent.

Yet for years, she had been Meghan’s secret ally. A library book quietly borrowed. A message passed to Ms. Whitaker. A college brochure hidden among recipe clippings. Small acts of subversion wrapped in perfect compliance, teaching her daughter the very techniques she would need to eventually escape.

“I heard your father mention your AP classes,” her mother said as they finished the dishes. “You should know he’s speaking with the school board about restricting your schedule next semester.”

Meghan’s heart stuttered. “He can’t do that. I need those classes for …”

“For your transcript. I know.” Her mother dried her hands methodically on a dish towel. “I’ve suggested that reducing your academic standing might attract attention from the school counselor. That it might be better to allow you to maintain your current schedule until graduation.”

The calculation was clear, using her father’s fear of outside scrutiny against him. It was the same strategy they had employed to allow Meghan to work at the restaurant, to participate in academic competitions, to access the public library for “research projects.”

“Will it work?” Meghan asked.

Her mother shrugged slightly. “It usually does. Your father values appearances.” A hint of bitterness colored the observation. “But you should prepare arguments about how your academic excellence reflects well on his parenting and the church. That approach tends to be effective.”

They moved to the living room, where Meghan began polishing the silver candlesticks used for Sunday dinner—another weekly ritual. Through the open window, they could hear the distant sounds of neighborhood children playing, enjoying their Sunday afternoon freedom.

“Your sisters never needed these strategies,” her mother said suddenly, her voice so low Meghan barely caught the words.

“Melissa and Melanie?”

“They accepted everything.” Her mother’s hands worked automatically, arranging flowers in a vase. “The restrictions, the expectations, the predetermined path. They never questioned, never struggled.” She glanced toward Meghan, something like pride flickering across her features. “You were different from the beginning.”

“Is that why you help me?” Meghan asked carefully. “Because I’m different?”

Her mother was silent for a long moment, her fingers absently stroking a pale-yellow rose. “I help you because I see myself in you. The self I might have been, if…” She trailed off, then straightened her shoulders. “Your father will be finished with his preparation soon. You should get ready for evening service.”

As Meghan stood to leave, her mother added, “Check the second hymnal on your bookshelf tonight. The one with the torn page in Psalms.”

Meghan nodded, understanding immediately. Another hiding place, another secret communication.

Her mother returned to arranging flowers, her face once again composed into the perfect mask of serene submission that she had worn for twenty-five years of marriage. But for that moment, Meghan had glimpsed something else—a flicker of the woman Ruth Orr might have been, had her own escape plan succeeded.

Later that night, after evening service and family devotions, Meghan sat at her desk with her Bible open, as expected during her designated study time. But her attention was focused on the second hymnal from her bookshelf—the one with the torn page in Psalms.

Inside, she found a folded bank statement, showing a deposit of $120. Her weekend wages from the restaurant, which her father believed went into a “hope chest” account for her future as a proper Christian wife, but which funded a secret account at First National, accessible only to Meghan.

Beneath the statement was a carefully clipped newspaper article about Duke University’s scholarship program for exceptional students from North Carolina, with a handwritten note in her mother’s neat script: “Mrs. Whitaker says to remind you that your application has been received. August 26th notification date confirmed.”

Meghan allowed herself a small smile as she memorized the information, then returned the bank statement to the hymnal. She didn’t need to keep the date—August 26th was already burned into her memory, marked on her calendar with those inconspicuous dots. Seventy-seven days from tomorrow.

Seventy-seven days until she might know if the invisible bridge her mother had helped her build, one forbidden book and secret bank deposit at a time, would be strong enough to carry her weight into a different future.

Chapter 4

Meghan approached the mailbox with practiced casualness. It was an ordinary Friday afternoon in late August, the kind of sweltering North Carolina day when the air hung heavy with humidity and the cicadas droned relentlessly in the pines. To anyone watching from the church office across the street, and someone was always watching, she was simply a dutiful daughter retrieving the family mail.

Only she knew about the countdown that had dominated her thoughts for months, now down to a single day. Only she knew how her heart hammered against her ribs as she reached for the mailbox latch.

The church secretary, Mrs. Lowry, waved from the office window. Meghan smiled and waved back, the perfect pastor’s daughter completing a mundane chore. Her hands did not tremble as she collected the stack of envelopes and church newsletters. Her pace remained measured as she walked back up the driveway. Nothing to see. Nothing unusual happening.

But there it was, nestled between the electric bill and her father’s copy of “The Baptist Witness”: a thick envelope with the unmistakable Duke University crest in the corner.

Meghan’s breath caught. She slid the envelope to the bottom of the stack, her fingers suddenly cold despite the August heat. The countdown that had sustained her through months of Sunday sermons and family devotions, through her father’s increasing suspicion and Tyler Jenkins’s public humiliation, had reached zero.

The answer was here.

She maintained her unhurried pace up the driveway, through the front door, and into the kitchen where her mother was preparing dinner. Ruth Orr glanced up from the cutting board, her eyes immediately finding her daughter’s.

“Anything interesting?” she asked, her tone casual, but Meghan caught the slight hitch in her voice.

“Just the usual,” Meghan replied, setting the stack on the counter. “Bills, church newsletters.” She separated out her father’s mail into his designated basket, deliberately placing the Duke envelope between two church publications. Their eyes met briefly, a silent message passing between them: Not here. Not now.

“Your father’s at a deacons’ meeting until six,” her mother said, returning to chopping vegetables. “He asked that you complete your Bible study before dinner.”

Translation: We have about two hours.

“I’ll be in my room,” Meghan replied, picking up the basket containing her father’s mail, including the hidden Duke envelope.

Her mother nodded, her knife continuing its steady rhythm against the cutting board. Only someone who knew her well would notice the slight tension in her shoulders, the barely perceptible tremor in her hands.

Meghan climbed the stairs to her bedroom, each step measured, controlled. Inside, she closed the door—not all the way, never all the way, as that would suggest secrecy—and set the mail basket on her desk. She removed the Duke envelope with steady hands and stared at it.

This moment had lived in her imagination for so long, fueled her through countless nights of hidden reading and secret study. Now that it was here, she found herself hesitating. Inside this envelope lay either freedom or continued captivity.

She slid her finger under the seal and carefully opened it, extracting the contents without tearing anything. Preservation of evidence was second nature to her now; her father routinely inspected the trash for signs of forbidden correspondence.

The first page bore the Duke University letterhead, formal and imposing.

Dear Ms. Orr,

It is with great pleasure that I inform you of your acceptance to Duke University for the Fall 2006 semester…

Meghan read the words once, twice, a third time, not quite believing they were real. She continued reading, the phrases jumping out at her like beacons.

…full academic scholarship…

…exceptional academic achievement…

…among our most promising applicants…

She pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling the sound that threatened to escape—not quite a laugh, not quite a sob, but something raw and primal that belonged to a different Meghan than the one who lived in this house.

The scholarship was real. The escape route was open.

She allowed herself exactly ten seconds of unchecked emotion, counting silently as tears blurred her vision. At ten, she inhaled deeply, composed her features, and carefully refolded the letter and supporting materials.

Next, she removed the loose floorboard beneath her bed and extracted a small metal box, ostensibly for storing special Bible verse cards, but containing her most precious contraband. Inside were her SAT scores (perfect in math, nearly perfect in verbal), her transcript showing straight A’s despite her father’s periodic attempts to limit her advanced coursework, and a small notebook tracking every deposit to her secret bank account.

She added the Duke acceptance packet to this collection, her fingers lingering momentarily on the embossed university seal. Then she replaced everything, secured the floorboard, and pushed herself to her feet.

Her next steps were automatic, practiced countless times in her mind. She crossed to her desk and removed a single sheet of her father’s church letterhead. Using her left hand—slightly clumsier but with handwriting entirely different from her normal script—she composed a brief rejection letter.

Dear Duke University Admissions Office,

Thank you for your consideration of my application, but I must decline your offer of admission. After prayer and consultation with my spiritual advisors, I have decided to pursue a path more aligned with God’s plan for young Christian women.

Respectfully, Meghan R. Orr

She studied the letter critically. The handwriting was convincingly different from her own, the phrasing precisely what her father would expect from a properly submissive daughter. When he inevitably discovered that she had applied—and he would, eventually—this decoy rejection would buy her critical time.

She folded the letter, addressed an envelope, but didn’t seal it. That would come later, after she had shown her mother, and they had finalized the next phase of their plan.

There was a soft knock at her bedroom door, three quick taps, their signal. Meghan quickly slid the fake rejection letter into her Bible and opened the door.

Her mother stood there, holding a laundry basket. “I thought you might have some things for washing,” she said, loud enough to be heard by anyone who might be listening.

Meghan nodded and gestured her in. As her mother began collecting clothes from the hamper, Meghan leaned close and whispered, “It came. Full scholarship.”

Her mother’s hands stilled momentarily, then resumed their task. “Thank the Lord,” she murmured, the irony evident only to her daughter.

“I’ve prepared the rejection letter,” Meghan continued softly, retrieving it from her Bible to show her mother. “In case he discovers the application.”

Ruth scanned it quickly, her lips curving in a small, sad smile at the precise mimicry of her husband’s religious phrasing. “Good,” Ruth said, folding the letter carefully. “We’ll hold on to it—for now. If he ever finds out and demands to see something, we’ll be ready.”

Meghan exhaled, tension easing from her shoulders. “You’re sure that’s better than mailing it?”

“I’m sure,” her mother said firmly. “You’re not giving up that scholarship. We’ll only use this if we absolutely must.”

She tucked the letter into her apron pocket—not to mail it, but to store it with the rest of their carefully constructed safeguards.

“What if he checks with the university?” Meghan asked, voicing the fear that had nagged at her for months.

“He won’t,” her mother assured her. “Your father believes his authority is absolute. The idea that his directives might be circumvented simply doesn’t occur to him.” A flash of bitterness, perhaps, or hard-won wisdom, crossed her features before disappearing.

“Nine months,” Meghan whispered. “Nine months and I’ll be out.”

Her mother straightened; the laundry basket balanced on her hip. For a moment, she allowed her carefully maintained facade to slip, revealing the woman beneath—fiercer, sadder, more determined than the submissive pastor’s wife she portrayed.

“Nine months,” she agreed. “But we must be more careful than ever. Your father has been speaking with Elder Wilson about you.”

Meghan’s stomach tightened. “About what?”

“He’s concerned about your ‘worldly academic focus.’ He mentioned the possibility of homeschooling for your senior year.”

The ground seemed to shift beneath Meghan’s feet. Homeschooling would mean the end of AP classes, the end of her refuge at the school library, the end of her vital connection to Ms. Whitaker.

“He can’t do that,” she whispered. “Not when I’m so close.”

“He won’t,” her mother said firmly. “I’ve reminded him how it would appear to the congregation—pulling his daughter from school in her senior year, after she’s received academic commendations that reflect well on his parenting. He values appearances.”

It was their most reliable weapon against her father: his concern for his public image as a successful spiritual leader with a perfect Christian family. Every achievement Meghan had been permitted—from academic competitions to her job at the restaurant—had been carefully framed as enhancing his reputation rather than supporting her independence.

“I’ve also suggested,” her mother continued, even more quietly, “that removing you from school might attract unwanted attention from educational authorities. That college scholarships for pastor’s daughters reflect well on the church’s commitment to excellence.”

Meghan nodded, understanding the strategy. Appeal to his pride. Frame her achievements as his. Make her freedom appear to serve his interests.

“Will it work?” she asked.

Her mother’s mouth tightened. “It has so far.” She shifted the laundry basket. “I should continue with chores. Your father will be home soon.”

As her mother turned to leave, Meghan impulsively caught her arm. “Thank you,” she whispered, the words containing years of gratitude for small rebellions, secret support, and silent complicity.

Ruth’s expression softened. She touched her daughter’s cheek briefly, then resumed her role—shoulders slightly rounded, eyes appropriately lowered, movements efficient but unobtrusive. The perfect pastor’s wife, heading downstairs to finish dinner before her husband returned.

Alone again, Meghan sat at her desk and opened her Bible to the expected passage for today’s study. But her mind was elsewhere, racing with implications and possibilities.

She had her ticket out. The scholarship to Duke was secured. Nine more months of performance and deception, and she would walk away from her father’s house, his church, his God. Nine more months until she could speak and think and read freely, without hiding books beneath floorboards or coding messages into mundane conversations.

Freedom had a date now. A timeline. A certainty.

Meghan turned to her window, gazing out in the late August afternoon. Tomorrow she would put on her modest waitress uniform and work her regular Saturday shift at the Daniel Boone Restaurant. She would serve coffee to church members, smile at their questions about her future, and offer appropriately humble responses about serving the Lord however He directed.

And in nine months, she would be gone.

What she couldn’t know, as she sat surrounded by carefully constructed facades and secret plans, was that tomorrow would bring an encounter that would both complicate and enrich her path to freedom. A blue-eyed engineering student named Darren Franklin, whose entrance into her life would add love to her quest for liberation, and ultimately, both heartbreak and an unexpected legacy.

Chapter 5

The Daniel Boone Restaurant occupied the same corner of Main Street it had since 1962, its rustic wooden exterior and wagon wheel sign unchanged by decades of economic shifts and dining trends. For the residents of Boone, North Carolina, it represented stability—a place where the coffee was always the same strength, the biscuits followed a recipe three generations old, and the waitresses still called you “hon” regardless of your age or status.

For Meghan Orr, it represented something entirely different: a border crossing between worlds.

She pushed through the back entrance at precisely 7:42 AM, same as every Saturday for the past fourteen months. The kitchen already hummed with activity—Hector at the grill flipping pancakes with practiced efficiency, Luanne arranging silverware rolls, and Mr. Whitaker checking inventory in the walk-in cooler.

“Morning, Meghan,” Luanne called, her bottle-red hair piled improbably high on her head. At fifty-eight, she’d been waiting tables at Daniel Boone longer than Meghan had been alive. “You’re section three today. The church ladies are already asking for you.”

Meghan nodded, tying her apron with efficient movements. Section three meant the front corner tables—the most visible section, where her father’s congregants could observe Pastor Mel’s dutiful daughter performing appropriately modest labor. It wasn’t a coincidence. Mr. Whitaker, knowing the delicate balance Meghan maintained, deliberately assigned her to the section where she could be seen dutifully working by church members, maintaining her cover story.

She checked her appearance in the small mirror by the time clock: hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, modest uniform pressed and spotless, small silver cross necklace visible at her throat—the perfect image of a Christian girl earning money for her “hope chest” before pursuing an appropriately feminine future.

If they only knew what her actual bank balance was earmarked for: first-semester expenses at Duke that weren’t covered by her scholarship. Bus tickets. A wardrobe that didn’t scream “fundamentalist pastor’s daughter.” Academic books she wouldn’t have to hide.

Nine months until escape. Now, with the acceptance letter safely hidden beneath her bedroom floorboard, the countdown felt different—more real, more certain, but also more dangerous. The closer freedom came, the more devastating discovery would be.

“You’re smiling,” Luanne observed, sidling up beside her. “Got a secret, sugar?”

Meghan arranged her features into something more neutral. “Just looking forward to a beautiful Saturday,” she replied, reaching for her order pad and tucking pencils into her apron pocket. The excitement of yesterday’s Duke letter still hummed through her veins, though she was careful not to let it show.

Luanne studied her with shrewd eyes that missed little. Though never explicitly stated, Meghan suspected the older waitress saw more than she let on about the pastor’s perfect daughter.

“Mm-hmm,” was all she said, before turning back to her silverware. “Coffee’s fresh. Mrs. Abernathy and her Bible study crew are at table twelve. Already asked for you specially.”

Mrs. Abernathy—wife of her father’s most fervent deacon and self-appointed moral guardian of the youth group. Meghan suppressed a sigh and reached for the coffee pot.

“On it,” she said, her public voice taking over—slightly higher, unfailingly pleasant, and carefully devoid of the intelligence that might make church members uncomfortable in a pastor’s daughter.

As she approached table twelve, she painted on her church service smile—the one that revealed nothing of the girl who read Dawkins by flashlight or the young woman who had just secured her escape route via academic scholarship.

“Good morning, ladies! What a blessing to see you all today.”

Four women in their sixties looked up with approving smiles. They wore different outfits but somehow managed to look identical—same carefully set hairstyles, same modest blouses, same expressions of benevolent surveillance.

“Meghan, dear,” Mrs. Abernathy greeted her. “We were just discussing the youth group car wash fundraiser. We thought you might help organize the girls’ participation.”

“I’d be honored,” Meghan replied automatically, pouring coffee with practiced precision. The liquid steamed perfectly at three-quarters up each cup, not a drop spilled on the saucers. After fourteen months, she could perform these tasks while mentally reciting entire passages from her hidden books.

“Your father mentioned you received a perfect score on your mathematics test,” Mrs. Wilson noted, stirring artificial sweetener into her coffee. “Such a blessing that you use your mind for God’s glory rather than worldly achievement.”

Meghan nodded, the irony almost choking her. “The Lord gives different gifts to each of us,” she recited, a phrase she’d heard a thousand times in her father’s sermons. “I’m just grateful for the opportunity to develop mine.”

Opportunity they would deny her if they knew what she really planned. Nine more months of this performance. She could do it. She’d been rehearsing her entire life.

“Are you ready to order, or would you like a few more minutes with the menus?” Professional, pleasant, perfect.

After taking their orders—four variations of the breakfast special with modifications that she committed to memory without writing down—Meghan moved efficiently between her other tables. The Saturday morning rush was familiar territory, a choreographed dance of coffee refills, order deliveries, and the kind of conversation expected in a small-town restaurant where everyone knew everyone else’s business.

At the corner booth, Mr. Carver, her high school principal, caught her eye and nodded slightly. Unlike the church ladies, he knew about her Duke acceptance—had written one of her recommendation letters, in fact. The silent acknowledgment warmed her momentarily.

“Order up for table seventeen!” Hector called from the kitchen.

Meghan retrieved the plates—her movements smooth and economical, no wasted energy. Each task at the restaurant reinforced what she’d learned at home: efficiency, invisibility when convenient, perfect performance when observed.

As she served a young family their pancakes, she caught sight of the clock above the counter. Five hours until her shift ended. Five hours of performance before she could retreat to the library for her Saturday afternoon sanctuary where Mrs. Whitaker—wife of the restaurant owner and Meghan’s longtime ally—would be waiting with new reading recommendations carefully selected to avoid detection if her father investigated.

After this shift, she had her weekly routine mapped out perfectly: library with Mrs. Whitaker this afternoon, then church tomorrow morning, family dinner, evening service. Monday would bring school, her other refuge, with AP Physics and Calculus challenging her mind while her father believed she was simply fulfilling graduation requirements.

Nine months of these careful routines. Nine months until Duke.

She could almost see it: a dormitory room with books displayed openly on shelves. Classes where questions weren’t acts of rebellion but expected participation. Conversations that didn’t require constant self-censorship. A place where her mind could expand without pushing against the boundaries of acceptable feminine knowledge.

“Coffee refill, hon?” she asked an elderly man reading a newspaper at the counter, her thoughts hidden behind practiced pleasantness.

The bell above the door jingled as a new customer entered. Meghan glanced up reflexively, then quickly returned her attention to pouring coffee. Just another Saturday patron. Not her table. Not her concern.

She couldn’t have known that this unremarkable moment—the bell’s chime, the door opening, her brief glance up—marked the invisible line between her meticulously planned future and something altogether different. Couldn’t have known that the young man who had just entered, consulting a map and looking slightly lost, would become the alternate route on her journey to freedom.

Darren Franklin hadn’t been part of her calculations. But in four minutes and thirty-seven seconds, when Luanne would twist her ankle on a wet spot near the kitchen and Mr. Whitaker would reassign section four to Meghan, he would become an unexpected variable in her carefully formulated escape equation.

In the kitchen, Meghan tucked her order pad into her apron pocket and calculated her expected tips for the day. By her estimation, she’d add approximately sixty-three dollars to her Duke fund. Sixty-three dollars closer to freedom.

The bell chimed again. More customers. The usual Saturday rhythm continued.

Five hours until the shift ended. Nine months until Duke. The countdown that had sustained her through years of confinement ticked steadily in her mind as she pushed through the swinging door into the dining room, unaware that her life was about to change course.

Chapter 6

Three minutes and forty-two seconds after Meghan had first noticed the new customer, the sound of shattering ceramic preceded Luanne’s cry of pain.

Meghan turned from the register to see the veteran waitress clutching the edge of the counter, her face contorted as she lifted her right foot slightly off the ground. A broken coffee mug lay in pieces at her feet, dark liquid spreading across the tile floor.

“Slipped on something,” Luanne hissed through clenched teeth. “Damn floor’s always wet by the ice machine.”

Mr. Whitaker emerged from the office, immediately taking in the situation. “Let’s get you sitting down,” he said, helping Luanne to a chair. He turned to Meghan. “Can you handle section four for the rest of the shift? I know you’re already covering three.”

“Of course,” Meghan replied automatically. Extra tables meant extra tips. Extra tips meant more money for her Duke fund. Every dollar was one step closer to freedom.

Mr. Whitaker smiled apologetically. “Thanks, Meghan. There’s a young man just seated at table eighteen who hasn’t been helped yet. Looks like he might not be from around here.”

Meghan nodded, already reaching for another order pad. Table eighteen—the small two-person booth in the corner of section four, partially hidden by the large plastic fern that had been a fixture of the restaurant since before she was born. As she navigated between tables, she mentally calculated how to incorporate these new responsibilities into her routine without missing a beat.

She approached table eighteen with practiced efficiency, order pad ready, professional smile in place. “Good morning, welcome to the Daniel Boone. Can I start you with some coffee?”

The young man looked up from a map spread across the table, and Meghan experienced a peculiar sensation—as though the noisy restaurant had suddenly gone silent around her.

He was perhaps two or three years older than she was, with dark wavy hair that fell slightly across his forehead and eyes the precise shade of a winter sky after snow. He wore a plain blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms marked with what appeared to be graphite smudges. An open engineering textbook lay beside the map, its margins filled with handwritten notes.

What struck her most, however, wasn’t his appearance but his expression when he met her eyes—direct, curious, completely devoid of the assessing gaze she had come to expect from men in her father’s congregation. He looked at her as though she were simply a person, not a category or a role or a potential spiritual project.

“Coffee would be great,” he said, closing the map. “And maybe some local expertise, if you’re offering that too.” His voice carried a slight Southern accent, but not the specific Appalachian cadence of Boone natives. “I’m a bit turned around.”

Meghan poured his coffee with the steady hand developed through months of practice, though she felt oddly aware of her movements in a way she typically wasn’t. “Where are you trying to get to?”

“Vulcan Materials,” he replied. “I’m starting an internship there Monday, but thought I’d get my bearings today. The rental GPS keeps routing me through roads that don’t seem to exist anymore.”

“The highway construction changed all the access routes last year,” Meghan explained. “Most maps haven’t caught up.” She hesitated, then set the coffee pot down and reached for his map. “May I?”

He nodded, sliding it toward her.

Meghan traced the correct route with her finger, conscious of the unusual liberty she was taking. She rarely initiated conversation with male customers, particularly those close to her age. Such behavior would inevitably be reported back to her father by one of his ever-vigilant congregation members. But something about this stranger—his direct gaze, his obvious intelligence, the complete absence of religious signaling—made her momentarily reckless.

“This back road here is faster than the highway anyway,” she added. “Especially during shift changes.”

“You just saved me hours of frustrated driving,” he said with a grin that transformed his serious face. “I’m Darren, by the way. Darren Franklin.”

The introduction created a small crisis of protocol. Church standards dictated that she respond with a polite nod and return to professional distance. But they were in a public restaurant, not church. And this was precisely the kind of normal interaction she craved in her imagined Duke future.

“Meghan,” she replied, offering neither her last name nor a handshake, a compromise between openness and caution. “Are you ready to order, or do you need a minute with the menu?”

“What would you recommend?” His question was simple, but the direct engagement—asking for her opinion rather than her service—felt unexpectedly intimate.

“The blueberry pancakes,” she answered without hesitation. “They’re made with berries from the Harrison farm just outside town. Nothing like the frozen ones other places use.”

He closed his menu. “Sold. Blueberry pancakes it is.”

As Meghan wrote down the order, she noticed the title of a book partially visible beneath his engineering text: The Magic of Reality by Richard Dawkins. Her heart performed a strange little stutter. That book was currently hidden beneath the loose floorboard in her bedroom, one of her most dangerous possessions. If her father found it, she would lose her freedom immediately, no phone, no job, no school library access.

Darren noticed her gaze and his expression shifted subtly. “Have you read it?” he asked, his voice casual but his eyes suddenly more attentive.

It was a test, Meghan realized. A gentle probe to gauge her reaction to Dawkins—evolution’s most unapologetic defender, the atheist her father had called “Satan’s most devoted servant” in at least three sermons. The question created a perfect convergence of risk and opportunity.

In nine months, she would be at Duke. In nine months, she could answer such questions freely. But now, in this restaurant where church members occupied at least four tables within earshot?

“I’ve read some of his work,” she replied carefully, the admission both thrilling and terrifying. She had never acknowledged such reading to anyone except Ms. Whitaker and her mother.

Something changed in Darren’s expression—surprise, followed by a deeper interest. “Not what I expected to hear in small-town North Carolina,” he said quietly.

“We’re full of surprises,” Meghan responded, then added with deliberate emphasis, “Some of us, anyway.”

The distinction was clear: Some of us. Not all. Not most. She was separating herself from her surroundings, revealing something dangerous about herself to this stranger.

“I’d like to hear about those surprises sometime,” Darren said, maintaining eye contact that felt like a tangible connection between them.

The implied future conversation hung in the air between them—impossible, reckless, and suddenly, desperately desired. Meghan became acutely aware of Mrs. Abernathy watching from table twelve, of the precarious balance of her carefully constructed escape plan, of the nine months remaining before Duke.

“I’ll put your order in,” she said, taking a small step back, her professional demeanor reasserting itself.

But as she turned toward the kitchen, he spoke again. “I’ll be hiking the Greenway Trail tomorrow afternoon. I hear the views of the valley are worth seeing.”

It wasn’t quite a question, nor precisely an invitation—just information offered without expectation. Information that created possibility without demanding response.

Meghan hesitated, balanced on the knife edge between caution and desire. “The Howard Knob section has the best views,” she said, not looking back. “Around three o’clock, the light on the valley is perfect.”

She continued to the kitchen, her heart racing with the recklessness of what she’d just done. She hadn’t explicitly agreed to meet him, but she’d provided specific information that constituted an implicit acknowledgment. A tentative yes hidden within practical advice.

As she handed the order to Hector, Meghan glanced back at table eighteen. Darren had reopened his engineering textbook, but he wasn’t looking at it. Instead, he was watching her with an expression of quiet interest that made her feel simultaneously exposed and recognized.

For the remainder of her shift, Meghan maintained her careful routine—refilling coffee, delivering orders, making appropriate small talk with church members. But she was acutely conscious of Darren’s presence, of his occasional glance in her direction, of the Dawkins book that represented their unlikely point of connection.

When she brought his pancakes, their conversation remained professionally appropriate, yet charged with unspoken recognition. He asked about local hiking trails with a casualness that wouldn’t raise suspicions among observing church members. She provided information with the helpful courtesy expected of a waitress, nothing more.

But when he paid his bill, leaving a generous tip, he also left something else: a small slip of paper with a phone number, tucked beneath his coffee cup where only she would find it.

Meghan slipped it into her apron pocket without reading it, her fingers closing around it like a talisman. All her careful planning, all her meticulous preparation for Duke, suddenly seemed rigid and incomplete compared to this unexpected opening into something she hadn’t allowed herself to imagine: connection with someone who might actually see her—not the pastor’s daughter, not the obedient Christian girl, but her.

After her shift ended, as she counted her tips in the break room, she finally allowed herself to examine the small piece of paper. Below the phone number, he had written a simple message:

Reality is worth talking about. —D

A reference to the Dawkins book title. A private joke. An acknowledgment of what they had silently recognized in each other.

Meghan carefully folded the paper and tucked it into her sock, the safest place to hide small objects when returning to her father’s house. The Duke acceptance letter still waited beneath her floorboard. Her careful countdown—nine months, now eight months and twenty-nine days—still ticked in her mind.

But as she walked home through the August afternoon, the weight of that small paper against her ankle felt like a second option taking shape—an alternate route she hadn’t mapped, hadn’t planned for, hadn’t even considered possible.

For the first time since she’d begun plotting her escape, Meghan allowed herself to wonder if freedom might have a face, a voice, a name. If it might be found not just in the distant promise of a university campus, but in the unexpected connection with someone who read the same forbidden books and looked at her as though her mind were something to be discovered rather than contained.

The thought was exhilarating.

The thought was terrifying.

The thought was impossible to dismiss.

Chapter 7

The morning air held a whisper of autumn as Meghan walked briskly along the Greenway Trail, her heart drumming against her ribs. She’d manufactured a trip to the library, telling Mama B she needed to research a paper on American transcendentalism. Her mother had nodded with that barely perceptible smile that spoke volumes between them—Be careful, be smart, be back by noon.

Instead of heading directly to the secluded meeting spot Darren had suggested, Meghan chose the busiest section of the trail near the community playground. She’d arrived fifteen minutes early to scout the area, positioned herself on a bench with clear sightlines in all directions, and kept her backpack on her lap—ready to leave at the first sign of trouble.

Meghan checked her watch. 9:07 AM. She was twenty-three minutes early to their agreed meeting time, which gave her ample opportunity to rehearse exactly what she would and wouldn’t say. The voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like her father was particularly loud today: Deceitful woman, walking in the way of Eve.

She unzipped her backpack, extracting her dog-eared copy of Emerson’s essays, and opened to a passage she’d highlighted in pale yellow, faint enough that Papa Mel wouldn’t notice if he conducted one of his “room inspections.” “Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind.” Her fingers traced the words, drawing strength from them as she had so many times before.

“You know, I think that’s the essay that first made me question everything.”

Darren’s voice startled her. He stood a few feet away, wearing jeans and a faded Auburn sweatshirt, his dark hair slightly disheveled. There was something disarming about him—the way he looked directly at her without the veil of performance she was accustomed to seeing in church interactions.

“Sorry,” he added. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“You’re early,” she said, instinctively scanning the area around them. A young mother pushed a stroller nearby, and an elderly couple walked their golden retriever along the path. Public. Safe. Still, she closed the book but kept her finger marking the page. “And yes, ‘Self-Reliance’ was… transformative for me too.” The word felt dangerous on her tongue, an admission of intellectual rebellion.

“I suggested the quiet spot by the creek bend,” Darren said, noticing her choice of location. “But this works too.”

“I prefer to be where people can see us,” Meghan replied carefully. “At least for now.”

Darren nodded, seeming to understand without taking offense. “Smart. I’d do the same in your position.”

Darren sat beside her, leaving a respectable distance between them. “Shall we walk? Still plenty of people on the main trail.”

The trail curved ahead of them, dappled sunlight filtering through the trees. They fell into step together, following the path as it wound alongside the creek. For several minutes, they walked in silence, and Meghan was surprised to find it comfortable rather than awkward.

“So,” she finally ventured, “how does someone who works at a steel company end up reading Emerson?”

Darren smiled. “I’m from Mountain Brook, Alabama. My dad’s an executive with Vulcan Materials, and my mom’s a homemaker involved with several charities. Growing up, our house was filled with books. Mom’s a voracious reader and passed that on to me. I’m studying engineering at Auburn now, in their Co-op program.” He gestured to his sweatshirt. “Hence the Auburn gear. How about you? I’m guessing Emerson isn’t on the approved reading list at your church.”

“No one book is explicitly forbidden, except maybe Darwin,” Meghan said cautiously. “It’s more that free thinking itself is discouraged. Questions are… problematic.”

“And yet you ask them anyway,” Darren observed.

Meghan felt a sharp pang of wariness. “I found him in a box of books Mrs. Whitaker kept in the back room of the restaurant for employees. She… noticed things.”

“What things?”

Meghan hesitated. She’d already shared more with this near stranger than anyone except Mrs. Whitaker and her mother. “Why are you interested in talking to me, Darren? Really?” she asked instead of answering his question.

He seemed taken aback by her directness. “Honestly? Because when you talked about Thoreau yesterday, your whole face lit up. It’s rare to meet someone so passionate about ideas.” He paused. “And maybe because you remind me of my cousin Rachel. She grew up in a strict religious household too. It took her years to… find her way out.”

This caught Meghan’s attention. “What happened to her?”

“She’s doing great now. Teaching high school literature in Birmingham. But it was a rough journey.”

Meghan nodded, weighing his words. The comparison to his cousin felt genuine, giving her a small measure of reassurance.

“That I was hungry. Not for food.” Meghan hesitated, then decided to test the water. “That I was suffocating.”

Darren nodded; his expression serious. “And your father is the pastor, right? That can’t be easy.”

“Pastor Mel Orr of Mount Olive Baptist Church,” she confirmed, unable to keep the edge from her voice. “Shepherd of the flock and absolute authority in our household.”

“Yet here you are, reading Emerson and meeting a stranger on the Greenway.”

“Here I am,” she agreed softly, then added, “though you’re not exactly a stranger anymore.”

“Almost, though,” she corrected herself. “We’ve spoken for all of twenty minutes, including yesterday.”

The trail widened as they approached a wooden footbridge that arched over the creek. Darren paused at its center, leaning against the railing to watch the water below. Meghan stood beside him, maintaining a careful distance, aware that they were still visible to others on the main trail but more secluded than before.

“I have a scholarship to Duke,” she said suddenly. “Full ride. I leave next August.”

Darren turned to face her; surprise evident in his expression. “That’s incredible. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. My father doesn’t know.” The admission hung between them, heavy with implication.

“I see.” His voice was gentle, free of judgment. “That’s why you were so startled when I mentioned the philosophy section at the bookstore. You’re worried about someone finding out.”

“My whole life is compartmentalized,” Meghan said. “There’s the pastor’s daughter everyone sees, and then there’s… me. The real me.” She gestured to the book in her hand. “The me who reads this and dreams of escaping.”

“Duke is a solid escape plan.” There was something in his tone—admiration, perhaps, but also a question.

Meghan noticed the question in his voice but chose not to address it directly. “What about you? How long are you in Boone for your co-op program?”

“That’s the other thing I wanted to tell you. I’m not actually just passing through Boone for a few days.”

“You’re not?”

“I’m back for my Co-op rotation with Vulcan—part of my Auburn engineering program. They’ve assigned me to oversee some of the regulatory compliance work here in Boone for the next six months.” He turned back to her. “I wasn’t planning to stay beyond that, but now I’m… reconsidering.”

Meghan felt a flutter of something dangerous in her chest—interest mingled with caution. “Six months is a long time to be away from school.”

“That’s how co-op works. Alternate semesters between classes and work experience. I’ll go back to campus in January.” He seemed to realize the implication of his words. “I’m not suggesting anything, Meghan. I just… enjoyed talking with you yesterday. Thought maybe we could be friends.”

The word ‘friends’ both relieved and disappointed her, though she wasn’t ready to examine why. “Friends,” she repeated, testing the word. “I don’t have many of those. Not real ones.”

“Me neither, surprisingly,” Darren admitted. “Plenty of classmates, teammates, but few people I can really talk to about things that matter.”

Meghan studied him, weighing his words against a lifetime of learned suspicion. There was an earnestness in his eyes that resonated with something deep within her—a recognition of kindred spirits.

“Can I tell you something I’ve never said out loud?” she asked, her voice barely audible over the burbling creek.

“Of course.”

“Sometimes I think God made a mistake giving me to the Orrs. That there was a cosmic mix-up, and I was meant to be born into a family where questions weren’t sins and knowledge wasn’t dangerous.” She held her breath, waiting for the judgment that always followed such heretical thoughts.

Instead, Darren nodded slowly. “I don’t think God makes mistakes. But I do think sometimes the universe creates… corrections.” He gestured between them. “Maybe this is one.”

Meghan shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aware of how much she’d revealed. “I should be more careful. I hardly know you.”

“You’re right,” Darren agreed, surprising her. “We should both be careful. You have a lot at stake.”

They resumed walking, the conversation shifting to books they’d read, ideas they’d contemplated. Meghan found herself speaking more freely than usual, though still filtering her thoughts through a screen of caution. Darren seemed to sense her boundaries, never pushing for more than she offered.

When they reached a small clearing where the path branched off in two directions, they paused by a trail map where wildflowers still bloomed despite the advancing season.

“I have a lot to lose,” Meghan said finally, returning to her earlier caution. “If my father finds out about…” She gestured vaguely between them.

“About me,” Darren supplied. “About us talking.”

“He could lock me down completely. No job at the restaurant, no library access, no chance to save more money for Duke.” She twisted the strap of her backpack. “But there’s something else.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve spent eighteen years learning how to be invisible in plain sight. It’s exhausting, but it’s kept me safe.” She met his eyes directly. “I can’t afford to trust too quickly, Darren. Not with eight months to go before Duke.”

“I understand,” he said simply. “Trust takes time.”

“Yes, it does.” Meghan glanced at her watch. “I should head back soon.”

“Before you go,” Darren said, “I want you to know that I’m not looking to complicate your life. But if you decide you want to talk again—about books, ideas, whatever—I’ll be around.”

Darren didn’t move closer, but his expression softened. “No pressure. No expectations. Just an open door if you want it.”

“How would I even contact you?” she asked, not committing but not refusing either.

“We create our own rules. Meet in places where you’re safe from observation. Use the Whitakers as allies. I follow your lead on everything—timing, communication, boundaries.” He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and wrote something down. “This is my number at the Daniel Boone. I’m staying in one of the upstairs rooms—Mr. Whitaker arranged it through my dad. Dad thought it would be good for me to experience ‘the real world’ instead of some corporate apartment. The phone is in my room, and only I answer it.”

Meghan took the paper, looking at it for a long moment before folding it carefully and slipping it into her book. “I might be able to call from the payphone at the library sometimes. Or maybe Mrs. Whitaker would let me use the restaurant phone during a break. I don’t know if I will, though.”

“That’s completely fine,” he assured her. “Balls in your court.”

The weight of the decision settled over Meghan. Unlike most choices in her life, this one was truly hers to make—no coercion, no manipulation, just the freedom to decide. It was both liberating and terrifying.

“I should head back,” she said, checking her watch. “I told Mama B I’d be home by noon.”

“Can I walk you part of the way?”

“To the trailhead,” she decided. “That should be safe.”

They walked back in companionable silence, keeping a respectable distance between them. When they reached the bench where they’d started, Meghan paused.

“I’ll think about what you said,” she told him, her voice measured and cautious. “About being friends.”

Darren nodded. “I’ll be at the restaurant for dinner on Tuesday. I always eat there in the evenings after work. If you’re working and can talk, great. If not, I’ll just have my usual burger and leave you alone.”

“Tuesday,” she acknowledged, neither promising nor refusing. “I work until closing.”

“And Meghan?” he added as she turned to leave.

“Yes?”

“Whatever you decide, your Duke plan is solid. Don’t let anything, or anyone, jeopardize that.”

His words surprised her. Most people in her life demanded commitment, loyalty, obedience. No one had ever encouraged her independence quite so directly.

“Thank you for that,” she said quietly.

“Freedom isn’t really freedom if it comes with impossible choices,” he said simply.

As Meghan walked away, her mind was already calculating risks and possibilities, imagining the logistics of whether this potential friendship was worth the risk. But beneath the practical considerations, a new feeling was taking root—not the desperate hope of escape that had sustained her for years, but something warmer, more immediate. For the first time, she was considering pursuing something for its own value, not just as a means of getting away.

Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind.

With each step toward home, Meghan felt her resolve strengthening. This wasn’t necessarily a detour from her path to freedom, it might be an unexplored branch of the same journey. She would take her time, proceed with caution, and decide deliberately whether to follow it.

Chapter 8

Meghan stood in the Whitakers’ small office behind the restaurant kitchen, her fingers trembling slightly as she dialed the unfamiliar number. The sound of dishes clattering and muffled kitchen instructions filtered through the wall. She glanced at the clock, 5:37 PM. Three minutes until her break officially ended.

“Hello?” Darren’s voice came through the receiver, slightly distorted but undeniably his.

“It’s me,” Meghan said, unconsciously lowering her voice despite the closed door. “I can talk for about two minutes.”

“Meghan.” The way he said her name made her chest tighten. “I wasn’t sure you’d call.”

“I said I would.” She wound the phone cord around her finger, an unexpected smile forming. “Mrs. Whitaker let me use the office phone.”

“So, they know? About us talking?”

Meghan hesitated. “Not everything. Just that we’re… friends. She thinks I’m calling about a school project.”

The lie had come easily that afternoon when she’d asked Mrs. Whitaker if she could use the phone during her break. Another small deception to add to the growing collection. Meghan had never been a liar before Darren, yet now falsehoods rolled off her tongue with alarming ease.

“I’ve been thinking about our walk all week,” Darren said. “The way you described escaping through books—it reminded me of something my mother always says.”

“What’s that?”

“That the right book at the right time is like finding a door in a wall you thought was solid.”

Meghan closed her eyes, savoring the words. “I like that. Your mother sounds nothing like mine.”

“Every family has its complications,” Darren said diplomatically. “Even mine.”

A comfortable silence stretched between them, and Meghan found herself wishing she could see his face—the thoughtful expression he wore when choosing his words carefully, the slight furrow between his brows.

“There’s something I need to ask,” she said finally, her voice dropping even lower. “About Saturday. How do we—”

A sharp knock at the door made her jump.

“Just a minute,” she called, then whispered urgently into the phone. “I have to go. But there’s a trail behind the Methodist church. The one on Howard Street? It connects to the greenway. I could meet you there at noon.”

“I’ll be there,” Darren promised. “Same spot as before?”

“No, too risky. There’s a wooden bench about a quarter mile in, next to a big oak tree. I’ll wait there.”

“Meghan?” Mrs. Whitaker’s voice came through the door.

“I’ll find it,” Darren said. “Be careful.”

“You too.”

Meghan hung up the phone and took a deep breath, composing her features into the pleasant, unremarkable expression she’d perfected over years of hiding her thoughts from her father. When she opened the door, Mrs. Whitaker stood there with a knowing look that made Meghan wonder just how transparent her “school project” excuse had been.

“Sorry, I lost track of time,” Meghan said, smoothing her apron.

“Table 12 needs their check,” Mrs. Whitaker replied, but her eyes were kind. “And your father just pulled into the parking lot. He’s early tonight.”

A cold wave washed through Meghan’s body. “He’s supposed to be at a deacons’ meeting until seven.”

“Well, he’s here now. He’s waiting at the counter.” Mrs. Whitaker hesitated. “I can tell him you’re in the back helping Mr. Whitaker with inventory if you need a minute.”

Meghan shook her head. “No, that would just make him suspicious. Thank you, though.”

As she walked through the swinging kitchen doors into the dining area, Meghan’s mind raced. Why was Mel here early? Had someone seen her and Darren on the trail last Saturday? Had she said something in her sleep? Left some evidence in her room?

Mel sat at the counter, his Bible placed prominently beside him like a shield or a warning. He was talking with Jack Simmons, one of the church elders, their heads bent close in conversation that stopped abruptly when they noticed her.

“Meghan,” her father said, his voice carrying that peculiar blend of public warmth and private command. “I finished early and thought I’d give you a ride home rather than have your mother come out again.”

“That’s thoughtful of you,” Meghan said, the practiced response automatic. “I still have an hour on my shift.”

“I’ve already spoken with Mr. Whitaker. He says they’re slow tonight and can manage without you.”

Elder Simmons nodded at her, his smile not reaching his eyes. “Your father was just telling me about your Duke scholarship opportunity. What a blessing for a young woman with your… intellect.”

The way he paused made the compliment feel like an accusation.

“Yes, sir. I’m grateful for the opportunity.” Meghan kept her voice neutral, avoiding her father’s gaze.

“Of course, there are excellent Christian colleges that would provide a more nurturing environment for a pastor’s daughter,” Elder Simmons continued. “I was just mentioning Liberty to your father.”

So that’s what this was about. Another attempt to redirect her future toward their approved path. Meghan felt a flicker of relief—this wasn’t about Darren after all—followed immediately by the familiar frustration.

“I haven’t made any decisions yet,” she said, which was true only in the most technical sense. In her heart, she’d decided long ago.

“Well, there’s time yet,” her father said, standing and picking up his Bible. “Go get your things, Meghan. Your mother has dinner waiting.”

As Meghan went to the back room to collect her bag, her mind returned to Darren. Saturday suddenly seemed very far away. The restaurant had been her sanctuary, a place where she could exist beyond her father’s constant surveillance. Now he was here, diminishing even this small freedom.

But the memory of Darren’s voice, the plans they’d made, gave her a sense of buoyancy. For the first time in her life, Meghan had something entirely her own, a connection her father couldn’t control or corrupt with his twisted interpretations of scripture.

She touched her pocket where she’d written down Darren’s phone number, feeling the slight crease in the paper through the fabric. A tenuous connection, but real. A promise of something beyond Mount Olive and her father’s suffocating version of faith.

“Meghan!” Her father’s voice carried from the front.

“Coming,” she called back, straightening her shoulders.

She could endure tonight’s inevitable scripture reading and pointed questions about her college applications. She could weather the coming Sunday services and her father’s searching glances.

Because on Saturday, she would see Darren again. And in that thought was freedom that Mel Orr, for all his surveillance and scripture, couldn’t touch.

Chapter 9

The annual Mount Olive Baptist Church picnic stretched across the wide lawn behind the sanctuary, a tableau of Southern Baptist propriety that Meghan could have sketched from memory. Folding tables draped with checkered cloths sagged under the weight of casseroles and fried chicken. Children darted between adults, their Sunday clothes already bearing evidence of spilled lemonade and grass stains. Women gathered around the dessert table, exchanging recipes and gentle gossip, while men stood in small groups discussing football, church finances, and the moral decline of America—all with equal conviction.

Meghan methodically filled paper plates with potato salad, baked beans, and Sister Martha’s famous deviled eggs, working the food line with Leanne Tuttle, her assigned partner for picnic duty. Leanne’s running commentary on which families took too much food provided the perfect cover for Meghan’s periodic glances at her watch.

Twelve minutes until she needed to make her move.

Yesterday’s meeting with Darren on the trail behind the Methodist church had only intensified her longing to see him again. They’d spent two precious hours talking about everything and nothing, his engineering studies, her college aspirations, favorite books, childhood memories. When they parted, the promise of “see you tomorrow” had carried her through the evening service and her father’s particularly pointed sermon on the dangers of worldly influences.

“Earth to Meghan.” Leanne nudged her with an elbow. “Mrs. Farrow asked if you want to help with Vacation Bible School next summer. After you get back from whatever fancy Christian college your daddy picks.”

Mrs. Farrow, the Sunday School director, peered at Meghan expectantly over her bifocals. “We could use your organizational skills, dear. The theme is ‘Fishers of Men.'”

Meghan assembled her pastor’s-daughter smile. “That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Farrow. Let me check my calendar when college schedules come out.”

The non-commitment seemed to satisfy the older woman, who moved down the line murmuring about arthritic knees and the humidity. Meghan felt a twinge of guilt for the deception. Mrs. Farrow had always shown her genuine kindness, unlike many church members who valued her only as an extension of her father.

“Your daddy’s looking really serious with those men,” Leanne observed, nodding toward the oak tree where Mel stood with Elder Wilson and two deacons.

Mel gestured emphatically as he spoke, his Bible held loosely in one hand. Elder Wilson nodded with grave importance; his arms folded across his chest. Meghan recognized the posture—her father was holding court, not conversing.

“Probably discussing the missionary budget,” Meghan said, though she strongly suspected they were talking about the “homosexual agenda” again. It had been Mel’s favorite topic since the Supreme Court ruling on Lawrence v. Texas two years ago.

She checked her watch again. Ten minutes.

“I need to use the restroom,” Meghan told Leanne. “Can you handle the line for a few minutes?”

Without waiting for an answer, Meghan slipped away from the food table and walked purposefully toward the church building. She felt Mama B’s eyes on her back as she passed the women’s circle, but didn’t turn. Her mother would understand, even if she didn’t know the specifics.

Instead of entering the church through the main doors, Meghan circled around to the education wing, where a side entrance led to the classrooms. The building was empty, everyone having migrated outside for the picnic. Her footsteps echoed in the silent hallway as she made her way to her father’s office.

The door was unlocked, Mel never locked it, considering the entire church his domain. Meghan slipped inside and went directly to the storage closet where the church maintenance supplies were kept. She grabbed a roll of paper towels and bottle of glass cleaner, props for her alibi if anyone questioned her presence.

From her father’s office, a narrow back staircase led down to the basement and out to a seldom-used door on the far side of the building. Meghan descended the stairs quickly, her heart beginning to race with the thrill of calculated risk.

She had timed this carefully. At precisely 1:30, the youth pastor would organize the teenagers for volleyball, capturing everyone’s attention. Her father would be deep in theological discussions with the elders. Mama B would be helping serve dessert. No one would notice her absence for at least twenty minutes, and if they did, the cleaning supplies would provide her excuse.

The basement door squeaked slightly as she pushed it open, and Meghan froze, listening to any response. Nothing. She stepped outside into the narrow strip of shade behind the church, closed the door behind her, and began walking briskly toward the tree line at the edge of the property.

Twenty feet into the woods, partially hidden by an ancient oak, Darren waited.

“You made it,” he said, his face breaking into a smile that made her breath catch.

“Right on schedule.” She glanced back toward the church. “I have about fifteen minutes before anyone might come looking.”

“Then we’d better make them count.” Darren took her hand, and they moved deeper into the woods along a barely visible trail. “I found this path yesterday while you were showing me the trail behind the Methodist church. It leads to a small clearing about five minutes from here.”

Meghan’s pulse quickened. The danger of discovery, the warmth of Darren’s hand around hers, the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves, everything felt heightened, vibrant in a way her carefully controlled life at Mount Olive never did.

“This is far more reckless than yesterday,” she said, but couldn’t suppress her smile.

“Calculated risk,” Darren corrected, guiding her around a fallen log. “We’re being smart about it.”

“Smart would be meeting somewhere miles from the church.”

“But not as poetic.” Darren’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “There’s something satisfying about finding freedom right under their noses.”

The truth of his observation struck her. This wasn’t just about seeing Darren; it was about carving out space for herself within the confines of her controlled existence. Every step into these woods was an act of self-assertion, a small rebellion against her father’s authority.

They reached the clearing, a modest open space where sunlight broke through the canopy to illuminate a carpet of fallen leaves and scattered wildflowers. Darren had brought a small blanket, which he spread on a relatively flat spot beneath a towering hickory tree.

“Your throne, m’lady,” he said with exaggerated formality, gesturing to the blanket.

Meghan laughed as she sat down, crossing her legs beneath her Sunday dress. “Fifteen minutes to sit on the ground and get my clothes dirty. My father would have a stroke.”

“Is it worth it?” Darren asked, suddenly serious as he sat beside her.

Meghan looked at him—really looked at him. At the genuine curiosity in his blue eyes, the slight nervousness in his posture, the care he’d taken to create this moment for them.

“Yes,” she said simply.

They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, listening to the distant sounds of the picnic filtering through the trees, punctuated by bird calls and the rustling of leaves.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday,” Darren said finally. “About feeling like your father’s faith is suffocating you.”

Meghan tensed slightly. Religious discussions were fraught territory for her.

“I’m not going to try to convince you of anything,” he added quickly, reading her expression. “That’s not what this is. I just wanted to say that I understand searching for your own answers. My parents are nominally Baptist, but mostly just for the social connections. I’ve been trying to figure out what I actually believe for years.”

“And have you?” Meghan asked, genuinely curious.

Darren shrugged. “I’m still working on it. But I think that’s the point—it’s supposed to be a journey, not a destination someone else picks for you.”

The simplicity of his perspective was like cool water after a lifetime of thirst. No judgment, no pressure. Just acknowledgment of her right to seek her own path.

“What’s your favorite book?” Darren asked, changing subjects. “We didn’t get to that yesterday.”

The question caught Meghan off guard. “That’s like asking which breath of air I prefer.”

“Okay, too broad,” he laughed. “What book made you feel most understood?”

Meghan didn’t hesitate. “Jane Eyre. I read it when I was fourteen, hidden under my covers with a flashlight. Something about her determination to honor her own principles even when it meant walking away from what she wanted most—I felt that in my bones.”

“I can see that in you,” Darren said softly. “That same quiet strength.”

Their eyes locked, and Meghan felt a magnetic pull between them, as if some invisible forces were drawing them together. Without conscious thought, she leaned toward him slightly.

A piercing whistle from the direction of the church jolted them both.

“The volleyball game must be starting,” Meghan said, her heart suddenly racing for a different reason. “I need to get back.”

They stood quickly, Darren folding the blanket with efficient movements. “Tuesday at the library, like we planned yesterday?”

“Yes,” Meghan agreed, brushing leaves from her dress. “I told my mother I’m researching colleges.”

“Technically true,” Darren said with a half-smile. “I have plenty of Auburn brochures to share.”

Meghan hesitated, then made a decision. Before she could overthink it, she stepped forward and kissed him—a brief, soft press of her lips against his cheek. His skin was warm, and she caught the clean scent of his aftershave.

“Thank you for this,” she whispered, then turned and hurried back toward the path.

Darren stood motionless for a moment, his hand rising to touch the spot where her lips had been. Then he called after her, a voice low but carrying: “Worth the risk.”

“Worth the risk,” Meghan repeated to herself as she retraced her steps through the woods, clutching the cleaning supplies she’d almost forgotten. Her heart felt too large for her chest, filled with a wild, unfamiliar joy that threatened to spill out in laughter or tears or both.

She emerged from the basement door, carefully checking that no one was watching before slipping back into the education wing. As she returned the cleaning supplies to the closet in her father’s office, Meghan caught sight of her reflection in the small mirror on the wall. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright in a way that might draw attention.

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and mentally reconstructed her pastor’s-daughter mask—composed, pleasant, unremarkable. When she opened them again, the mirror showed the Meghan everyone at Mount Olive expected to see.

But beneath that careful facade, something had fundamentally changed. She had taken a risk—small, but significant—and discovered not just the thrill of secret rebellion, but the profound pleasure of connection with someone who saw her clearly and valued what he saw.

As she made her way back to the picnic, rejoining Leanne at the nearly empty food table with a murmured excuse about cleaning up a spill, Meghan felt the weight of her double life settling more firmly onto her shoulders. It should have felt heavier, more burdensome.

Instead, she felt buoyant, as if the pull of gravity had somehow lessened.

For those precious fifteen minutes in the woods with Darren, she had been fully herself, no pretense, no careful self-editing, no fear. And having tasted that freedom, Meghan knew with absolute certainty that she would risk far more experiencing it again.

Chapter 10

Sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows of Mount Olive Baptist Church, casting jewel-toned patterns across the worn hymnal in Meghan’s hands. She sat in her usual place—third pew from the front, far right side—her posture perfect, her face a careful mask of attentive reverence. Four weeks of secret meetings with Darren had made her an even more accomplished actress than before.

The congregation around her shifted restlessly as Mel Orr’s sermon entered its forty-fifth minute. Meghan had mastered the art of appearing completely engaged while her mind wandered elsewhere. Today, she was mentally reviewing her chemistry notes for tomorrow’s test, occasionally nodding as if in agreement with her father’s words.

“…and so we turn now to Second Corinthians, chapter six, verses fourteen through fifteen,” Mel’s voice boomed across the sanctuary. “‘Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? and what communion hath light with darkness? And what concord hath Christ with Belial? or what part hath he that believeth with an infidel?'”

Something in her father’s tone pulled Meghan sharply back to the present. She looked up from her hymnal to find Mel staring directly at her, his eyes narrowed with focused intensity that made her blood run cold.

“The Lord speaks clearly here, beloved,” Mel continued, his gaze sweeping across the congregation but returning to Meghan with alarming frequency. “We are not to bind ourselves to those who reject the truth of God’s Word. The unbeliever seeks to corrupt the believer, to draw them away from the path of righteousness.”

Meghan’s heart began to race. It wasn’t unusual for her father to preach against “worldly relationships,” but there was something targeted about today’s message that set alarm bells ringing in her mind.

“Young people especially,” Mel emphasized, his voice dropping to a grave register that the congregation recognized as his most serious teaching tone, “must guard against forming attachments with those who do not share their faith. These relationships may begin innocently enough—a friendship, a study partnership, even a seemingly harmless infatuation.”

The word “infatuation” landed like a stone in Meghan’s stomach. Her fingers tightened around the hymnal until her knuckles whitened.

“But Satan is clever in his deceptions,” Mel continued. “He sends those who appear kind, thoughtful, even respectful of your beliefs. They may not openly mock your faith. They may listen patiently, nodding along as if understanding. But make no mistake—the unequally yoked relationship leads only one direction: downward.”

Meghan forced herself to breathe normally, though her chest felt constricted. Her father couldn’t know about Darren. They had been so careful. Yet the specificity of his examples felt too precise to be coincidental.

“I have counseled many young women,” Mel’s voice softened with feigned compassion, “who believed they could maintain their faith while dating non-believers. They convinced themselves they might even lead these young men to Christ. Instead, they found their own faith eroded, their moral standards compromised, their relationship with the Lord damaged—perhaps irreparably.”

Meghan felt the weight of dozens of eyes turning toward her. As the pastor’s daughter, she was the natural reference point for any sermon directed at the church’s young women. She kept her face composed, though shame and fear coursed through her veins. Not shame for her relationship with Darren, but shame at being the object of this public spectacle, fear that her precious secret had been discovered.

“The path seems pleasant at first,” Mel warned, his voice rising again. “Exciting conversations, shared interests, the thrill of new experiences. But those who walk this path find themselves making small compromises, telling small lies, hiding their activities from those who love them most.”

A hot flush spread across Meghan’s cheeks. She fixed her eyes on the page before her, though the printed words blurred together.

“And what is the end of such a relationship?” Mel thundered, slamming his hand against the pulpit. “Spiritual destruction! ‘What communion hath light with darkness?’ None! There can be no true communion when one walks in the light of God’s truth and the other in darkness.”

The sermon continued for another fifteen minutes, each word driving deeper into Meghan’s consciousness. By the time the closing hymn began, her hands were trembling so badly she could barely hold the hymnal. As the congregation filed out, she maintained her composure through years of practiced discipline, smiling and nodding to church members who complimented her father’s powerful message.

“Quite a sermon today,” Mrs. Parker murmured as she passed, giving Meghan’s arm a gentle squeeze that felt like both sympathy and warning.

Mrs. Parker was the church librarian, a quiet widow who had always shown Meghan kindness, sneaking appropriate fiction titles onto the otherwise strictly religious shelves. Had she noticed something? Had someone seen Meghan with Darren? The thought sent a wave of nausea through Meghan’s body.

“Meghan,” her father’s voice came from behind her. “A word before lunch.”

She turned to find Mel standing with Elder Wilson, both men regarding her with calculated scrutiny.

“Brother Wilson was just saying what a blessing it is to have a daughter who exemplifies Christian values for the other young people,” Mel said, his eyes never leaving her face. “I told him you’ve always been discerning about your associations.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” Meghan replied, the childhood name slipping out as it always did when she felt threatened. “Elder Wilson.”

“Your father’s sermon today was exactly what this congregation needs,” Wilson said, his thin lips barely moving as he spoke. “Too many of our young people are being led astray by worldly influences. But I’m sure you don’t have that problem, being raised with such solid biblical teaching.”

It wasn’t a question, but Meghan heard the expectation of a response. “I’m very grateful for my father’s guidance,” she said carefully.

“Good girl,” Mel said with a tight smile. “We’ll be leaving shortly. Go find your mother and tell her we’ll be ready to go in ten minutes. Elder Wilson and I have some church business to discuss.”

Meghan nodded and walked away, her legs feeling strangely disconnected from her body. The drive home and Sunday lunch passed in a blur, with Mel continuing to expound on the themes from his sermon. By the time she escaped to her room, claiming homework, Meghan felt physically ill.

She sat at her desk, staring at her chemistry textbook without seeing it. Her father’s words echoed in her mind, amplified by seventeen years of religious conditioning. What if he was right? What if her relationship with Darren was a spiritual trap? She’d been deceiving her parents, sneaking around, breaking rules she’d been taught were God’s unchangeable laws.

Worse, she’d been questioning the very foundation of her family’s faith. Darren had never pushed her toward atheism—had never pushed her toward anything—but their conversations had opened doors to questions she’d previously kept locked away. Was that corruption? Was she being drawn away from truth, as her father claimed?

The doubts multiplied, feeding on each other until Meghan felt suffocated by confusion. She reached for her phone to call the Daniel Boone Restaurant with some excuse to cancel Tuesday’s library meeting with Darren, then stopped. If her father suspected something, any unusual phone call might confirm his suspicions. The Whitakers had been enabling her secret meetings by providing cover stories and messages but involving them now seemed too risky.

Instead, she opened her notebook to a fresh page and began writing a letter she had no way to send.

Darren,

I can’t see you anymore. My father’s sermon today made me realize how dishonest I’ve been—with my parents, with the church, with myself. I’ve been living a double life, and I can’t continue this way. The guilt is too much.

These past weeks have been wonderful, but I need to focus on my spiritual well-being. Maybe my father is right that relationships like ours can only lead to compromise and pain.

I’m sorry. Meghan

She stared at the words, feeling their finality like a physical ache. Then, with deliberate movements, she tore the page from her notebook, folded it precisely, and tucked it into her chemistry textbook. Tomorrow, she will find some way to get it to Darren.

__________

Tuesday afternoon found Meghan in the Boone Public Library, seated at her usual table near the biography section, her textbooks spread around her. She’d wrestled with her decision for two days, the letter burning a hole in her backpack. Part of her—the part shaped by seventeen years of her father’s teachings—felt righteous certainty about ending things with Darren. Another part felt like she was amputating a limb.

She checked her watch. 4:15. Time enough to place the letter prominently on the table, gather her things, and leave before he arrives. Darren would arrive in fifteen minutes, assuming he kept to their usual schedule. His co-op program at Vulcan Materials allowed him to leave work early on Tuesdays for what his supervisor believed was a mentoring program at the local high school. Another deception woven into their relationship, another strand of guilt in the tapestry of her doubt.

As she reached for her backpack, a familiar figure appeared at the end of the aisle, fifteen minutes early. Darren walked toward her, his smile fading as he registered her expression.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly, sliding into the chair across from her.

The letter sat in her bag, suddenly impossible to retrieve. “My father’s sermon on Sunday,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “It was about being ‘unequally yoked.’ About relationships between believers and non-believers.”

Understanding dawned in Darren’s eyes. “He knows about us?”

“I don’t think so. Not specifically. But he suspects something.” Meghan’s hands fidgeted with her pencil. “It felt like he was speaking directly to me.”

Darren nodded slowly. “And now you’re thinking we should stop seeing each other.”

The simple accuracy of his assessment made her chest tighten. “I wrote you a letter,” she confessed. “I was going to leave it here and go before you arrived.”

“May I see it?”

Meghan hesitated, then reached into her bag and handed him the folded paper. She watched his face as he read, searching for anger or hurt, but his expression remained thoughtful.

When he finished, he carefully refolded the letter and placed it on the table between them. “What do you want, Meghan?” he asked gently. “Not what your father wants. Not what you think God wants. What do you want?”

The question startled her. No one had ever asked her that before—not directly, not as if her answer mattered.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I just know I feel guilty for lying. For sneaking around.”

“That’s fair,” Darren said. “The situation forces dishonesty, and dishonesty feels wrong. But that’s separate from whether our relationship itself is wrong.”

He was silent for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “I respect your faith, Meghan, even the parts of it you’re questioning. But I wonder if your father’s interpretation of that verse might be… selective.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m not a biblical scholar,” Darren said with a small smile, “but I did some reading after our conversations about your church. That passage is often used to warn Christians against marrying non-believers, but historically, it was addressing much broader concerns about the early church maintaining its identity while surrounded by pagan practices.”

Meghan blinked in surprise. Darren had been researching her faith tradition.

“The context matters,” he continued. “When Paul wrote that letter, Christians were a tiny minority living in a Greco-Roman world full of idol worship and radically different ethical systems. He wasn’t necessarily talking about two people with different views on faith having conversations or caring about each other.”

“You’ve been studying theology?” Meghan asked, momentarily distracted from her turmoil.

Darren shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed. “I wanted to understand where you’re coming from. And honestly, the history of religion is fascinating, even from a secular perspective.”

The gesture touched something deep in Meghan’s heart. While her father had been preaching against hypothetical corrupting influences, Darren had been trying to understand her world, to speak her language.

“I don’t want to pressure you,” Darren said after a moment. “If you decide this is too difficult or too risky, I’ll respect that. But I hope you’ll make that decision based on what you truly believe, not out of fear or guilt.”

“What if I don’t know what I truly believe anymore?” Meghan whispered, voicing the question that had haunted her for years.

“Then maybe that’s okay too,” Darren replied. “Maybe not knowing is better than clinging to certainties that don’t feel right to you.”

They sat in silence, the soft sounds of the library around them—pages turning, keyboards clicking, the occasional whispered conversation. Meghan stared at the letter on the table, the words inside now seeming less like conviction and more like capitulation.

“I don’t want to stop seeing you,” she said finally, surprising herself with the certainty in her voice. “But I’m afraid.”

“Of your father finding out?”

“Yes. And…” She struggled to articulate the deeper fear. “What if this isn’t just about having a boyfriend my father wouldn’t approve of? What if it’s the first step toward leaving everything I’ve been taught? My family, my church, my community—they’re all I’ve ever known.”

Darren reached across the table, his hand hovering over hers without touching, respecting the public setting. “That’s a lot bigger than whether we keep meeting at the library,” he said. “Those are questions you’d eventually face with or without me.”

“But you make me brave enough to ask them,” Meghan confessed. “And that terrifies me.”

“For what it’s worth,” Darren said softly, “I think courage suits you better than fear.”

Meghan looked at him—really looked at him. At the patience in his eyes, the careful respect in his posture, the genuine concern in his expression. This was not the corrupting influence her father had described from the pulpit. This was someone who valued her thoughts, her questions, her autonomy.

She picked up the letter and deliberately tore it in half, then in quarters. “I’m staying,” she said, tucking the pieces into her backpack. “But we need to be more careful.”

Relief washed over Darren’s face, followed by a cautious smile. “Agreed. We can figure this out together.”

“Together,” Meghan repeated, the word feeling like both promise and defiance.

As they settled into their usual routine—chemistry tutoring as their public cover—Meghan felt the weight of her father’s sermon lifting slightly. The doubts hadn’t disappeared entirely, and the practical risks remained, but something fundamental had shifted. For the first time, she had faced the full force of her religious conditioning, the guilt and fear designed to keep her compliant, and she had chosen her own path.

It was a small rebellion, visible to no one but herself and Darren. Yet in that moment, seated in the quiet corner of the Boone Public Library with her chemistry textbook open between them, Meghan felt the first true stirrings of freedom.