It had been two weeks since Lorraine stepped in front of that camera.

Not naked—well, not completely—but enough that it changed something. Not in her eyes, not in the way she carried herself. If anything, Lorraine looked freer. A little less like the preacher’s daughter. A little more like someone learning what it meant to breathe outside of a script that was written for her.

And that should’ve made you proud.

Instead, you avoided her.

You used to walk home from church with her. Every Wednesday. Every Sunday. You used to share fries at the diner while she murmured prayers over her milkshake, blessing the hands that made it even if the cook cussed every other word. You used to read from the same hymnal, her voice soft and unsure, always a half-beat behind yours.

But now you sat on the opposite side of the pew. Quiet. Cold. Like Lorraine had done something awful instead of just… saying yes to the camera.

Maybe it wasn’t about the film.

Maybe it was about how her eyes glinted when she talked about it.

Maybe it was about the way she smiled when they said she looked pretty.

Maybe it was about how you—a girl—had spent two years trying to forget how soft her hand felt brushing yours when you reached for the same piece of bread at communion.

You knew it was wrong. Everyone said so. Girls didn’t love girls like that. Not here. Not in this town. Not in this body, full of prayers and silence and something that hurt behind your ribs every time Lorraine laughed.

So you distanced yourself.

You stopped calling her.

You left the diner early.

You even stayed home one Sunday.

But today, you were back—alone in the church, sitting in the middle row, back straight, hands clutched in your lap. You weren’t praying. You were just existing. Trying not to feel.

And then you heard her footsteps.

Lorraine Day had always been the good girl. Her hair in soft waves, parted cleanly down the middle. But now she wore a brown fitted shirt with cream chevrons down the chest and sleeves, high-waisted maroon slacks. She still read scripture aloud like it might save her. Like if she said it sweetly enough, she could believe she was still good after what she’d done.

In the movie, she had said no at first. Everyone knew that. It was RJ’s idea. He was her boyfriend, after all. But something changed during filming—maybe it was curiosity, maybe defiance. Maybe, as she told you the day after, “I just wanted to try. I wanted to understand what it meant to say yes to something for once, even if everyone else thought I shouldn’t.”

You hadn’t answered her then.

And now, instead of walking past the pew you sat on—one of twenty empty rows—she sat beside you.

Not near you.

Beside you.

The old church creaked as it settled into the quiet afternoon. Outside, cicadas screamed. Inside, your pulse did.

Lorraine didn’t speak for a long while. She just sat there, clasping her hands like she always did. Looking forward.

Finally, she asked, quiet, careful, with that same southern drawl that always sounded like lullabies and guilt:

“Did I do something wrong?”

The question felt like a blade under your ribs.

She kept going, hesitant, voice small like she already knew the answer but needed to hear it anyway:

“You won’t even look at me anymore.”