Midweek Medusa

The midweek night service hadn’t started yet when I walked in—and the moment I did, the entire sanctuary froze. Heads turned. Conversations died mid-sentence. The older men stiffened, like someone had poured vinegar down their throats. Bitter. A few glanced toward the exits, unsure if they wanted to be there anymore. The younger ones didn’t even pretend not to stare. One tilted his head like he was looking at a painting that used to hang straight, and now something was... different.

The women? Arms crossed. Expressionless but curious. Not mean. Not warm. Just watching, like they weren’t sure which box to put me in now.

I felt like friggin’ Medusa.

In this town, a new pair of earrings can spark gossip. When you shift your energy—when your walk gets lighter and your posture says I’ve come back to myself? That gets you socially quarantined until further notice.

And then came the screech.

“Mmmhm. Nope. NOPE. Girl, stop the presses! WHAT did you do?! Are you trying to make the rest of us look like we crawled out of a laundry basket?”

Mia. My wild, loud, unfiltered ride-or-die, barreled through the pews like a shot of espresso with legs. Her arms were already open before she reached me, but she stopped short just to give me a once-over, hands on hips.

“Hold up. Are those cheekbones? Since when do you have cheekbones? And is that confidence I see? Honey, you are serving main character energy and I am here for it.”

I burst out laughing—full-on, exhale-from-the-belly laughter. It felt so damn good.

“Someone had to shake things up,” I grinned.

Mia winked. “Well, you shook it, stirred it, and poured it over ice. Look at these people, can’t even handle it. I’m gonna need you to walk by me twice more so I can soak up some of that glow.”

Just like that, the spell broke. People softened. Someone came up and complimented my nail color. A woman looked me over and said my haircut was like the eighth world wonder. It sounded almost like an apology. Or at least a quiet offering.

Then the pastor and his wife made their way over. He shook my hand, calm and steady, with that kind of pressure that says, You’re seen. You belong. His wife wrapped me in a hug, warm and grounding. She felt like home. They didn’t do performative kindness. They knew people in the community. Not just faces, but patterns. Not just names, but grief. And joy. And change. They even knew the name of the dog of your great aunt four times removed from twenty years ago. And the best part is, they met you exactly where you were.

I was still catching my breath, still letting the atmosphere settle around me, when I saw him.

Cole Maddox.

Four  years older than me. Taller than I remembered. Mostly gray now—the kind of gray that made him look settled, not old. Like he’d stopped fighting something and just... let it be. He had that same slow walk. Hands in his coat pockets. Like he was trying not to disturb anything around him. He caught my eye and made his way over.

“Deppgrl,” he said, pulling the old nickname out of nowhere like it still had a heartbeat. Like we hadn’t gone years without using it.

I lifted an eyebrow. “Still calling me that, huh?”

He shrugged. “Some things stick.”

We didn’t say much after that. The worship team started mic checks. Cole found a seat a few rows ahead of me, and even though I kept my focus forward, I could feel his gaze from time to time. Curious. Maybe even regretful.

After service, I was slipping on my coat when he approached again.

“You got time?” he asked. “There’s a diner down the road. They’ve got real pie—not the frozen kind.”

I hesitated. I knew that he wanted to explain himself years too late. And I also didn’t want to go to the same diner that Randy and I went to often. Still, I nodded.

“Yeah. Okay.”

We walked in silence. Just a few hundred feet in the cool air. The kind of chill that wakes you up instead of dragging you down. The night felt crisp, like it was trying to remind me I was alive.

When we got to the diner, we found a booth near the back. The waitress greeted us with a distracted smile and asked what we wanted to drink.

“Coffee,” we both said.

She came back with two mugs and a little metal basket of creamers, setting them down gently.

Cole tried for small talk. “So, what kind of pie is your favorite?”

The waitress jumped in, brightening. “Apple. It’s the most popular one we have. We can never bake enough!”

I nodded. “We’ll take two slices.”

“With ice cream?” she asked.

“Yes,” Cole said, answering for both of us.

“And absolutely smothered in whipped cream,” I added, flashing a grin.

She grinned and disappeared toward the kitchen.

When the pie came a few minutes later, it was warm, thick with cinnamon and soft apple slices under a golden crust. The ice cream and whipped cream were already starting to melt, puddling into the flaky edges. It smelled like something real. Like fall. Like my favorite grandma’s house year-round. Like something that had been earned.

We ate in silence for a few bites. Not awkward, just... heavy, like the air before a storm.

Cole finally broke it. “It’s always been you.”

I set my fork down, meeting his gaze. He leaned forward, hands wrapped around his mug like he needed something to hold onto.

“I thought I could move on by moving fast,” he said. “And I did. Got married. Twice. Both times I convinced myself I was in love—especially the first. But I wasn’t. I just slept with her and mistook the guilt for something deeper. And when your name came up from mutual friends, it... it wrecked me. Every time.”

I took a breath. “That night that there was the party  at the quad, I went looking for you. Needed air—a break from studying. Maybe just a glimpse of you before exams. Five minutes later, I saw you in her dorm room, screwing her. Just like you did with me a few hours before. And you told her you loved her. Just like you told me.”

He blinked, caught off guard. I wasn’t done.

“You didn’t get scared, Cole. You got sloppy. You wanted to feel good without consequence. And I was the consequence. I carried that humiliation for years, while you went and burned through marriages like they were learning experiences.”

His face paled. His shoulders dropped, knowing he was unable to defend himself.

“I failed that exam,” he said quietly. “Had to retake the whole course. You passed. Kept going.”

I shook my head slowly, voice low. “I passed, yeah. But you don’t get to rewrite that history. I didn’t come here to hear how bad you felt. I came because I wanted pie. And I wanted to say it to your face: I deserved better.”

He had no comeback. None.

I slid out of the booth, buttoned my coat, and didn’t wait for him to follow.

Just before I reached the door, he called out my legal name. Not the nickname. Not what anyone calls me now. The name that still echoed through my childhood and only ever came out when something mattered.

I didn’t turn around.

I got in my car, drove home, and let the sobs hit before I even took my shoes off. The ugly kind. The raw, can’t-catch-your-breath kind. I called Beaux, my therapist.

As the phone rang for the third time, I realized it was 2 a.m.

“Hey. What’s going on?” he answered, voice low and groggy but steady.

“I’m sorry,” I managed through broken sobs. “Please apologize to your husband for me—”

“He’s not here. Yoga retreat,” Beaux said gently. “You’re safe. Just talk to me.”

“I shouldn’t have called this late. I’m sorry. I just—I didn’t know who else to call.”

“You called the right person,” he said. “Breathe. You’re okay. What happened?”

I curled up on the floor with the phone pressed to my ear like it might ground me.

“It’s Cole. From college. He was at the service tonight. We went for pie after. He said all these things... things I wanted to hear years ago. Things I thought I needed to hear now. But I couldn’t—I couldn’t stay.”

“What did you do?” he asked gently.

“I left him at the booth. I told him I couldn’t do this. And he called out my legal name as I walked away.” My voice cracked. “He hasn’t said my name like that in over two decades.”

Beaux paused, just long enough for me to breathe in again.

“I told him what I saw that night. The night of the party…the night he—” My voice broke completely. “The night I caught him with her. And I told him tonight that he told her he loved her after screwing me. Just like he told me a few hours prior that night.”

“That’s a wound you’ve carried alone for too long.”

I wiped my face with my sleeve. “And I still feel awful. I thought it would feel empowering to walk away. But all I feel is gutted.”

“Because it was empowering. But it also hurt. Both can be true.”

“You spoke your truth tonight,” he said. “And you didn’t abandon yourself to keep someone else comfortable. That’s growth. That’s power.”

“But why does it feel like hell?”

“Because you loved him. And because he didn’t deserve the softness you carried for him back then. And tonight, you honored that younger version of you by not letting history repeat itself.”

I let out a shaky breath.

“Beaux...”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Always. And hey—if you want, I can walk the block over from my house and meet you at your place. Just to sit for a while.” My heart stuttered at the offer. He meant it kindly, without agenda. But I shook my head, even if he couldn’t see it.

“No. That’s okay. I’m alright now.”

He didn’t push. “Okay. I just wanted you to know you weren’t alone.”

I stayed curled on the floor with the phone until the quiet settled into me. Until my body stopped trembling and I could think straight.

He stayed on the phone until my breathing slowed. Until the tremor in my chest faded into something gentler. And when I finally said goodnight, I did so knowing I hadn’t gone back. I hadn’t settled.

I had chosen myself.

Again.