They called it a wedding.
Clara knew it was a receipt.
The little white church in the valley of Hawthorne Hollow, Colorado smelled of old pine pews and cold perfume, like somebody had tried to scrub sin out of the air and only managed to smear it. Afternoon sunlight slid through stained glass and landed in bruised colors across the aisle, dust motes drifting in the beams like tiny witnesses leaning forward to watch her be humiliated.
Her mother’s dress had been “altered” for her, which in Hawthorne Hollow meant pulled tighter until it squealed. The bodice pinched under Clara’s arms. The sleeves pressed into her skin as if the fabric itself resented being asked to fit her. Every inhale felt like a confession.
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