I know exactly how this reads. I am the woman everyone warns you about. I am the one who sits in the back pew at church, keeps my head down, and waits for the moment to ruin everything.

I’ve started typing this confession four times now. Each time, I delete it because there is no clean way to say I was the person everyone in Conway, Arkansas, eventually learned to despise.

Marlene Price was not my enemy. That is the part everyone will skip past because it is easier if I am just a villain. But she was the one who brought me ham salad after my appendix surgery in 2021. She saved me a seat at First Baptist when my mother died. She always wore those little reading glasses on a chain and carried peppermints in her purse for other people’s children.

She was good. I was just bored, and honestly, I was cruel.

Wade Price was the one who noticed me first. He owned Price Heating and Air, and he had a way of talking that made every sentence feel like a secret, even in a room full of folding chairs. It started with small things. A text about the church bulletin. A joke about the potluck green beans. A ride home when my starter went out in the Dollar General parking lot.

I told myself I was lonely. That sounds pathetic written down, but it’s the only truth I have.

The baby shower was on a Saturday in the fellowship hall. There were 32 women, two diaper cakes, and a sheet cake with blue icing that stained everyone’s teeth. Marlene sat in the metal chair with the white bow tied around it, one hand resting on her belly, laughing at something her aunt Rita said.

Wade walked in late with a pack of bottled water over his shoulder. He looked at me before he looked at his wife.

I remember the smell of coffee in the church urn, burnt and sour, and the squeak of those old floor tiles under his boots. I remember because I was trying so hard not to look back at him. Then Marlene waved me over.

“Tessa, come feel him kick,” she said.

I should have said no. I should have gone to the bathroom. I should have left that church and blocked his number before I made it to my car. But I put my hand on her belly. The baby moved under my palm, a tiny, rhythmic thud. Wade watched from beside the gift table, smiling like he had arranged the whole room for himself.

After the shower, he met me behind the education building where the old playground sits. He told me Marlene had been fragile for months. He said the baby was not what he wanted, not really. He said he was trapped by everyone else’s expectations.

Then he said the line that still makes me feel sick when I think about it.