I wake up early on Thanksgiving and leave Vada snoring in my bed, her face hidden behind her tangled mass of red hair. After brushing my teeth and putting on a bra and pajama top, I pad on bare feet into the living room, switching on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. I turn the volume low and ignore the pang in my chest that reminds me I normally watch this with my mom.

Slipping into the kitchen, I intend to start the coffee brewing but am surprised to find James already sitting at the island with a steaming cup in front of him. He’s got his Bible open and looks … thoughtful.

I don’t interrupt, walking straight for the pot and pouring the smallest amount in my mug before dumping in a generous amount of vanilla almond milk from the fridge to cover anything remotely coffee tasting.

I’m about to head back to the living room when James speaks up. “Have a seat, Meg. We need to talk about something.”

My stomach drops at his tone. “That sounds ominous.”

He sighs, closing his Bible.

“I meant to talk to you about this the other night, but Micah’s accident happened. And, well, honestly I didn’t know how.”

I sit on the stool, putting my mug down and clasping my fingers together in front of me. “Okay.”

“It’s about youth group. Well, sort of. It’s about your witness and youth group.”

My eyes widen. My witness? It’s been a minute since someone used words like that with me.

I swallow. “Okay.”

“I’m not your uncle right now, okay? Or Micah’s friend. I’m your pastor.”

I blink, thinking that I wouldn’t be caught dead in my pajamas in front of my pastor, but okay.

“Mrs. Sanderson came to me after Halloween. She was … concerned. She saw Micah bringing you home late after your friend’s costume party and then staying.”

I blink again, waiting for more. James watches me silently.

“Okay? He didn’t spend the night. You were home, even.”

James looks uncomfortable. “But he did stay for a while? In your room? In the middle of the night?”

My cheeks burn at the implications in his tone, but my mind is boggled that this conversation is even happening—that my privacy is being invaded in this way.

“James,” I say, trying to keep my tone calm. “What exactly are you saying?”

He looks super uncomfortable, but I refuse to make this easy on him. “So, he did stay?”

“He did,” I admit. “For a little while. We came in my entrance because I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I don’t need details. Remember, I’m your pastor right now.”

I sit back against the rest, stung. “No. I don’t think I can separate the two. Clearly, Mrs. Sanderson can’t. If I don’t get to pick when I’m witnessing or not, neither do you.”