WHEN THEY ASK YOU TO BE MY HUSBAND, SAY YES.

CHAPTER TWELVE

LEPERS

After breakfast, the Costa Rican sun rises over the jungle canopy and cooks us on our walk to church. The sweltering, dusty march of campers and counselors comes to an end at the familiar torchlights of Ambrose Chapel flickering through the daylight. Darcy leads the head of the pack, with Molly and me tutting along at the rear with whatever is the opposite of a spring in our steps. We’re both indescribably bummed: Darcy’s note had nothing to do with Ricky Hannigan, and if anything, its mysteriousness has only freaked us out more.

“What does she mean, ‘be my husband’?” I hiss. “I don’t want to marry anybody…”

“Obviously, I don’t know and don’t care,” Molly says with an agitated huff. “I’m not trying to solve a puzzle. Everyone here is a secret-keeping snake!”

“Agreed.”

Hellfire-winged butterflies swarm my stomach at the mere possibility—they can’t just force me to marry somebody. But something in Darcy’s catlike intensity won’t let me shrug this off; she doesn’t seem the type to invent something ridiculous. She meant something by this. While Darcy’s note has unsettled me, Molly has only further steeled herself to commandeer an escape boat. “As soon as I see my chance, I’m taking it,” she says. “And I’m not waiting around for you to think it over.”

After a morning of bed-making, sing-alongs, and secret letters, Molly reminds me Nightlight is a place not to be settled into but to be done with as soon as possible. I want to know what happened to Ricky, but the FBI is involved and the Reverend could be hiding something legit serious. I can’t snoop around and appear to be a solid, flag-saluting citizen of Nightlight.

For now, I have to let go of Ricky.

My heart plummets like an elevator at the idea of living here another three months if I fail their review. When I make it back home, I’ll find Ario’s social media flooded with pictures of him and some new college boyfriend—someone with a dynamic, alliterative name like Ash (Ario and Ash! Ariash!), and their Instas packed with hashtags and sponsored by Crest Whitestrips.

Nightlight will have to be the performance of my closeted career.

Inside the chapel, two standing candelabras remain lit because even the harsh sun can’t crack through these filthy inches-thick windows. Each pane of glass is stained with an amber sheen, dousing the chapel in a warm, yet ugly hue—as if gold could rot. Two battery-powered air conditioners the size of lunchboxes blow a merciful breeze onto the congregation, while a third aims directly at the Reverend.