Beauty, more than bitterness

Chapter Five | Righteousness and Kindness

Whoever pursues righteousness and kindness will find life, righteousness, and honour. - Proverbs 21:21

Joel should have been at the lecture nodding solemnly at the words of other godly men, absorbing scripture with the focus expected of a priest in his position. But instead, he had walked into the dim light of the church hall following soft voices knowing, no, anticipating, that you would be there too.

The act itself was innocent, a simple labour of charity. But there had been something in the way your fingers brushed against his when you both reached for the same battered tin of soup. A brief, electric thing that sent a shudder through his bones, quick as lightning and just as searing. He had flinched away, disguised it as adjusting his sleeve, but it was too late. The sensation lingered, thrumming just beneath his skin.

You, with your sharp tongue and your obvious disdain for everything he was supposed to represent. You, who had made it abundantly clear that faith was a crutch for the weak, that the church was a relic of hypocrisy.

Yet there you were this evening tying up parcels for the needy with deft hands, murmuring smiling softly at the senior women’s complaints about the poor quality of donated goods. There was a contradiction in you, one that fascinated him against his will.

He had told himself it was curiosity. He had told himself he was searching for something good in you, some hidden tenderness that belied your cynicism. That glimmer, the briefest flicker of softness, he had it hadn’t he? Or had he only imagined it?

You hadn’t paid him much heed after the altercation with Margaret. You worked quickly, hands sifting through cans and dried goods until your Nana announces she was getting bone weary. You had been off like a shot, relief etched in your features. You couldn’t wait to escape. 

You didn’t even spare him a glance or a farewell; you simply took your Nana’s arm and left him with the group of chattering women who seemed determined to pepper him with inane comments. And for some reason that coldness, that flippancy held his attention long after your shadow left the room.

Joel had long since grown accustomed to admiration. Some women of the parish were blatant in their interest; lingering after service with bright eyes and coy smiles, laughing just a little too much at his reserved humour.

A few were beautiful in the conventional sense, elegant and graceful with soft voices that barely carried past the chapel’s walls. He was always kind but always disinterested, sure not to be alone with those women during chapel times. That part of his life had been laid to rest long ago, buried beneath his devotion, his vows and his pursuit of something purer than fleeting human desire.

And yet for the first time it years it was you who unsettled him.

You, who did not flirt, did not seek his attention and clearly did not care for his approval. It was your indifference that made you dangerous, your skepticism that made you unforgettable. He was drawn to you in a way he had not been drawn to anyone in years; not since before his collar, before he had surrendered his past to the mercy of the divine. Salvation was supposed to be his only concern. His and that of his parishioners. Not of soft lips and plush breasts, of dismissive smirks and smooth skin.

Of you.

Joel’s fingers tighten around the edge of his desk now, the polished wood smooth beneath his grip. A priest should not think this way. A priest should not entertain these distractions, should not allow himself to slip into this quiet hunger. Desire was a beast crouching in the shadows, waiting for him to falter, waiting for his inevitable sin. And God help him, he could not afford to stumble.

Not again.

With a long, measured breath Joel bowed his head, pressing his forehead against the cool surface of the wood. He could pray. He could suffocate the spark before it ignited. But in the silence of the empty rectory the truth curled at the edges of his thoughts like smoke from an extinguished candle.

He was already burning.

The heat is unrelenting, thick as syrup, the kind that sticks to your skin and makes the air shimmer over the pavement. The Texas sun is high and merciless, a blazing reminder that summer is already laying its claim. Inside, the AC hums on full blast, but still, Nana sits by the window, lazily waving a paper fan back and forth, stirring the heavy air more than cooling it.

The two of you have spent the afternoon watching daytime television, your thoughts turning sluggish with each commercial break, until finally, the restlessness becomes too much.

“I’m gonna go for a walk,” you announce, stretching out limbs stiff from inactivity.

Nana barely looks away from her program, just tilting her cheek toward you. You lean down, pressing a quick kiss to her soft, wrinkled skin.

“Do you mind grabbin’ me some sweet tea on your way home?”

“Not a problem,” you say, already stepping toward the door.

The heat slams into you as soon as you step outside, wrapping around you like a thick, suffocating blanket. You set off toward the supermarket, your mind already wandering back to Father Joel.

You don’t even know why you’re thinking about him. Or maybe that’s a lie.

There’s something about him that lingers. Something carved into the lines of his face, something quiet but weighty in his eyes. A past he wears without speaking of it. You shouldn’t be curious. You shouldn’t be interested. But the thoughts slip in anyway, unbidden, trailing behind you like shadows as you walk.

By the time you step into the supermarket, the artificial coolness is a relief. You move through the aisles with half a mind, tossing what you need into the basket, only snapping back to attention when someone bumps into you.

“Oh dang, I’m sorry!”

You turn, startled, to find a woman watching you with open curiosity. Her skin is deep brown, warm and glowing under the fluorescent lights, her locs pulled up into a loose bun.

“It’s fine,” you assure her, bending to pick up the macaroni box and placing it in her outstretched hand. She’s standing next to a stroller, one hand resting lightly on the handle as she studies you.

“The baby is too distracting,” she says pointing to the sweet sleeping child in the stroller. “He’s so cute when he sleeps.”

You have to admit that she’s correct. The little boy is precious with his pouty lips and soft looking curls. You’re smiling down into the bassinet, feeling the woman appraising you.

“You look so familiar.  I think I saw you at church last month? The potluck? Haven’t seen you since, though,” she adds, tilting her head slightly.

Your stomach tightens. Of course. In a town this small, people notice when you don’t show up to Sunday service. You’d been naïve to think otherwise.

You muster a polite nod, the lie already forming. “Yep, that was me. Just moved back to town, and I’m looking for a church.” You force lightness into your voice. “My Nana goes to St. Vincent’s, so I thought I’d tag along.”

“What’d you think?”

You hesitate. “It’s… perfectly nice.”

She lets out a short laugh, eyes glinting with amusement.

“I hope you won’t judge me for sayin’ it, but church ain’t for everyone,” she confesses, her voice dropping into something conspiratorial. “I only go ‘cause I gotta take my mama. But the priest? Father Joel?” She lets out a low whistle, shaking her head. “Damn. He sure makes Sundays a whole lot more bearable.”

A laugh bursts from your lips, unbidden and unexpected, and her grin widens as if she’s just passed some kind of test. There’s a silent understanding there, a quiet promise—I’m not like the others. And, surprisingly, you believe her.

“Is this your son?” you ask, nodding toward the baby in the stroller.

“Nah, this is my brother’s kid, Taylor,” she says, glancing down at the baby with fondness. “He’s been workin’ doubles, so I told him I’d look after my favorite nephew.”

“That’s nice of you.”

She shrugs like it’s nothing. “My name’s Annabeth.”

The two of you shake hands politely as she tilts her head toward the café just beyond the store’s glass doors.

“I have to get home to make this macaroni salad,” she says, casual but warm, “but next time we run into each other, we oughta grab a coffee or somethin’.”

For the first time in a long time, you don’t feel the need to dodge an invitation.

“Yeah,” you say, the word settling easy on your tongue. “I’d like that.”

In the coming days Joel found himself surfing the net, his mind stuck on the pages of a book he’d yet to read. Your book. Not out of curiosity, he told himself, but out of understanding. It was his duty to know his flock, wasn’t it?

Joel hadn’t been able to shake the thought since Margaret had mentioned it. The idea of you writing such stories of your past, your ability to create something so uninhibited clung to his thoughts in a way he couldn’t explain. It wasn’t desire, not in the way he had once known it. This was different. This was curiosity. At least, that’s what he told himself. But that didn’t stop his mind from racing, imagining the contents of the pages, imagining what kind of woman could write such things. What had you been thinking? What had you wanted to say?

But it had gnawed at him for days. Every prayer he offered felt incomplete, every sermon a little too hollow. He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t clear his mind. He had to know what kind of woman you were, what kind of words you had woven into that book. What had been said, what had been written in those pages that had so captivated a legion of fans that wrote on your website asking when you’d publish again. The popular favorite being your bestseller.

A Lesson in Desire.

The title of your book sat stark against the online library catalog, a thing both foreign and magnetic. And though he knew he shouldn’t he noted its availability, the number on the spine and the section where it waited for him.

And so, there he was, standing in the small local library feeling the weight of his collar as he glanced nervously around. The walls were lined with shelves, some overflowing with books and others nearly bare, the library’s age showing in the musty scent of the wood. It was quiet, too quiet, a stark contrast to the bustling church he’d just come from.

He walked past the rows of books, the children’s section, the history and fiction shelves. His steps seemed to echo in the silence, and he found himself growing tenser with each one. He was supposed to be here for the good of his soul, wasn’t he? He was a shepherd. He was supposed to guide and nurture. Not indulge in this.

And yet, here he was, nearing the section he knew he shouldn’t. He paused before the rows marked with the telltale spines of romance novels. It was so absurd. So wrong. He was a priest, a man of discipline and structure. His mind should have been on salvation, not on the ink and paper of something so secular, so worldly.

But his fingers trembled as he scanned the shelves. He could feel his pulse quicken, his breath short. And then he saw it the title of one of your books, stark in its simplicity. It called to him like a siren’s song, a whisper he couldn’t ignore.

A Lesson in Desire.

On the cover an apple sat in the center of a desk, a bite out of it.

Joel craned his head around, convinced God himself was watching over his shoulder. His fingers brushed the spine of your book again, trembling as he took it in his hands. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t what he stood for. He was supposed to be focused on higher things. Not this. Not you.

But he couldn’t pull himself away. He had to know. He had to see.

It was a small thing, he told himself. Just a book. Just a fleeting moment of indulgence. Nothing more. But deep down, in the recesses of his soul, he knew it was more than that. This obsession, this feeling, it was a step too far. And yet, he couldn’t stop himself, eyes greedily taking in the back summary.

When ambitious student Elena Morgan enrolls in Professor Dean Hart’s advanced literature class, she expects nothing more than to delve into classic texts and academic rigor. But Dean’s sharp intellect and intense gaze stir something deeper within her; a hunger for more than just knowledge. As their academic connection deepens, so does an undeniable tension between them, and what begins as a flirtation over books soon evolves into something far more dangerous and exhilarating. Caught between the boundaries of propriety and forbidden longing, Elena finds herself drawn to a world of passion she never anticipated, with Dean as both guide and temptation. In the secrecy of late-night study sessions and stolen moments of intimacy, Elena discovers the boundaries of desire and just how far she’s willing to go to explore them. A provocative tale of obsession, power, and the dangerous line between professor and student, "Lessons in Desire" is a daring journey into the heart of forbidden attraction.

Joel’s throat had gone dry, his face heating. Forbidden Attraction. He’d always been a fan of whodunits, mysteries and of course biblical works, theology, and the mystery of the human condition. He’d never come upon books like this with intricately designed fonts and suggestive imagery.  Another title and your name came into view, this one with a woman’s legs wearing strappy heels facing a man’s dress shoes. Joel read the title and back cover in a distant sort of amusement.

Fires of Rivalry. When ambitious business mogul Caroline Knight and no-nonsense tech genius Elijah Quinn are forced to collaborate on a multi-million-dollar project the sparks between them fly; not just from competition, but from a deep-seated animosity that only seems to intensify with every meeting. Caroline, a powerhouse in the corporate world, finds Elijah's arrogant confidence maddening, while Elijah can't stand Caroline's cold, calculating approach. But when a series of late-night work sessions and secretive meetings begin to unravel their professional facades, they find themselves entangled in something far more dangerous than a business deal. What begins as a contest of wills turns into an all-consuming, fiery attraction neither can control. As the stakes of their project grow higher, so does the heat between them, culminating in a clash of desires neither of them expected and one that could cost them everything.

Joel’s mouth tightened before a slimmer volume in robin’s egg blue caught his eye, your name along with the title in gold script.

Faith

It feels different than the others. No frilly name, no elaborate cursive font. His fingers slid from the other tomes towards that book. Joel didn’t know why but it felt imperative he read it. However that was not to be because the sound of footsteps sounded out behind him.

He could hear the faint thudding of his heart in his ears as he slipped back from the shelf, hoping no one would see him, hoping no one would notice the flush to the back of his neck.

A group of women from the church walked in, chattering as they made their way through the aisles. His breath hitched as they approached and he tried to make himself small, hoping they wouldn’t notice him, but, of course, they did. Margaret led the pack, her eyes snapping onto him.

“Father Joel!” she called out, her voice light and friendly, oblivious to the turmoil in his chest. “What brings you to the library today?”

Joel swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “Just... browsing,” he said, trying to sound casual, but his voice cracked slightly. He hoped they wouldn’t notice.

“The romance section?” Sadie exclaimed with a laugh, peering at the wall behind him. “I thought you were more into detective stories, like Agatha Christie or Sherlock Holmes.”

“I am,” Joel said quickly, almost too quickly.

“Well, let us take you to the mystery section!” Mrs. Clifford insisted.

Before Joel could react, the group of women had already ushered him away, laughing and chatting about the latest detective novels they had read. They hadn’t noticed the awkwardness in his demeanour, the discomfort that rippled beneath his calm exterior. His heart thudded in his chest, his palms slick with sweat. What was he doing? What was wrong with him?

They led him through the aisles, their chatter about the latest mysteries filling the air. Joel didn’t say much, too focused on the sensation of the book pressed against his side, like a guilty secret. He felt Margaret’s piercing eyes digging into the side of his face from time to time, but he just smiled indulgently.

When they finally left him by the section of detective novels, he thanked them, his voice strained with politeness. As soon as they disappeared from view, Joel’s gaze flicked back to the row of romance novels across the library, back to the place where a piece of you was waiting, your book titled Faith just a few steps away. He felt a surge of frustration and confusion, a mix of guilt and something else, something darker. Why couldn’t he stop himself? Why was he so drawn to this?

This wasn’t normal. He knew that. This wasn’t a simple curiosity. It wasn’t about helping you, or understanding you, or even offering guidance. It was something far more dangerous. Something that made him sick to his stomach.

He pressed his hand to his forehead, trying to steady his breath. But his thoughts raced, and the urge to reach for the book again was almost overpowering. He couldn’t explain it. He couldn’t justify it. But he knew that, for the first time in years, he was on the verge of losing control.

The furniture in your Nana’s home remains untouched by time, doilies still placed with careful precision on every wooden surface, the worn-out recliner still stationed by the window, where she reads her morning devotionals, the same needlepoint cushion tucked beneath her knees when she prays.

It isn’t a house that changes. It’s a house that waits.

You and Nana don’t talk about faith. Not directly, at least, but the air is thick with her unspoken prayers, lingering in the spaces between you. She makes small gestures instead, little acts of love that remind you she sees you, even if she doesn’t understand you.

She keeps the coffee strong because she knows you like it that way, despite her preference for weak, watery brews. She buys the shampoo you like the one that smells like coconut and vanilla, even though she calls it “too sweet” and shakes her head when she catches a whiff of it. There’s always a folded blanket waiting for you on the couch, even when the house is warm. Even when you tell her you don’t need it.

“You looked cold,” she says, matter-of-fact, as if that’s reason enough.

You’re starting to feel like yourself again. Slowly, like the way the body sheds the ache of a long illness. It’s nothing grand, no sudden revelations or cinematic epiphanies, but each day, it’s a little easier to breathe.

Some mornings, you wake up and the weight on your chest is lighter. Some nights, you realize you’ve gone hours without thinking about the things that used to consume you. You’re relearning the sound of your own laughter, the way it feels to stretch out in bed and take up space without worrying about someone else. It’s a strange thing, remembering who you were before. Stranger still, realizing you are someone new now.

And yet, there’s a restlessness in you, something you can’t quite name. It lingers in the quiet moments, in the in-between spaces where doubt seeps in. It follows you into St. Vincent’s, where you pretend not to feel out of place, where you find yourself watching Father Joel more than you should.

He’s a man of faith and that should be enough for you to write him off entirely. Faith, after all, has never been anything but a letdown. And yet, there’s something about him, the way he moves with calm certainty, the way his voice is steady without being overbearing. You don’t want to like him. But you do. And that disgusts you.

You find yourself recalling the brush of his shoulder against yours as you stood packing hampers. A small, meaningless moment, and yet it sticks with you. He was kind to you in a way that wasn’t performative, that wasn’t about saving your soul. He didn’t press you with questions or try to pull you into something you weren’t ready for. And still, he unsettles you.

You tell yourself it’s just curiosity. That’s all. But you know better.

Its a few days later when you run into Annabeth again. This time, the meeting isn’t by chance but by choice. You walk to the café, a small, sunlit spot on the corner of Main Street, and find her already waiting at a table near the window. She waves when she sees you, her smile easy, like you’ve known each other longer than you have.

“You a coffee or tea kinda girl?” she asks as you sit down.

“Coffee,” you answer. “Black.”

She lets out a laugh. “Figures.”

A barista brings your drinks, and for a while, the two of you settle into an easy silence. You stir your coffee absentmindedly, watching Annabeth as she cradles her cup between her palms. Up close, you can see the faint shadows beneath her eyes, the kind of tiredness that lingers even after a full night’s sleep.

“You got kids?” she asks suddenly, as if the thought just occurred to her.

You shake your head. “No. Just me.”

She nods, considering. “I got a daughter. Nine years old. Stubborn as hell.” There’s warmth in her voice, but something else too, something heavier.

“You and her dad…?” You let the question hang in the air, open-ended.

She snorts, a humourless sound. “Oh, he’s long gone. A gambler. He lost everything we had, our house, our savings, gone overnight.” She exhales sharply, shaking her head. “I packed up what little I could and moved in with my brother. Been there ever since.”

You don’t know what to say. No words feel right, so you settle for honesty. “That’s rough.”

She gives you a sideways glance, her lips twitching into something that isn’t quite a smile but isn’t nothing, either. “Yeah. It is.”

Another sip of coffee, another pause before she says, “Faith used to get me through stuff like that. I was raised on it, you know? Thought if I just prayed hard enough, did right, things would turn out okay.”

She lets out a slow, measured breath, tracing the rim of her cup with her finger. “But when I was staring at my little girl, tryin’ to explain why we had to leave our home, I started wondering if maybe God had stopped listenin’ to me.”

You nod, something in your chest tightening. “I know that feeling.”

She looks at you then, really looks, like she’s searching for something. Maybe recognition. Maybe proof that she isn’t alone in this particular kind of lost. Whatever it is, she must find it, because she leans back in her chair and exhales, shaking her head with a quiet laugh. “Look at us. Two lost souls in a coffee shop.”

There’s a beat of silence, then you smirk. “Sounds like the start of a bad country song.”

Annabeth laughs, this time for real, loud and unguarded. The sound of it makes something inside you loosen, something you hadn’t even realized was clenched tight.

“Speaking of rough, you had the pleasure of meeting Margaret yet?”

You groan, shaking your head. “I’ve met her, can’t say there was any pleasure in it.”

Annabeth chuckles, stirring her coffee. “That woman could sniff out a sinner from a mile away, like she ain’t got a whole mess of skeletons in her own closet. She caught me outside the grocery store last week, went on about how she was ‘praying for me’ because, you know, I’m a single mother and all.”

“Ah, yes. The ever-judgmental blessing of Margaret,” you say dryly. “I assume you thanked her for her concern?”

Annabeth smirks. “Oh, I sure did. I told her she should save a few of those prayers for herself, considering she spends more time gossiping than actually doing the Lord’s work.”

You let out a surprised laugh. “Please tell me you actually said that.”

“As God is my witness,” Annabeth says, grinning. “You should’ve seen her face. You’d think I’d slapped her with a Bible.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “She’ll be watching you even closer now.”

“Let her. Maybe next time I’ll tell her Father Joel’s been looking mighty fine in his vestments just to see if she faints.”

Your stomach flips, but you keep your expression neutral. “Oh?”

Another sip of coffee, another pause before she says, “You ever wonder about Father Joel?”

Your fingers tighten around your cup, but you force your voice to stay even. “What do you mean?”

Annabeth smirks, stirring her drink lazily. “I mean, he doesn’t seem like your typical priest. Real easy on the eyes too.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart is hammering. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Oh, sure you wouldn’t,” she teases, taking a sip of her coffee. “Man like that? Someone’s gotta wonder how he ended up in a collar.”

Casually, too casually, you ask, “You know much about him?”

Annabeth gives you a long look, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she shrugs. “Not much. Just that he wasn’t always a priest. Heard he had a whole other life before. Some people say he had a wife once, but who knows?”

Your stomach flips, but you keep your expression neutral. “Huh.”

Annabeth grins, watching you too closely. “Huh,” she repeats, mimicking your tone. But she doesn’t say anything else. Just lets the conversation drift to safer shores, all while that knowing glint lingers in her eyes.

After that, the conversation shifts. You talk about lighter things; your favorite movies, the best place in town for barbecue, the way Texas heat makes you both reconsider your entire existence every summer. And through it all, something settles between you, something quiet and steady. The beginnings of a friendship, maybe. Or at the very least, an understanding.

As you stand to leave, Annabeth glances at you, hesitating for a moment before she speaks. “You know… I don’t really do church for myself anymore. But I go for my mama. Maybe that’s enough.”

You nod, thinking about Nana, about the quiet prayers she never speaks aloud. “Yeah. Maybe it is.”

“Would be nice if I had a friend there on Sunday’s.” She watches you for a moment, then grins. “Whadda ya think?”

Sunday morning arrives with the kind of sluggish inevitability that makes you question why you agreed to this in the first place. You dress without enthusiasm, keeping it simple; modest enough to not attract any extra attention but not so prim as to make you feel like an imposter. Nana doesn’t comment on your lack of effort, only pressing a warm hand to your shoulder before the two of you head to St. Vincent’s.

The church is cool against the rising heat outside, the stone walls retaining the early morning chill. The scent of old wood, incense, and something faintly floral lingers in the air. You and Nana slide into a pew, and you barely have time to settle before Annabeth arrives, her mother shuffling beside her. Without hesitation, she squeezes in next to you, offering a quick wink as she smooths her dress. Her mother, a tiny woman with sharp eyes, nods a greeting but says nothing, folding her hands primly in her lap.

The service begins, the familiar rhythms washing over you. You don’t join in the hymns, though you mouth the words when Nana glances your way. The motions feel distant, like muscle memory from another life.

Soon the air in the small church is thick, stale with the scent of old wood and too many bodies pressed into pews. You shift in your seat, arms crossed tight over your chest, trying not to look like a petulant child even though that’s exactly what you feel like. When Father Joel steps up to speak, you fight the urge to shift in your seat.

"Kindness," Joel says his voice warm but firm, "is not an obligation. It’s not a transaction. It’s not something you give only when it’s easy or when you think it will be returned to you.”

It’s an unfortunate truth that he’s striking, standing there in his vestments, speaking in that measured, thoughtful cadence of his. He commands attention without demanding it, his presence filling the space in a way that unsettles you.

“True kindness, real kindness, is given freely, even when it is undeserved, even when it is met with cruelty or indifference. Especially then."

Father Joel’s voice is steady, rich, full of conviction, and it makes something curl hot and restless in your stomach. It’s the worst kind of charisma, the kind that sneaks in under your skin before you realize it, makes you want to believe even as you steel yourself against it. You’re distracted by the way his curls tumble into his forehead, the deep mahogany of his eyes that you barely register what he’s saying.

“…sensuality is not only found in desire but in the kindness we offer to one another,” Father Joel says, his voice even, assured. “In the way we touch the world, in the care we give, in the softness we allow ourselves to show.”

Annabeth elbows you - sharp and quick- before you can stop her. It catches you right between your ribs, and the force of it makes a startled snicker escape your lips. The sound is embarrassingly loud in the hushed sanctuary.

Two for Two.

Margaret, seated a few pews ahead, turns with glacial slowness, her expression carved from the same disapproving stone as the Virgin Mary statues littering the church grounds. Her lips pinch together, her eyes narrowing in a silent accusation that says everything without words: You are a disruption. A blemish in this sacred space.

You bite the inside of your cheek, struggling to keep the laughter from bubbling up again. Annabeth, for all her mischief, has the decency to look solemn, though you can see the gleam of amusement in her eyes. Her mother sighs quietly but doesn’t chastise either of you.

As Margaret finally turns back to face the altar, Annabeth leans in, whispering, “You know she’s already drafting a letter to the bishop about us.”

You choke back another laugh, eyes fixed straight ahead. “Bet she’s gonna tell Nana I’m beyond saving.”

“She told my mama last week that my nail polish was a sign of moral corruption.” Annabeth lifts her hand, fingers spread, the deep crimson polish gleaming in the soft light. “Maybe I should hold them up during communion, see if she faints.”

You stifle another laugh, pressing your lips together tightly as Father Joel continues, oblivious to the quiet war being waged in the pews. Your chest feels lighter than it has in a long time, though you’d never admit why, not to yourself, and certainly not to Annabeth.

Father Joel talks about kindness like it’s the simplest thing in the world, as if humanity isn’t a brutal, self-serving machine that eats people like you alive. As if the world is kind. As if he is.

He pauses, letting the words settle over the congregation, his gaze sweeping across the room. His presence is steady, unwavering, the kind of quiet authority that makes people lean in instead of pulling away.

You exhale sharply; force yourself to look at the stained glass instead of him. He’s full of shit. He has to be. Nobody is that good, that unwavering, and that sincere without some kind of angle.

"We are quick to justify our hardness," he continues, his tone measured but insistent. "We tell ourselves that the world is cruel, that people will take advantage of our softness. That if we are too kind, we will be made into fools. But tell me, what is gained by meeting coldness with more cold? What is redeemed by withholding grace from those who need it most?"

The church is silent. Even the restless shifting of bodies seems to still, as if everyone is holding their breath. Joel exhales softly, placing his hands on the pulpit. "Kindness is not weakness. It is strength. And I don’t mean the easy kind of strength, the kind that looks impressive from the outside. I mean the strength to love in the face of rejection, to forgive when it would be easier to resent, to choose mercy when vengeance would taste so much sweeter. That is the kind of strength that changes people. That saves people."

He continues speaking about grace like it’s something tangible, something you could pluck out of the air if only you reached for it. But then he looks up, and for a fraction of a second, his eyes catch yours just long enough to send a sharp pulse through your ribs. There’s something there, something steady and knowing and entirely too patient, and suddenly you can’t breathe right.

He steps back slightly, his fingers trailing along the worn wood. "So I ask you," he says, quieter now, the words sinking in like a prayer, "if you have been withholding kindness, if you have let your heart grow cynical and closed, why? And is that truly the person you want to be?"

His eyes find yours briefly before moving to the other faces. You want to hate him for his words. You want to get up and walk out and never set foot in this place again, but some treacherous part of you stays seated, hoping that he actually believes the words he’s saying.

And then, for a brief moment, Father Joel’s gaze meets yours. It’s not purposeful, there’s no way it could be, but the weight of it, steady and unreadable, sends a flush up your neck. You suddenly need air, need space, and before you fully register it, you’re slipping out of the pew murmuring apologies before and half-jogging toward the bathroom, the press of the church too much all at once.

The dingy bathroom smells of bleach and old soap and, of course, there she is. Margaret. The human embodiment of judgment wrapped in a too-tight floral blouse.

She’s standing by the sink, leaning in and reapplying her lipstick like she’s a news anchor.  The minute you step through the door her movement halts, a sudden, sharp glance your way that hits you like a cold slap.

You can feel her eyes on you now, even though she’s pretending to look at her hands, smoothing some imaginary wrinkle in her skirt.

 “Such a nice surprise to see you here on a Sunday,” she says, her smile stretched too thin, like it hurts her to say it. “I thought perhaps you were more of a holiday Catholic.”

You don’t respond immediately; just watch her, wondering how long she’s been waiting for this moment, waiting for you to walk in so she could play this game. You take a deep breath, stepping toward the mirror and adjusting your hair, trying to ignore the cold rush of irritation that rises in your chest. You don’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing she’s gotten to you.

You focus on your reflection, trying to calm the flutter in your chest.

“What do you think of the service so far?” Margaret says, voice tripping over itself.

“It’s nice.” The words sound hollow in the small bathroom, ringing off the cracked tiles, and you instantly regret saying them.

“Seemed you found something quite amusing.” She lets out a little nervous laugh that doesn’t match her usually steely tone.

You hold her gaze in the mirror, raising a brow.

The tension in the room tightens, suffocating. Margaret clears her throat, still not looking at you directly, and then suddenly, as if flipping a switch, she says, “You know, Father Joel... he’s doing such a good job, isn’t he? So inspiring, so... kind.”

Kind. The word hangs in the air like a faint scent of something rotten. You swallow, biting back the bitter laugh that rises in your throat. Kind. He’s kind. Sure. That’s the story they all tell themselves.

You glance at her in the mirror, the pity creeping in like an unwelcome guest. It’s almost pathetic, really. She’s trying so hard to be nice, to play the part, but the venom behind her smile is unmistakable. If you didn’t know better, you’d almost feel sorry for her.

You don’t, though. You just smile thinly, step past her, and reach for the door, knowing she’s still watching you in the mirror. She can’t be unkind. Not in front of God. Not on a Sunday. But you know exactly what she thinks of you.

You feel a burn in your chest, a desperate desire to do something to upset Margaret. Something that will get her blood boiling. If she thinks you’re such a distraction to Father Joel, perhaps you’ll rise to occasion.

Joel had spent years mastering restraint. His life was a fortress of discipline, each brick laid with careful deliberation; prayer, confession, servitude. He had thought himself fortified, untouchable. And yet, there was something unholy in the way his thoughts strayed to you, in the way your voice seemed to cling to the air long after you had left the chapel.

It was a cruel trick of the mind, he told himself. An illusion. The devil did not always come in fire and brimstone; sometimes, temptation was quiet, slow-moving, winding its way into his soul like ivy creeping up a stone wall.

And now, here you were after Sunday service, and the congregation lingered in the foyer with lukewarm coffee and shrieking children. Attendees were exchanging pleasantries beneath the humming fluorescent lights.

A few of the women gravitated toward him, as they always did, with warm smiles and soft touches on his arm. He returned their kindness, their affection met with gentle distance. He was used to their admiration, the small efforts to catch his attention. Some were strikingly beautiful, their laughter like bells in the cold air. But their charm slid off him like rain off a roof, leaving no trace, no disturbance in the still waters of his resolve.

But your presence was a stone cast into his pond, sending ripples that refused to settle. You stood apart from the others, arms crossed as you watched your Nana and Annabeth speaking. He knew Annabeth, knew her mother Leena and the hardships they’d overcome. It seemed natural to Joel that you would be drawn to one another.

Annabeth turns to speak to her mother and Joel watches your lips set in something between amusement and exasperation as you observed the scene before you; Margaret throwing back her head in shrill laughter. He shouldn’t have been looking. He should have turned away. But he didn’t.

Instead, he noticed the loose strands of your hair at your cheeks and the way your mouth thinned like you were biting back something bitter when Mrs. Clifford cornered you, shoving a cup of sweet tea into your hand.

Joel busied himself with his coffee, the cup warm but doing nothing to ease the cold coil of restraint tightening in his ribs. And then, your voice, closer now and low.

“Father Joel.”

He turned, lifting his eyes with careful ease.

“So you came after all,” he said, the words steady, measured. “It seems the peas did the trick.”

Your lips twitched, not quite a smile, just a flicker of something unreadable. “Maybe,” you allowed. But there was something distant about you, something distracted. He sees your eyes drawing across the room to Margaret, not immune to the woman’s sharp gaze lingering on the two of you.

A pause, and then, “You offer confession here, right?”

Joel’s grip on his cup tightened. He hadn’t expected that.

“Yes,” he said, schooling his expression.

Why do you ask?

“Don’t take this the wrong way but I’ve always thought Confession was kind of a stupid system.”

Joel exhales through his nose, like he saw that coming. “Alright.”

You glance over your shoulder to narrow your eyes at him. “That’s it? No argument?”

“I assume you’re about to give me one.”

And he’s right. You’ve come to this discussion like a dueller prepared. You don’t actually want a conversation, you want someone to rail at. You want a straw man upon which to foist your dissatisfaction and Joel is the perfect excuse.

You roll your eyes. “Other religions don’t need a middleman,” you say, leaning forward. “They just talk to God directly. But we-” you gesture vaguely toward the church, toward him, toward yourself “-we’re supposed to go into a little box and spill our guts to a priest so he can tell us what to do? It’s ridiculous.”

Joel doesn’t react. Doesn’t look offended or defensive. He just watches you with that steady, unreadable expression. You wonder why you’re so angry at that response, why his patience makes you twist inwardly.

Finally, he says, “Do you believe God hears you when you pray?”

You hesitate, and then shrug. “Maybe.”

“Then why would you think you need me?”

You blink. “That’s what I’m saying.”

Joel nods, like he expected that. “But confession isn’t about me. It’s not about the priest. It’s about you. God doesn’t need a middleman. He hears you, no matter what. But confession isn’t for Him. It’s for us.”

You frown.

“When you sin, when you carry guilt,” Joel continues, “you don’t just damage your relationship with God. You damage yourself. You distance yourself. Confession isn’t just about saying the words, it’s about facing them. About admitting, out loud, what you’ve done. What you regret.”

You look away. The words feel too close, too sharp.

“And the priest?” you ask, voice tight. “What’s your purpose?”

Joel is quiet for a moment. Then:

“I witness. I listen. I guide. I remind you that mercy is real—even when you don’t believe you deserve it.”

Your chest tightens. “You could just… pray,” you say weakly. “Alone.”

Joel tilts his head. “Would you?”

You don’t answer because the truth is, you don’t pray. Not really. Not in years. You think about God in the vague, distant way one thinks about childhood homes, something that once belonged to you, something you can’t quite reach anymore.

Joel sighs, running a hand through his thick hair. “Confession isn’t a punishment. It’s a way back.”

You swallow, throat tight. “And what if I don’t want to come back?”

Joel studies you for a long moment. He’s not pushing. He’s not judging. He’s just seeing you. And for some reason that’s worse.  You came wanting to push his buttons and instead he’s holding that most sacred of space with you.

“It will always be waiting.”

Joel doesn’t press. Doesn’t push for more. He just sits with you in the quiet space between belief and doubt.

“I haven’t been since I was a teenager,” you finally offer quietly. “I’ve been thinking about it. Even been writing about it, hoping that if I put it down on paper I can erase some of the sin, I guess.”

You glance at him. He meets your gaze, unwavering.

 “Whenever you’re ready.”

Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones - Proverbs 16:24

The morning light filters through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns against the walls of your childhood bedroom. The bed is soft; the scent of lavender lingering on the pillow from Nana’s careful hands that feels like homecoming, but the weight in your chest reminds you that you don’t belong anywhere right now.

You roll onto your side, staring at the ceiling, your mind circling back to yesterday’s potluck. To the way Father Joel carried himself; poised, unreadable. You don’t trust people like that. The ones who hold themselves too still, who keep their words measured like they’re afraid of what might slip if they let their guard down. You saw it in his hands, the faint scars on his knuckles, the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly when someone spoke to him. He’s hiding something.

They always are.

You exhale, rubbing your temples, trying to shake him from your thoughts. It doesn’t matter. You won’t see him again.

The sound of dishes clinking from the kitchen downstairs reminds you that Nana is awake. You force yourself up, stretching your aching limbs. The bruise inside you, metaphorical, but no less painful, throbs dully. Your ex’s voice still lingers in your mind, twisting the truth until you don’t even trust your own memories. You wonder if you’ll ever feel like yourself again.

Downstairs, Nana greets you with a warm smile and a plate of biscuits. “Morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?”

You lie, because she deserves that much. “Yeah.”

She doesn’t believe you, but she lets it go. Instead, she starts talking about yesterday, about how happy she was to see you at church, even if she must have known you didn’t want to be there. She talks about the way things were when you first came to live with her, when you were just a grief-stricken teenager trying to make sense of losing everything. You love her for the way she tiptoes around the hurt, for the way she lets it settle without poking at it.

Then she brings up Margaret.

You don’t need to hear much to know Margaret already dislikes you. You could see it in her pursed lips, the way she sized you up like she’d already decided who you were before you even spoke. The kind of woman who thrives on rules and unspoken expectations. The kind you’ve always seemed to disappoint.

“I never did take to Margaret,” Nana admits, in the closest thing to gossip you’ll ever hear from her. “But she means well.”

You hum noncommittally. You aren’t sure you believe that. “She doesn’t like me.”

“You don’t know that,” Nana insists, stirring her coffee with slow, deliberate motions.

Sure I do. Women like her are all the same.

“Has she read my books?”

Nana sighs, pressing her lips together. “She knows about them.”

And there’s your answer; Margaret, self-appointed morality police of St. Vincent’s Catholic Church, would sniff out any perceived scandal like a bloodhound. You let out a short, humorless laugh.

“I don’t write them anymore,” you say, more for Nana’s benefit than anything.

She nods, taking a sip of her coffee before setting the cup down with a soft clink. “I know. And I think that’s for the best.”

Your jaw tightens. You know she never approved, even when the royalties paid your bills better than your ex ever could.

“But you used to love writing. I know you did. You got that scholarship remember? For that short story?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you just need to write something like that again, something more wholesome.”

You swallow hard, fingers curling into your palm beneath the table. How do you tell her that the ugly, the taboo, the twisted are what flow so easily from your fingers? That the darker corners of the mind are the only places where the words come naturally? How do you tell her that purity feels like a lie when the world is anything but?

“Maybe,” you lie instead. So many lies so early in the morning.

Nana watches you, eyes warm but knowing. “You won’t know unless you try.”

She says it with such conviction, such unwavering faith in you, that for a brief moment, you almost wish you could be the person she wants you to be. But you aren’t. And you don’t think you ever will be.

"So, what did you think of Father Joel?" she asks, her voice full of expectation. You hesitate, the memory of the potluck still fresh, the way he felt just a little too polished. But Nana is watching you, waiting, her smile unwavering. You force a polite nod, unwilling to dampen her enthusiasm, but deep down, your opinion hasn’t budged.

“Seems nice.”

“He’s done so much for St. Vincent’s,” Nana beams at you, her eyes alight with admiration as she stirs a generous spoonful of sugar into her tea. “Just wait until you hear him preach during Easter. Wowee.”

She expects you to join her in that church full of people with forced smiles. They make your skin itch. You can’t imagine sitting through another sermon, pretending it means something to you when it doesn’t. You tell her as much, bracing for the disappointment in her face.

She nods, taking it in stride. “I understand, sugar. I do.” There’s a pause, then, softer, “Would you consider helpin’ with some volunteer work instead?”

You could say no. You should say no. But Nana asks for so little, and right now, she’s the only solid thing in your life. You owe her more than you can ever repay.

Nana is quiet as she waits for your reply, her hands wrapped tightly around the caramel-coloured drink in its chipped floral mug. The same mug she’s had since you first lived with her after the car crash that claimed your parent’s life. The car taking them to Sunday Mass of all places while you lay in bed with a fever, unaware that only two miles from home they lay unseeing in a fiery wreckage.

How can you deny her anything?

“Alright,” you say, the word heavy on your tongue. “What do you need help with?”

Her face lights up, and despite yourself, you feel the smallest flicker of warmth.

“On Tuesday we make up baskets for the needy,” she says. “Could always use an extra set of hands.”

You take a breath, letting the weight of it settle over you. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

She pats your hand, small but steady. “I knew you would.”

And just like that, you are tethered to something again, whether you want to be or not.

Father Joel had noticed you the moment he stood behind the pulpit that Sunday morning. Not because you carried yourself with reverence, not because you bowed your head in quiet contemplation, but because you didn’t.

You sat stiff-backed in the pew beside your grandmother; arms crossed over your chest, mouth curled ever so slightly into what could only be described as a smirk. You weren’t here for God. You were here for her. That much was obvious.

When he spoke his homily he observed that his words crafted with care and meant to uplift did not reach you.  Forgiveness would not reach you that morning. He knew this not because of any grand revelation but because he heard you scoff. A small sound, barely there, but in the cavernous quiet of the church, it may as well have been a shout.

Fascinating, he had thought, if not a little frustrating.

At the potluck you confirmed his suspicion. You had no love for the Church, no reverence for the men who donned collars and spoke of sin and salvation. You met his gaze too directly and your sharp words laced with a dry amusement that should have irritated him.

And yet Joel was no stranger to disdain. He had seen anger, grief and bitterness. He had counselled the lost, the faithless, the doubting. But you weren’t searching for answers, you weren’t looking for peace. You had built a wall, brick by stubborn brick and you had no intention of letting anyone inside.

The way you spoke to him was churlish, dismissive, yet edged with something lively, something almost teasing. It lingered in his mind longer than he cared to admit. And though he knew he should have been perturbed, he found himself amused instead.

You had not returned to mass since. Had he driven you away? Or had you simply indulged your grandmother’s wishes for one morning, never intending to come back at all? The question needled at him until, after the following Sunday service, he found himself approaching your Nana.

She smiled when she saw him, small and knowing, as though she had been expecting this conversation. After the casual greetings and enthusiastic praise for his sermon was over, Joel felt he could broach the subject of you more casually.

“Was that your granddaughter I met with you at the potluck?”

“Yes sir. My one and only.”

"She hasn’t been back," he said, careful to keep his tone neutral. “I worry my sermon scared her off. Or perhaps she was just visiting.”

Your Nana looked disappointed, sighing softly as she adjusted the gloves on her delicate hands.

"She’s here to stay for a while, though I doubt she’s happy about it.”

“Oh?” 

“She’s been through a lot, Father. The divorce, for one. Cleaned her out. The way that no-good s-” she catches herself, her weathered cheeks pinking. “Well, I can’t say exactly what he is in polite company.”

Joel can’t help but grin. He’s heard it all.  “Sure you can.”

“No,” your Nana insisted with that brittle immovability. “I can’t.”

Joel remained silent, allowing her space to speak, though the mention of your divorce sent an unbidden twist through him. He wondered if it had hardened you or if you had always carried that sharp edge, but before he could ask, Nana continued, her voice quieter now.

“But it’s more than that, really. Life hasn’t been kind to my granddaughter. She knows loss better than most. It started young, you see."

Oh.

"The Church used to be her refuge, once upon a time." Nana’s voice was wistful, her eyes drifting toward the stained glass windows. "But something changed. Now it feels more like a wound she can’t stop pressing on. She’s severed from it."

He had seen it, in the way you had sat in that pew, like an outsider, like someone standing at the edge of something once beloved, now foreign.

"She’s a lovely woman," Nana continued, and there was that small, amused glint in her eye, like she knew something he didn’t. "Smart as a whip, funny and a heart as big as all get out. She just doesn’t make it easy to see."

Joel chuckled under his breath.

“She’s gonna volunteer here with me on Tuesday night though,” your Nana said with a renewed enthusiasm. “With the hampers for the needy.”

“That’s wonderful,” Joel replied, a little taken aback by this He had assumed your distaste for the church would extend to every branch of it.

"Be patient with her," Nana said, her voice gentle but firm, as if she were bestowing a great piece of wisdom. "Not everyone finds their way back so easily."

Joel nodded, though he was not sure what patience would accomplish. He could not make you return. He could not make you see something in the Church that you no longer believed in.

And he could not, should not, dwell on the way your sharp tongue and unreadable eyes had lodged themselves into the quiet corners of his mind.

The evening air is crisp yet warm enough to kiss your cheeks as you and your Nana step inside the church hall that Tuesday evening. The scent of wax and old wood lingers in the space, mingling with the warmth of brewing coffee and the faint sweetness of donated pastries. Around the room, folding tables are lined with cans of soup, boxes of pasta, and bags of rice, all waiting to be packed into hampers for families in need.

Your Nana, determined as ever, rolls up her sleeves, though the weariness in her movements don’t escape you. She is smaller than she once was, her energy dipping in a way that worries you. Still, she smiles at you as she sinks into a chair at the head of the table, insisting she can manage just fine from there. You don’t argue. You know better.

The other women are already gathering, the ones you remember from the service, kind, gentle-faced, welcoming in a way that leaves you unsettled. You are an outsider in this world, yet here, they act as though you belong. Mrs.Clifford pulls you into a sweaty hug that you return, hiding your grimace.

“I was worried we might have scared you away,” she says with a jovial laugh.

“No. Not at all,” you lie.

Margaret, of course, is present too, standing like a sentry near the door with her arms folded over her chest. She is all tight smiles and sharp eyes, her voice coated in saccharine sweetness that does little to mask the steel beneath.

The group of you load the items onto the large folding tables creating an assembly line of perishables, socks and of course, a bible for each package. Chattering voices are on either side of you, your Nana giving you a sly wink from one end of the table. You return it, still feeling out of place.

"Well, let’s get organized, shall we?" Margaret’s voice carries over the quiet hum of conversation. "We’ll start at this side-"

She pauses as the doors squeal open and in he strolls.

Father Joel.

The room shifts around you, the air subtly changing, though you can’t quite explain how. In your mind he is not meant to be here. He is a figure of the pulpit, of hushed confessions and quiet authority. But here he is, rolling up his shirt sleeves like any other volunteer, stepping forward with that same steady warmth that unsettles you more than anything.

"Ladies," he greets, nodding to the group before his gaze lands on you. "Good to see you here."

“So wonderful to see you here, Father Joel,” your Nana says surprised.

"I hope y’all don’t mind if I join," Father Joel says, flashing a charismatic grin around the room. The women all give fluttering shakes of their head, their coos like the sound of a loving dove. You want to roll your eyes but hold it in.

“Of course not, Father,” Margaret gushes with delight, motioning to the space between the two of you. “Here, there’s a place right next to me.”

And you realize with an internal groan, right next to you. 

You hold your breath as he moves to stand beside you at the table. He’s taller than you, his profile striking when you spare a brief look his way.

“I didn’t think we’d see you tonight,” Margaret coos, the hampers on the table forgotten. “I thought the schedule said you would be at that seminar in Round Rock?”

Joel shifts his broad frame to look over to her, his shoulder bumping yours in the process. You pull back instinctively, your face twisting in irritation.

“Decided to skip it,” he murmurs. “Feel’s hypocritical to go to a meeting about volunteering in churches and then not do it with mine.”

The others, especially the older women, beam at him, their fondness apparent. Even your Nana brightens, sending you a look as if to say, See? Isn’t he lovely?

Margaret goes on to explain how the assembly like will work. Each partnered couple will place their items in the hamper and slide it to the next. Not rocket science and not all that interesting to you.

“You wanna partner up?”

Joel’s voice is low and warm, surprising you. You glance up to see him watching your face, his gaze unreadable. You shrug, aiming for nonchalance.

“Sure.”

His lips twitch, as though he’s suppressing amusement.

As the assembly line forms, you and Father Joel work quietly with one another packing canned goods, stacking boxes, ensuring each bag is filled evenly. You don’t speak much at first, but as the rhythm of work settles in, the stiffness eases.

The rhythmic sound of cans clinking together echoes softly in the church hall as you and Father Joel work side by side, your hands moving with practiced precision yet the air between you feels thick.

“So when did you move back here?” His voice is low, warm, the kind that lingers in the air like sunlight catching in a morning fog.

His eyes, steady and searching, don’t demand a response, but you feel them on you, and the question hovers between you like a weight.

You barely glance at him, a small shake of your head as you clip your reply, “A few months ago.”

There’s no elaboration, no invitation to know more, but his quiet persistence doesn’t let the silence stretch too long. He tilts a little closer ever so slightly, though not intrusively as he grabs the loaf of bread and tosses it into the bag.

“And how long will you be stayin’?”

He asks it gentle, measured, as though testing the waters of your reluctance.

You catch yourself for a fleeting moment, considering your words. You are tethered here only by the tenuous thread of your grandmother’s hope, but saying it out loud feels too raw. Too much of the truth for a conversation like this.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, your voice softer now, the edge dulling, just a little.

 Your hands hover over the pile of cans, arranging them with deliberate slowness. He nods, as though expecting nothing more, but there's an underlying note of quiet understanding in his gaze, something that makes you feel seen, not as a stranger or an outsider, but as a woman wrestling with more than she cares to admit.

You continue your work, and the rhythm settles again between you, but this time it’s different. The silence is not heavy with judgment or discomfort; it’s simply the space where things are left unsaid, and yet, in that space, you feel a strange kind of ease. He is warm in his presence, steady but not overbearing. He does not pry, does not push. And somehow, that makes it easier.

Father Joel’s hands pause over the cans, his eyes flicking to you with a glimmer of mischief.

“You know,” he says quietly, his voice carrying a soft chuckle, “I’ve always wondered why canned peas seem to find their way into every single hamper. Are they some kind of universal cure-all?”

His question hangs in the air, lighthearted, inviting a spark of humor. The corners of your lips twitch before you can stop them, the tension from before starting to loosen just a fraction. You meet his eyes briefly, the briefest flicker of amusement passing between you like a secret. It’s the first time you’ve truly relaxed since you walked into the room, and for some inexplicable reason, you find yourself responding just a little.

“You’d think they were the holy grail of vegetables,” you reply, your voice quieter, but with a touch of playful sarcasm you hadn’t intended to let slip.

You almost laugh but bite it back, letting only the slightest exhale of amusement pass, the sound surprising you more than him, but the way he smiles at you genuinely and without a hint of mockery makes it feel like you’ve been let in on some quiet, shared joke.

For a moment, you forget to guard yourself, and the weight of everything else; your past, your doubts, your walls, lightens just a little.

 He chuckles in return, a sound that resonates deeper than you would expect. You don’t know why, but the way he’s looking at you now, as though you’ve just cracked open the door to something more, unsettles you. Still, you let it linger, this small shift, this brief connection.

Until Margaret decides she’s had enough.

"My, my," she says, her voice too loud, too pointed as she curls around Joel to look your way, like the serpent testing Adam. "Look at you two, workin’ together so well. It’s lovely to see.”

Joel gives a brief nod by way of reply as he places the large ham into the hamper, his eyes focused on the task. You don’t bother looking over from what you’re doing, your mind elsewhere.

“It’s so nice to have new folks pitchin’ in, helping others.”

You glance over with your hands stilling over the box of pasta you were about to place in the hamper. You know that tone. It is the tone of a woman looking for a crack to widen a wound to press.

Joel, however, remains perfectly composed. “She must take after her Nana.”

“You’re right about that!” Your Nana laughs at the end of the table, her face pinking delightedly. “Now if y’all will excuse me, I’m gonna go powder my nose.”

Nana gives a soft grunt as she pushes herself from her chair. You watch her hunched form move out of the kitchen, her cane tapping away until it diminishes altogether.

As the assembly line continues to take shape, the older ladies hum in quiet conversation, their hands moving with an ease that comes from years of doing this work.

“It really is so lovely to have you here,” Mrs. Clifford says from across the table, her upper lip wet with sweat. “You’ve grown into such a beautiful woman.”

The words linger in the air longer than you’d like, hanging like delicate threads of praise that you’re not sure how to untangle. A flush creeps up your neck, your cheeks burning beneath the weight of it.

There’s a murmur of agreement around the table from the older women. You feel your face heating uncomfortably and you hunch your shoulders as you mutter out your thanks.

You clear your throat, shifting uncomfortably as you glance down at your hands, suddenly aware of their slowing movements of the way the air feels heavier around you. That familiar, awkward feeling stirs inside you, but it’s quickly followed by something else, something more guarded, a prickling sense of self-consciousness.

Your eyes flicker over to Father Joel, his body close enough that you can feel the subtle shift of his presence beside you. Is he thinking the same thing as they are? Does he see it, too? Your breath catches in your throat, but you force your gaze back down to the hamper in front of you, unsure of how to move past the sudden vulnerability that has overtaken you.

The question hangs there, unspoken, but you feel it, his proximity, the quiet energy between you, the way his hand brushes just slightly against yours as you both reach for another can. You wonder if he notices it, too, or if it's only you who feels the fluttering pulse of something unexpected.

Margaret’s sharp gaze never strays far from you, her eyes glinting with a predatory watchfulness. She’s been hovering at the edge of your conversation, and as you and Father Joel continue working side by side, her attention shifts toward you with a kind of deliberate timing, as though she’s been waiting for just the right moment.

Her mouth, always tight, curves into a too-sweet smile as she curls around Father Joel to gaze at you like the serpent tempting Adam.

“The rest of us so little about you,” Margaret offers.

“Not much to know,” you say quickly.

You think you feel Joel’s eyes on your profile but you don’t give into your curiosity to make sure.

Margaret tilts her head, her smile polished to a gleam. “I never asked you at the potluck. What is it you do for work, dear?” she asks, her voice thick with the kind of saccharine interest that makes your stomach twist.

You hesitate. Not for long, but long enough for her and the other women to notice. The truth isn’t something you parade around town, especially not in a place like this, surrounded by insincere platitudes and old morals.

“I’m a writer,” you say carefully, hoping that will be enough to placate her today. “Or, I was a writer. I don’t really write anymore.”

Joel makes a noise of interest, but you barely notice because Margaret’s eyes have lit up with something that isn’t quite delight.

“Oh, how wonderful! We don’t get many writers around here. What do you write?”

The words are laced with meaning and the way she says it, so innocent and dripping in false politeness that it makes your skin prickle. She knows damn well what you used to write.  

You clear your throat, shifting your weight as another bag of rice goes into the hamper. “Romance,” you admit, keeping it clipped. “I used to write romance novels.”

You feel the temperature rise in your chest, your pulse quickening, as Margaret continues, her words laced with a thinly veiled edge. Her smile deepens, just a fraction.

“Oh, I thought so.” She folds her hands primly in front of her. “I remember hearing about your books a few years back. You did quite well for yourself, didn’t you?”

Your fingers tighten around the loaf of bread you package. You did do well for yourself back when sales were strong, before marriage, before the messy divorce that left you too drained to write anything that didn’t feel like pulling teeth.

“One book. Yeah.” You raise your head to give Mrs. Clifford a warm smile. “Mrs. Clifford, could you pass me the-“

“I remember hearing about it,” Margaret continues with a little giggle to herself, the sound like nails on a chalkboard.

Father Joel’s posture stiffens beside you as Margaret’s gaze flicks to the other ladies, who are now listening with curious interest, like hens pecking at a scrap of gossip.  Her voice lowers dramatically, but not so low that everyone can’t hear.

“It was similar to that… Twenty Shades book, right?”

You want to shrink, to disappear, but instead, all you can do is stand there, feeling the sting of her words like an open wound being scraped raw. You can’t reply.

Margaret’s expression is all warmth on the surface, but there’s a glint in her eyes, a quiet triumph, like she’s just coaxed a confession out of you without ever having to ask. “You must let us know if you ever write something… more wholesome,” she adds, her smile never wavering.

Margaret’s thin smile widens, but you catch the faintest flicker of satisfaction in her eyes. She’s relishing this, the discomfort she’s causing, the way your past is spilling into the present, tainting everything.

You feel the heat of Joel’s body press a little too close as he shifts, his hand hovering near the edge of the hamper. When you finally raise your eyes Father Joel is watching you. Not with pity. Not with amusement. Just... watching. Waiting to see how you will respond.

You exhale slowly, smoothing your hands over the table. Then, with deliberate ease, you pick up the pasta, drop it into the hamper, and meet Margaret’s gaze head-on.

 “Sure, Margaret. I’ll be sure to do that.”

“Wonderful,” she says about to say something to Sadie across from her when you cast your own syrupy grin her way.

“But it’s nice to know you enjoyed my book,” you say, voice light, lilting, just enough of a smirk curling at the edge of your mouth.

She stops dead in her tracks, her pale eyes widening as she stares at you. “P-Pardon me?”

“You mentioned knowing my book,” you say with a casual air of indifference. You place the can of green beans into the paper bag. “So I just figured you were a fan of my work.”

Margaret’s face is pink and splotchy. From your peripherals you think you see Joel’s mouth twitch into a suppressed smirk under his facial hair.

“I don’t… I don’t read dirty books,” she says the last two words in a whisper. You’re gratified to see her face has turned a deep maroon. It takes everything in you not to laugh out loud.

“Oh, I see,” you give her a thoughtful look. “So then you’re just a fan of me.”

A pause. A beat of silence. And then Father Joel laughs. It’s not a chuckle, not a restrained, polite sound. It’s a full, rich laugh, genuine in a way that sends heat curling through your chest.

Margaret purses her lips, clearly un-amused but the other women chuckle as well, shaking their heads in amusement. Clearly Margaret is not the beloved figure she thinks she is. You watch as her polished face morphs and she gives a false giggle, something that feels like nails on a chalkboard.

“Oh you are so funny,” she says with a toss of her silky hair over one shoulder. “Just like your Nana. I bet the both of you just sit up there all alone in that big house laughin’ all day and night.”

Your smile and amusement dies in an instant and Margaret sees the change. Her eyes linger just a moment longer, as if savouring whatever small victory she thinks she’s won, before giving you a final, knowing smile and sweeping her gaze away toward the other women.

Father Joel takes a slow breath, his gaze soft but steady as he turns toward Margaret. His voice, when he speaks, is gentle, almost paternal in a way that carries weight without needing to raise itself.

“Today I was thinkin’ about this weeks homily,” he begins, his tone calm and measured as he continues to work on the hamper. “There’s a verse in the Bible, from Proverbs 16:24, that says, Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones. It reminded me that the words we speak can either lift someone up or tear them down.”

His eyes shift briefly toward you, though he’s careful to keep his focus on the group as a whole, ensuring no one feels singled out. “It’s wonderful to know how words have this powerful ability to soothe or hurt.”

His words hang in the air, thoughtful, but not reprimanding.

"A kind word is a sweet thing, like honey in the heart," he says as he smiles, the corners of his plump mouth softening with understanding, but his gaze never wavers from the group.

“I don’t recognize that verse,” Mrs. Clifford says softly.

“That’s alright Helen, it’s because it’s not from the Bible. It’s from a poem. "A Garden of Peace by John Masefield.”

With one final glance around the table, he lets the silence linger for just a moment longer before turning his attention back to the task at hand. “Now, shall we get back to building these hampers, so we can spread some of that sweetness around.”

There’s no accusation in his tone, no judgment, only a quiet reminder of the grace that should guide their words and yours. A flutter of soft laughter like the wings of a butterfly sounds around the table, the tension broken as busy hands get back to the task in front of you. You don’t bother looking over at Margaret.

He tilts your way, shoulder against yours only now you don’t pull away. You accept it, your hands busy working. At this closer distance you observe he smells incredible. Something clean, fresh, with a whisper of something deeper. Sandalwood, maybe. It clings to him, just as the hint of warmth from the night air lingers on his skin.

You hate that you notice. You hate that the sight of him, sleeves pushed up, forearms dusted with fine hair, does something strange to your stomach. Unaware of your inner turmoil Joel leans just slightly closer, voice lowered so only you can hear.

"You think you’ll consider comin’ to Mass on Sunday if I bring canned peas? They are the holy grail of vegetables after all."