He rolls his eyes and smiles. “Where’s the fun in that?” His sneakered feet drag across the worn-out concrete floor as he heads toward the sacristy to remove his alb.
I chuckle, shaking my head, then drop to my knees in the first pew. I make the sign of the cross and clasp my hands in front of me.
Instead of filling the silence with a prayer, I choose to enjoy the quietness. I stare at the altar in front of me and let the tranquility of God’s presence wash over me.
This is my thing. I like to take a few minutes after Mass to absorb the beauty my mom used to discuss. I think about how far I’ve come. I think about my path ahead. Over the past few years, my uncle has repeatedly asked me if being a priest is what I really want. I understand his concern, I really do, because I know what I’m giving up. I also know what I’m gaining by wholeheartedly giving myself to God. Life is too short. I want to make the most of it by having a positive impact on people’s lives.
Okay. I’m going to be honest for a second. I’m not going to pretend I haven’t entertained thoughts of having sex with someone special. I have, many times. I mean, I’m not a saint. I’m a teen with raging hormones, but I’ve learned the art of restraint to a science. Sometimes I get so wound up I feel like I’m about to shatter into pieces. I end up taking cold showers after rubbing one out. Guilt mixed with pure relief rides me hard after that, so I grab my Bible and read the scripture to force those thoughts out. Or play my guitar while wearing headphones as Linkin Park or Green Day blare into my ears.
My gaze lands on the cross. I wonder if Jesus had these feelings and if he acted on them by locking himself in a room and riding it out. I don’t remember reading anywhere in the Bible about him having carnal thoughts.
I sigh and pray to God for forgiveness for putting Jesus and carnal thoughts in the same sentence. I pull out my mom’s rosary from my shorts pocket, running the tips of my fingers over the smooth surface as I recite the Lord’s Prayer. I mutter, “For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.”
After pocketing the rosary, I step away from the pew. I’m about to head down the aisle when I see a familiar head with a riot of black curls to my right.
Grace Miller.
I groan inwardly when my stupid, stupid body heats at the sight of her. And instead of heading to the sacristy to remove my alb, I glance in her direction, taking in the way her hands are clasped in her lap, her eyes fixed on something in front of her. Despite the way her fingers keep flexing, her face is set in a calm expression. She tilts her head as if she senses me, and our eyes meet, sending a shockwave of awareness down my spine.
I nod my chin in her direction and let my lips curl in a smile. Her brows lift as if she’s surprised I acknowledged her. She nods back at me hesitantly.
My feet move forward, intending to go sit next to her. A bold idea coming from me. I’ve never acted on my interest. And sure enough, as soon as I try, my feet refuse to move. I just stand there with my hands clenched into fists at my sides and give my body time to calm down.
“You’re hovering,” she says quietly, the words traveling across the empty church. I can’t tell if she’s angry or irritated. When I don’t say anything, she continues talking without looking at me. “Dude. I’m kind of trying to talk to God here. You’re making it difficult.”
I clear my throat. Irritated it is, then.
“Yeah? About what?” I officially want to kick my own ass. What kind of question is that? Conversations between someone and God are private.
She’s quiet for a few seconds, and when I think she’s about to bite my head off, she mutters, “Important life decisions.” She shrugs absentmindedly. “But I think He’s left the building because I’m not getting much of an answer sitting here.”
Her head falls back, and she stares at the domed ceiling as if expecting the Big Guy to materialize from above. My gaze can’t help but fall to her throat, tracing the curve of her smooth, delicate-looking skin. I swallow hard and rip my gaze away. “I assure you, He’s listening.”
She just shrugs again and continues to stare up. I want to add something more meaningful and encouraging, but I can’t form any words. Her presence has stolen all of them, like always.
I sigh, feeling dismissed, and head for the sacristy. After carefully hanging my alb and putting away the snuffer, I grab my blue baseball cap from the shelf and head to Luke’s office. I shut the door and lean over the desk, bracing my fists atop it. Bowing my head, I inhale deeply, my starved lungs greedily sucking in air.
What is it about Grace that makes me so nervous? What is it about her that steals my breath when I’m close to her, leaving me high-strung and speechless?
Where God appeases me, makes my soul lighter, Grace is like an electric shock jump-starting my dormant body.
The door opens behind me, and I jolt upright. Luke pauses at the door, eyeing me for several seconds before rounding his desk and sitting on his padded leather chair. Dressed in his usual black pants and clerical shirt with a white collar, he looks like the man I aspire to be. The man who inspires me, my confessor. The man who’s been my mentor from the moment I chose to follow in his footsteps.
“I thought you were heading straight to work after Mass?” he asks while rearranging the already impeccable desk, straightening the pile of papers. “What are you doing here?”
“Do I need a reason to drop by?”
His hands stop moving. He sits back and levels me with a stare. Often, when he does small things like smiles or looks at me in a certain way, it’s like I’m looking at my mom. It’s a little unsettling at times, dredging up painful memories of her loss. Other times, I’m grateful I have someone who reminds me of her.
“All right. Talk to me,” he prompts, taking me out of my thoughts.
He ducks down and pulls out a chessboard from one of the drawers behind his desk and sets it in front of us, then gestures for me to sit down. I stare at it, a reluctant smile creeping on my face as he stares at me expectantly. For Luke, playing chess is a ploy to make people at ease so they can open up.
I sit across from him and prop the cap on my knee. “Talk about what?”
He starts arranging the pieces on the board. “We both know you’re here to talk about something that’s bothering you, Solomon.”
I blow out a breath and drag my fingers through my hair. “I’m not in the mood to play today.”
“You need a haircut,” he points out, pushing the board to the side.
“Yes, Mom,” I shoot back playfully.
He chuckles, laughter lines fanning the corner of his eyes. “Smartass. I like seeing this side of you where you behave like a teenager instead of acting like a forty-year-old.”
I roll my eyes and his grin widens.
We fall silent for a few seconds. My leg bounces, and I’m trying hard not to look nervous, but Luke’s probing stare is my undoing. Although he might have a rough idea of what’s got me tied in knots, he doesn’t force it out of me. He’s patient, always giving me all the time I need to speak my thoughts.
Eventually, I give in. “She was in there.” I jerk a thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the door.
His head tilts slightly to the side as he continues to watch me. He doesn’t need to ask who. He knows about Grace. “Did you talk to her?”