Page 36 of The Prodigal Son

Taking my face in his hands, he kisses me hard again, and I grin like a fool against his mouth.

Oh yeah, I’m fucked.

Part Two

The Preacher

Ten

Jensen

Standing in the pulpit with the eyes of the congregation on me, I should really not be thinking about how good Theo Virgil’s lips felt against mine. But that’s exactly what I’m doing.

Through the prayers and the hymns and the blessings, he’s in the back of my mind.

Somehow, I pull it together and finish the service. Never mind the fact that I wrote the sermon late last night. This isn’t like me. I normally put pride in my work.

But Theo has this hold over me, and I don’t want it to stop.

As soon as we reluctantly parted ways Thursday night, I couldn’t sleep all night. I kept reliving that kiss. I meant what I said to him—he scares me. How good I feel with him. How much I want him even when he’s not around. How much I wanted to drag him into my hotel room and have my way with him.

We’ve been texting each other ever since. We mostly talk about our lives, childhood stories, likes and dislikes. We send each other selfies and have even video chatted a couple of times when we’re not too busy.

“Let us pray,” I say as we all bow our heads together. The moment I close my eyes, that familiar shame creeps in. It’s as if the moment I’m alone with God, there is nowhere to hide. No lies to protect me. I have to face my sins.

“We thank you, Lord, for your unending grace and mercy. May we leave this church filled with your peace, carrying your light into the world.”

I lead the congregation through the prayer, and when I’m asking for forgiveness for them, I’m really asking it for me.

“Amen,” I murmur, my voice echoing from the speakers.

“Amen,” they reply in unison.

As they all stand and greet each other, congregating near the doorways and aisles, I stay at the pulpit and stare down at my sermon. My phone is in my pocket, and I’ve felt Theo text multiple times throughout the service, or at least I assume it’s him. These days, it’s always him, and I’m not complaining.

He still doesn’t know I’m a pastor because I haven’t told him. Just one more thing to feel guilty about. But I don’t want that part of my life to mingle with this one. I don’t want Theo to have to grapple with the conflict that paralyzes me nearly every day when it comes to him and whatever this thing is between us.

For once, I just want to be me, and I want him to be him.

Finally leaving the pulpit, I walk down from the stage toward where the people are mingling. I do exactly what I do every weekend. This is my favorite part, really. Getting to talk to them. Getting to hear how my words—or rather, the word of God—helped them get through a challenging time or the dark internal thoughts that tend to creep in.

A woman I recognize takes my hand with tears in her eyes and tells me how good today’s sermon felt, and it means the world to me. That’s why I’m here. That’s my duty in this life—to bring hope and camaraderie to the people.

My phone buzzes again. It practically stings where it’s pressed against my thigh.

I should feel terrible for what I’m doing with Theo. For jeopardizing this position I’m in.

But I’m flawed and imperfect, and I can’t help myself as I touch the woman’s shoulder. “Please excuse me,” I say politely as I take my leave.

Walking away, I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the messages. It’s a photo of him in front of the fake Eiffel Tower in Vegas. He has on dark sunglasses and no hat. He’s always wearing a hat of some sort and I wish he’d leave it off more often. His hair is beautiful. Dark-brown curls on the top of his head. It highlights his blue eyes and the lighter scruff on his face.

Have a great show tonight!

I text with a smirk. Disappearing down the long hallway, I stare at his photo and my heart starts to pick up pace in my chest.

Closing myself in my office, I lock the door behind me as I take a seat behind the desk.

Thanks. Wish you were here.

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