Page 46 of Divine Temptations
In front of everyone.
The crowd erupted.
Gasps. Murmurs. A single sharp clap that turned into others. Someone shouted “Hallelujah!” A woman in a mint-green hat fainted right into her husband’s arms.
But all I could feel was him. All I could taste was Ethan, warm, real, and finally mine.
I pulled back just enough to look him in the eye and whispered, “I love you too.”
Then I said it louder, for everyone to hear.
“I love Ethan.”
The room was buzzing now. Half stunned, half joyful. One man stood to clap, and then others followed. Not everyone, but enough.
Enough to know the light was winning.
And I held him right there, in front of the cross and the crowd and the judgment and the love, and I knew…
This was our miracle
Epilogue
Ethan- One Year Later
Iused to think “home” was something you inherited. A place tied to your past, passed down like a family Bible or a recipe for potato salad you don’t even like.
Turns out, home is Jake drinking his coffee shirtless on our porch while the sun rises over Mechanicsville and the cows across the road moo like they’re judging his bedhead.
And maybe they are. It’s impressive bedhead. He’s got that just-slept-like-a-saint-but-fucks-like-a-sinner look down to a science.
I stood at the screen door, coffee in hand, and offered up a silent prayer of gratitude.
Jake looked back at me and smiled, slow and easy. That smile still brought me to my knees, even if now I got to fall into his lap every day without fear.
“Morning, preacher man,” he said, voice a little raspy.
I rolled my eyes and stepped outside, curling into the chair beside his. “I haven’t preached in a year.”
He winked. “You preach at me every time I forget to rinse out my mug.”
I snorted. “That’s evangelism, babe.”
We sipped our coffee in silence for a minute, the kind of silence that didn’t need filling. Mechanicsville was quiet in the mornings, just birds and wind and the occasional hum of an old truck in the distance. The house was small but perfect. White siding, navy shutters, and a wraparound porch we built together the first month after we moved in.
I wanted to live in Richmond. I dreamed of the city, the bookstores, the bustle. But Jake liked the quiet. The space. He said it reminded him of who he used to be before life got so complicated. And I understood that. I wanted to be close enough to the city to thrive—but far enough away to breathe.
So we compromised.
We found a tiny house on the outskirts of Mechanicsville, close enough to the country for Jake to have room for his tools, bikes, and weekend projects, and close enough to the city for me to finally open my bookstore on Grace Street.
That place had been a Methodist church bookstore back in the day. A relic, mostly dust and forgotten pamphlets when I rented it. But the bones were good, and with a little paint and a lot of help from Jake, it became my dream.
Still Waters Bookshop.
People come in for the used paperbacks, stay for the fresh coffee and the shelf of banned books I keep proudly on display by the window. Sometimes I catch teenagers sneaking peeks at the queer romance section like they’re doing something dangerous. I always make sure to smile at them so they know they’re safe here.
As for Jake, he opened up his own bike shop just off the main road near our house. It’s not flashy, but the locals love him. Farmers. Vets. Hell, even some of the suburban dads who think they’re bad boys because they bought a Harley at forty-nine. Jake treats them all with that same gruff kindness that made me fall in love with him in the first place.
