Page 34 of Divine Temptations
I started the engine. It sputtered twice before catching, like it wasn’t sure it wanted to go either. I didn’t even think about where I was going. My hands moved on instinct, steering me down the back roads that led away from the church and toward something—someone—I couldn’t leave without seeing.
Jake.
I needed to tell him. To explain. To say goodbye.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
The trees grew taller on his road. The sunlight filtered through them like stained glass in motion. I slowed as his house came into view. The place looked peaceful and quiet. His truck was in the driveway, and a window was cracked open.
I was almost there.
Then I stopped.
Right in front of his house.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles bone-white.
What was I doing?
Running to Jake like some lovesick fool, ready to dump all my guilt into his arms and beg him to tell me everything would be okay?
He deserved more than this.
More than hiding.
More than a man who couldn’t even say his name in front of a congregation without tasting ash. I couldn’t drag him through this anymore. And if I walked up those steps, looked him in the eye and told him goodbye… I wouldn’t be able to leave.
So I didn’t stop.
I eased my foot back onto the gas. The car rolled forward, slow and smooth. I passed his driveway, didn’t look back.
Didn’t even blink.
My throat burned, and my chest felt hollow, like something sacred had been scooped out and left behind on his porch.
I kept driving.
And as the road stretched out before me, winding into the horizon, I whispered a prayer.
Not for forgiveness. Not for salvation.
Just a question.
“God… if love feels this holy, how can it be wrong?”
Chapter Ten
Jake
It had been a week.
Seven days.
One hundred and sixty-eight hours of nothing.
I was still in bed. Well, mostly. The sheets were tangled around my legs, and the comforter had slid halfway to the floor during what I could only describe as a very dramatic roll-and-sigh session.
Empty takeout containers littered every flat surface. Chinese. Pizza. Something that might’ve been lasagna but was now unidentifiable sludge in a black plastic tray. A crushed Red Bull can sat on the windowsill like it was judging me, and I’d flipped it off at least twice.
