Page 65 of On Your Knees

“I’d love one,” he says, his voice quieter now, more intimate. There’s a tension between us, something unspoken but undeniable, and I feel it in the air as I lead him to the kitchen.

The kitchen feels cozy, and the quiet stillness of the apartment wraps around us like a blanket. I pull out two glasses, pouring us both a drink, and we settle at the counter, the silence between us comfortable, but charged with something more.

“Thank you for stopping by,” I start, not really sure what to say to him. I know what Iwantto say to him. I want to tell him I’m falling for him. How I don’t want him to leave me, ever. “Do you regret it?” I ask him, wanting to face the elephant in the room head on.

“What?” he whispers, shaking his head.

“Do you regret sleeping with me?”

“No.” His eyes are wide, like he’s panicking at the thought I could even ask this question. “I’d never regret someone like you,Eva. You’re,” he moves closer to me, his hands cupping my face, “everything to me. Before I met you my life was black and gray, and now it’s full of color. You have to believe me. I’d never regret being with you. You’remine.”

The way he says mine it’s almost primal. Like otherworldly.

“Yeah, but we can’t ever do that again. You’re a priest…” I don’t finish my thought as I break free from his hold and pace the kitchen.

He shakes his head, staring at the floor, his voice low and rough. "What if I wasn’t a priest?"

The weight of his words hits me like a punch to the gut, and I feel my breath hitch. Clear shock is written all over my face as I struggle to process what he’s saying. "I can’t ask you to give up your faith," I whisper, my eyes locking with his, searching for some explanation, some reason behind his sudden confession. The thought of him turning his back on something so central to who he is—it’s unthinkable.

But his eyes darken with a fierce intensity, and he takes a step closer. "What if I wouldn’t be giving it up?"

"What?" I ask, utterly confused, my heart pounding in my chest. What does that even mean? How could he not give up being a priest but still be with me? Before I can ask him to explain, Nate interrupts us.

“I had a bad dream,” Nate says, padding into the room, clutching his favorite stuffed teddy bear tight to his chest. His eyes are wide and sleepy, his small feet making soft shuffling sounds as he moves closer to me. “Father, what are you doing here?”

Benedict’s whole demeanor softens in an instant, and the conflict that was simmering between us fades, if only for a moment. He crouches down, meeting Nate’s eye level, his voice gentle and full of warmth. "I just came to check on you and your mommy." He turns to look at me, and for a brief second, the weight of everything unsaid passes between us like a storm cloud. Then he shifts back to Nate, his expression tender. "I’ll get out of your way now. Thanks for the drink."

Before he stands, he places a hand on Nate’s shoulder, his eyes steady and filled with something I can’t quite name. "Take good care of your mother for me, okay?"

Nate’s face lights up with a proud little smile. "I will."

Benedict smiles softly in return, a trace of sadness flickering behind his eyes. "Whatever your bad dream was about, just know I won’t let anything happen to you or your mother, okay?"

Nate nods, reassured, and Benedict rises to his full height. His gaze lingers on me, heavy with all the things we left unsaid, before he turns and quietly leaves the apartment. The door clicks shut behind him, but the air still feels thick with his presence, the words he spoke hanging in the silence.

I pull Nate into my arms and take him to my bed, tucking him in beside me. But sleep is the furthest thing from my mind as I lie there, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what on earth Benedict could have meant. His words keep echoing in my head, twisting my thoughts into knots. How could he not give up his faith and still have me?

Unless… he plans to keep me a secret.

The thought sends a shiver down my spine, and my stomach twists with unease. Is that what he meant? That he would hideme, us, from the church, from the world? Keep our love locked away in the shadows?

I don’t know how I feel about that. I want him—God, how I want him. More than I’ve ever wanted anyone in my entire life. But not like this. Not in secret. I want to be able to hold his hand as we take my son to church. I want to walk through the grocery store with him, picking out vegetables, laughing about something silly. I want to kiss him in public when the mood strikes, to share a life together out in the open.

I want a life with Benedict. And deep down, I know it’s the one thing he can’t give me.

Tears blur my vision and spill down my cheeks, unbidden and unstoppable. My heart aches with the bitter realization that this—whatever this is—might be coming to an end. An inevitable end. Because as much as I want him, and as much as he wants me, some things can’t be fixed. Some choices can’t be undone.

And I’m terrified that we’ve already run out of time.

“I think you look great,” I say, adjusting the tiny collar of Nate’s Sunday shirt as he fidgets in front of me. His bright eyes sparkle with excitement, completely oblivious to the storm raging inside me. He twirls in place, showing off his neatly tucked shirt and freshly combed hair. "Do I look like Daddy?"

I force a smile, though my stomach churns at the mention of Christopher. “You look better than Daddy,” I say softly, smoothing down his hair one last time. He grins up at me, a proud, gap-toothed smile that melts my heart. But underneaththe warmth I feel for my son, there’s a tidal wave of anxiety crashing through me, threatening to sweep me away.

It’s Sunday morning, and the thought of going to church today has my nerves frayed. Ever since I saw Benedict on Friday night—since that moment where he practically shook the foundation of my world with those words—What if I wasn’t a priest?—I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. About us.

My hands tremble slightly as I finish fixing Nate’s little tie, and I swallow the lump in my throat. I can’t let him see how rattled I am. But as much as I try to shove down my worries, they won’t stay buried. They just sit there, heavy and suffocating, pressing down on my chest like a weight I can’t shake.

Benedict and I haven’t spoken since that night. I haven’t reached out, and neither has he. It’s like we’re both standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the other to make the first move. And the longer I wait, the more the uncertainty gnaws at me. What if I go to church today and see him? What will I say? What if he acts like nothing’s changed, like Friday night didn’t happen?

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