Page 9 of On Your Knees

I quickly shake my head, heat rising to my face. “No, I’m okay,” I lie, hoping the tightness in my voice doesn’t give me away. The last thing I want is for him to see the truth—that I’m barely holding things together. That I could use every bit of food on this table, but my pride won’t let me take it. I don’t want him to know how badly I’m struggling, how close I am to breaking under the weight of it all.

Father Carmichael studies me for a moment, his expression thoughtful, like he knows more than I’m letting on. But thankfully, he doesn’t push. Instead, he hands me an empty box, and I start loading the groceries inside, focusing on the task at hand, hoping it’ll distract me from the ache in my chest.

He gently takes my hand, his touch warm and reassuring. “It isn’t for me to judge,” he says, his voice low and kind. “If you need help, then we’re here for you.”

I swallow hard, feeling a lump in my throat. There’s something disarming about the way he says it—like it’s okay to admit I’m struggling, like I don’t have to pretend I’m fine when I’m not. I glance at the groceries, biting my lip before finally nodding. “Maybe I’ll take a few things,” I say quietly, feeling the weight of my pride pressing down on me. “Just until I get paid.” Thank God for Greer’s brother hooking me up with that new job, I think. It’s been a lifeline, but I’m still so far from catching up.

The thing about bills is that no matter how hard you try, you pay one and three more seem to pile up. It's relentless, like trying to fill a bucket with a hole in it. Rent, utilities, the car payment, groceries—it all just feels like too much sometimes. I feel like I’m constantly running on a treadmill, forever trying to catch up,and no matter how fast I go, it never feels like enough. I look at Father Carmichael, wondering how people like him seem to have their lives so neatly put together.

"It’s hard," I admit, my voice quieter now, almost like I’m confessing. “I don’t know how people manage to have it all together. I feel like I’m always just a step behind.”

I picture myself, years from now, looking back at my life. What will I see? A series of missed moments, of days spent stressed over bills and debt? The thought makes my chest tighten. “One day, I’ll look back and realize I never really lived because I was too busy playing catch up with bills,” I mutter, half to myself, half to him.

Father Carmichael’s grip on my hand tightens slightly, and he looks at me with an understanding that makes me feel exposed, but also seen. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stands there with me in the quiet of the room, surrounded by groceries that should be a simple blessing but feel like a reminder of all my struggles.

Father Carmichael grabs a bag and begins placing a few items inside—bread, canned vegetables, a carton of milk. His movements are fluid, almost practiced, as if he’s done this a thousand times before. “Do you need more?” he asks, his tone gentle, without a hint of judgment.

I shake my head quickly, feeling the flush of gratitude and shame mixing in my chest. “This is plenty,” I tell him, my voice soft. “Thank you.” I watch as he hands me the bag, and then I reach for an empty box to help pack up the remaining groceries that will be taken elsewhere.

As I place some pasta and fruit into the box, I glance up. “What do you do with the leftovers?”

He straightens up, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “I personally take them to the shelter across town. They use the food to help feed the homeless.” His tone is matter-of-fact, as if it’s just another part of his day, but there’s something humbling about the way he says it, like it’s not something he’d ever brag about.

“That’s really thoughtful,” I say, genuinely impressed by the quiet dedication he shows to the community.

He shrugs, a modest smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “It’s the least we can do here. The church is more than a place for sermons—it’s a place to give back, to help those who need it.” He shifts slightly, the mood light but reflective. Then, he turns those sharp blue eyes on me, studying me with an intensity that catches me off guard. “Let me ask you,” he says after a pause, “how are you liking this church?”

The question takes me by surprise, but I don’t hesitate to answer. “Everyone’s so nice. It’s warm, welcoming. I’ll definitely be coming back this Sunday.” The words spill out easily, and I realize I mean it. There’s something about this place that feels like a safe haven, especially after the night I’ve had.

His eyes soften, still holding me in that intense gaze, and he smiles, slow and deliberate. “Good.” The single word is simple, but it sends flurries racing up my spine.

That unexpected sense of belonging wraps around me, and it surprises me just how comforting it feels. For the first time in a long while, I don’t feel quite so alone. I tell myself it’s the community, the church itself, that makes me want to keepcoming back. But the truth is, a part of me is already looking forward to next Sunday.For him.

This is bad, I think, a flicker of guilt rising. He’s a priest. But as his smile lingers, his blue eyes catching the light just right, I can’t stop the eager anticipation bubbling up inside me.

Chapter 4

Benedict

Ever heard the saying,a wolf in sheep’s clothing? Well sometimes I feel like the Devil in God’s clothing.

Prayer. Scripture. Study. Repeat. Sometimes the life of a priest is tedious. Meticulous. Rather boring.

Yet, I do my part.

When Eva walked in here this evening, I felt like my whole world shifted. It was as if I’d been living in black and white, and now, suddenly, I could see colors. Her piercing blue eyes, the shade of a summer sky, and her long blonde hair cascading like a waterfall of gold, left me breathless. She looks like an angel, ethereal and otherworldly, her presence illuminating the room with an almost tangible light. My hands shake as I try to not act affected by her, the effort to maintain my composure becoming a struggle. Every glance she casts my way sends a jolt through my system, making it nearly impossible to focus on anything else.

I set a pasta box into the box of groceries and give Eva a warm smile. “Looks like you had a rough day.”

“Yeah,” she replies, her voice heavy with exhaustion.

“Care to talk about it?”

“Oh no, I should get going.” Her eyes have a thin watery glaze to them, like she could burst into tears at any moment.

“Evangelina, please.” I touch her arm, and it’s like I’ve been zapped by electricity. The contact sends a shiver up my spine.

She stares at me like I’ve slapped her. I quickly remove my hand from her arm. “You don’t want to hear about my troubles.”

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