Chapter 3

Evangelina

Christopher’s number lights up my phone at twenty minutes to five on Friday afternoon, just as I’m merging onto the highway. My weekend with Nate is supposed to start soon, and I’m already en route to pick him up. I glance at the time and sigh. Typical. It’s most likely Christopher calling to say he’s running late. He’s always punctual with his clients but somehow never on time when it comes to handing over our son. I answer the call, already bracing myself.

“Hey, glad I caught you,” he says, his tone too light, like he’s about to ease into something I won’t want to hear. “Nate’s really sick, so we’re gonna have to reschedule your weekend.”

I feel a flash of frustration, my foot pressing a little harder on the gas as I speed through a yellow light. “It’s no problem,” I reply, keeping my voice steady even though irritation simmers beneath the surface. “He can be sick at my house too. I’m his mother, Chris.”

There’s a brief pause before he responds, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “I know, but the doctor really wants him to get his rest. He’d be more comfortable in his own bed where he can have constant care.”

I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles going white. “I took the weekend off work. I can care for him just fine.”

Christopher sighs, like he’s trying to play the reasonable parent here. “But Jessica is a nurse. She knows how to handle this.”

My jaw clenches. Jessica. Of course. “No, she’s not. She’s the hospital administrator,” I shoot back, my voice sharper now. “There’s a difference.”

He chuckles softly, like this is all some big misunderstanding. “Same thing.”

“It’s not even a little bit the same, Christopher,” I snap, glancing at the traffic ahead, trying to calm myself. My mind flashes back to all the times he’s done this—taken my weekends, pushed me out of decisions. It’s like he forgets I’m Nate’s mother, too, and no title or relationship status changes that.

I picture Nate lying in bed at their house, his small frame curled under the covers, maybe with a fever, maybe just feeling crummy. He should be with me. He needs me, and I know how to take care of him just as well as anyone else, if not better.

“Look Eva, don’t you want to maybe have him next weekend when he’s better and you guys can actually do shit, instead of just watching him sleep?”

“Can I talk to him?” I pull into a parking lot, so I can focus on this conversation and not the task of driving.

“Mommy,” my son’s faint voice says into the phone.

I nearly shed a million tears at the sound of his cough. “Hey baby. Are you not feeling well?”

“I have a cough.” He coughs more into the phone. “I miss you. Can you come over?”

My heart breaks. “I miss you too.” I sigh.

“You can’t come over,” Christopher snaps into the phone. I hear a door shut in the background, and I’m pretty sure he’s walked out of my son’s room so he can’t hear this conversation.

“I want to see him, Chris. You can’t keep me from him.”

“I’m not trying to keep you from him.” He breathes into the phone like this whole conversation is annoying him somehow.

“I could say you’re violating a court order.”

He laughs all cocky and shit and it pisses me off. “Well, technically this is my weekend. Your weekend was last week.”

“But you took him to Disney on my weekend.”

“Which you agreed to, Eva.” He huffs into the phone. “Look, you can get him next weekend. He needs rest, and Jessica can care for him.”

I know I’ve already lost. “Fine.” What more can I do? I hang up on Christopher, no longer wanting to hear anything he has to say.

I turn my car around, my heart heavy with the weight of disappointment, and head back home. Defeated. Alone. Miserable. The excitement I’d built up all week for my weekend with Nate now feels like ashes. The highway stretches before me in a blur, the passing headlights doing nothing to lift the sense of emptiness settling in my chest. I wipe at my tears, but they keep coming, hot and unrelenting.

As I near my neighborhood, something catches my eye—the soft, golden glow of the church’s lights, spilling out onto the street. It’s just past dusk, and the stained glass windows shimmer in the fading light, casting delicate, colorful patterns on the ground. Without thinking, I turn into the parking lot and pull up beside the Family Center, a smaller building adjacent to the main chapel. The parking lot is mostly empty, save for a few scattered cars. I kill the engine and sit there for a moment, staring at the light spilling out from the sanctuary.

I have no family.

The thought hits me like a punch to the gut. Nate is with Christopher. My parents live hours away. And Jessica—Jessica has wormed her way into the part of my life that used to feel secure. This is perfect, I think bitterly. They’re probably all inside, singing some happy family tune, gathered in pews, warm and connected, while I sit here, completely alone. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel as I wrestle with the urge to drive off, but something keeps me here.

I take a deep breath and wipe at my face again, determined to stop feeling sorry for myself. I won’t let this moment swallow me whole. I lock up my car and step out into the cool evening air, the faint smell of burning wood from a nearby chimney lingering in the breeze. The towering spire of the church looms above me, a silent guardian against the night sky.

But instead of driving away, I find myself walking toward the church’s front door, hoping for a little peace.

I enter the Family Center, the soft click of the door behind me echoing in the quiet hallway. The building smells faintly of cleaning products and coffee, with the hum of fluorescent lights above adding to the stillness. Glancing around, I see no one—just empty chairs stacked against the walls and a few flyers taped to a bulletin board advertising upcoming bake sales and youth events. The loneliness that had been gnawing at me earlier now feels even heavier in the silence.

I walk toward the lighted banquet-style room in the center of the building, the soft glow drawing me in like a beacon. My footsteps echo on the polished floor as I approach, and I hesitate briefly before pushing open the heavy wooden doors. Inside, the room is unexpectedly warm and welcoming, with soft yellow light pouring from the overhead fixtures. The space is lined with long, folding tables, the kind used for potlucks and church socials, but only one table stands in the center, covered in brown paper bags and canned foods.

Behind the table, Father Carmichael stands, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, tanned forearms. He’s sorting through a pile of groceries, his hands moving with a calm efficiency, but he looks up as I enter.

“Well, hello there,” he says, his voice smooth and deep, with an unexpected warmth that settles over me like a blanket. There’s something magnetic in the way he speaks, a quiet confidence that makes my heart stumble.

For a second, I’m caught off guard. My brain latches onto the richness of his voice, and for a moment, I feel a flicker of something I haven’t felt in ages. Raw, sexual appeal. Or maybe it’s been so long since I’ve had sex that I’m misinterpreting everything—mistaking his voice for something out of a fantasy where he’s the star and I’m… well, not sitting alone in a church.

I blink, trying to clear my head as I remind myself who I’m talking to. This is Father Carmichael. The priest. Not some character from a steamy novel. But still, his smile lingers a little too long, and my cheeks flush, heat creeping up my neck.

Oh shit.

"Oh, hi. I didn’t mean to intrude," I say quickly, the urge to slink back to the safety of my car overwhelming. My hands fidget with the strap of my purse, and I avoid meeting his eyes, hoping I can make a graceful exit before the awkwardness sets in.

“Don’t go,” Father Carmichael says, his voice gentle but firm, as if sensing my need to retreat. There’s a kindness in his tone, and regardless of my discomfort, it’s hard to ignore. “Can you help me box up the rest of these things?”

I hesitate, glancing at the table overflowing with groceries—fresh vegetables, canned goods, boxes of pasta, all neatly organized. My fingers twitch, and I nod, forcing a smile. "Okay. Sure."

As I step closer, the smell of warm bread and something sweet fills the air. My stomach clenches with hunger, and I can't help but eye the items on the table—fresh produce, bread, and jars of jam—things I could desperately use. I bite the inside of my cheek and try to push the thought away, but it lingers. The grocery bills are piling up at home, and I know how empty my fridge is right now.

As if Benedict—Father Carmichael—can read my thoughts, he glances at me with those sharp, observant eyes. “Did you want to take any of these things with you?” he asks, his voice soft, but there’s no judgment there, just a genuine offer.

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 keep coming 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.