Page 11 of Biblical Knowledge (Divine Temptations #3)

Chapter Nine

Henry

* * *

I lay sprawled on my narrow twin bed, staring at the ceiling as though it might finally hand me an answer if I looked long enough.

My body ached with exhaustion, but my mind wouldn’t shut off.

Every time I closed my eyes, Noah was there—his face, his voice, his warmth pressed against me.

The memory of last night burned in my chest.

I’d left his apartment hours ago, but instead of going home like a rational person, I’d wandered the streets like a ghost. Past shuttered shops, flickering streetlights, and the occasional couple holding hands.

Each one was like a punch to the gut: the thing I wanted most, the thing I’d just tasted, felt so impossible for me to hold onto.

By the time I finally collapsed onto my bed, dawn had broken.

Now it was nearly noon, and I was still wide awake, more unraveled than ever.

My faith, my so-called foundation, felt like it was dissolving beneath me.

I believed in God—or at least I always had.

But how did God fit into this? Into me? Into Noah?

I turned to the Bible sitting on my nightstand, its leather cover cracked from years of use.

Maybe the answers were in there, maybe they weren’t, but I couldn’t not try.

My hands shook as I picked it up and flipped it open.

Psalms. Matthew. Some passages I’d read a hundred times before.

The words swam in front of my eyes, meaningless, like ink smeared on water.

I snapped the book shut and, with a surge of frustration, hurled it at the wall.

The thud echoed in the tiny room, too loud, like it had broken something I couldn’t put back together.

I buried my face in my hands. I wasn’t confused about Noah.

That was the one thing that felt terrifyingly, beautifully clear.

I was deeply attracted to him. And last night—it wasn’t just sex.

God help me, it was so much more. The way he touched me, the way he looked at me, like I was worth being seen. Like he wasn’t ashamed of me.

But the guilt. That was what gnawed at me. Not guilt about Noah. Guilt about the promises I’d made to God. Guilt about how I’d spent years pretending chastity was noble when maybe it was just me hiding from who I was.

I dragged in a shaky breath and tried to think.

My brain felt fried, too fogged with fatigue and emotion to reason my way through this.

Then, out of nowhere, I remembered being fifteen, ducking into the confessional at St. Joseph’s.

The cool darkness of that little booth, the wooden lattice between me and the priest, the murmured words of absolution.

Every time I confessed—whether it was lying to my parents or the secret, shameful things I’d done to my own body—I’d walk out lighter, cleaner. Like I’d set something down.

Maybe that was what I needed now. To unburden myself. To confess.

I sat up, legs heavy, and shuffled into the bathroom. The cracked linoleum floor was cold under my bare feet. I twisted the shower knob to hot, knowing full well it would take ten minutes to heat, as always. Steam would come eventually, but right now the pipes groaned like they were mocking me.

I went back to the bed and dropped to my knees on the worn carpet. My fingers found the rosary I kept in the drawer, the beads smooth and familiar against my skin. My chest heaved, but I pressed the crucifix to my lips anyway, desperate for some anchor in the storm of my thoughts.

I whispered the words I’d said a thousand times before: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit…

And I prayed, not for forgiveness exactly, but for clarity. For peace. For the strength to stop tearing myself apart.

Because if God truly made me, then God also made my love for Noah. And how could something so real, so good, be a sin?

* * *

I walked up the cracked sidewalk toward St. Ignatius of Loyola Catholic Church, a squat stucco building with faded terracotta tiles and an arched entryway that looked like it had been transplanted straight from colonial Spain.

Bougainvillea vines spilled over the low walls, the magenta flowers far too cheerful for the heaviness I carried inside me.

Fear gripped me like an iron band around my ribs with every step I forced up the wide stone staircase.

My legs felt heavier than they had any right to be, as if my body already knew what my mind refused to admit—that walking through those doors meant opening myself to something I might not come back from.

Inside, the sanctuary was dim and cool, the scent of incense clinging to the air like old smoke.

Candles flickered in iron stands against the walls.

The stained-glass windows bled patches of ruby and sapphire light across the polished wooden pews.

My eyes were drawn upward, inevitably, to the enormous crucifix hanging over the pulpit.

For as long as I could remember, that image had been one of comfort: Jesus with his arms stretched wide, love embodied in suffering.

But now, bone-tired and raw, all I could see was the grotesque reality of it—nails driven through flesh, ribs jutting out, agony frozen in wood and paint.

A sick thought wormed into my head before I could stop it: If Jesus had died by hanging, would we all be staring at a noose right now?

Would we polish the rope, carve it in gold, and wear it around our necks?

The thought unsettled me so badly I dropped my gaze, ashamed. But the unease stayed, pooling in my stomach. For the first time in my life, the faith I had clung to since childhood didn’t feel like a home—it felt like clothes that didn’t fit anymore, too tight and itchy against my skin.

I heard footsteps echo softly behind me. I turned, startled, and saw an elderly priest shuffling down the aisle. His cassock was plain, his hair thin and white, and his face creased with so many lines it looked as though it had been etched by years of kindness. He gave me a small, cautious smile.

“Can I be of help, son?” he asked, his voice gentle as worn leather.

My throat worked, but no sound came out. Finally, in a trembling voice, I managed, “Father, I… I need the sacrament of confession.”

His smile deepened just a little, as though he understood more than I wanted him to. “Of course. I’m here for you.”

He slid into the pew beside me, his hands folded loosely in his lap. But the weight of his presence so close only made my skin itch with nerves. I needed distance, separation. I needed the anonymity of wood and shadow.

“Could we… do it in the confessional?” I asked. My voice cracked on the last word. “I’d feel more comfortable.”

The priest shrugged, as if it made no difference to him. “Certainly.”

We both stood. My knees nearly buckled as we crossed to the far side of the sanctuary, where a carved wooden booth stood tucked against the wall like a relic from another age.

I slipped into one side, the scent of polish and incense pressing in around me.

The small lattice screen divided us, blurring his outline.

I made the sign of the cross with shaking fingers, the words tumbling out of me by instinct, automatic after years of rote: “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been…” I faltered, shame burning my face. “It has been over a year since my last confession.”

His voice, calm and steady, came through the screen. “Take your time, my son. God is listening.”

I swallowed hard, hands twisting in my lap. I didn’t know if I was ready to tell him everything. But I had to start. I had to try.

I sat in the booth, the carved wood pressing against my back, the faint smell of old varnish and incense crowding in. My knees jittered as I waited for the words I hadn’t spoken in years. Finally, I forced my voice out, starting over again.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been… God, it’s been over a year since my last confession.”

The little wooden screen between us rattled as the priest shifted. “That’s all right, my son. Start wherever you need to.”

I drew in a ragged breath, my hands twisting together in my lap. “I—I left the seminary. I couldn’t take final vows. I knew it wasn’t right for me, but I can’t stop feeling guilty, like I failed God somehow.”

There was a pause, and then his voice came, soft but steady. “That is no sin, son. You followed your conscience. You were true to yourself. That is a holy thing.”

True to myself. The phrase struck me hard, because I’d been doing that a lot lately—ever since Noah.

I swallowed, my throat tight. “There’s… more.” My voice cracked, and I squeezed my eyes shut. “I’ve developed feelings for someone. Feelings that I can’t seem to control.”

“Love is not a sin,” the priest said gently.

“No,” I whispered, shaking my head in the dark booth.

“It’s not just love. It’s… it’s consuming.

When I think of this person, it’s like light breaking through a stained-glass window, scattering color everywhere.

It’s like the whole world finally makes sense.

My heart pounds just at the thought of them.

And when they smile—God, when they smile—it feels like grace itself.

Like I’m finally alive, for the first time in my life. ”

The priest made a small sound—an encouraging hum.

I let the silence linger for a moment before I said it, my voice barely audible. “It’s for another man.”

The air in the booth shifted. The priest cleared his throat, the sound echoing strangely in the tiny space. My stomach knotted.

“And I gave in,” I admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush. “We were together. Intimately.” My pulse hammered against my skull.

The priest hesitated, then said slowly, “Desire is natural. There is nothing unnatural about what you feel, even if it is for another man. But the sin, my son, comes when those inclinations are acted upon outside the bonds of matrimony.”

My fists clenched so hard my nails bit into my palms. A flare of heat burned in my chest. “Outside the bonds of matrimony?” I hissed. “You mean the matrimony your church refuses to allow me?”

A weary sigh filtered through the screen. “That is correct.”

Something inside me snapped. I leaned forward, my breath coming fast, my voice rising.

“So let me get this straight. The Church says my desires are natural, but I must smother them. Deny them. Live my life celibate, alone, unloved—because of rules written two thousand years ago by men who never even dreamed of someone like me?”

“My son—”

“No!” My voice shook, raw and sharp. “Do you hear yourself? You’re telling me to lock my heart in a box, throw away the key, and call it holy. You’re telling every gay person alive that they don’t deserve the love you hand out so freely to straight people. And you think that’s God’s will?”

The priest tried again, his tone dipping into well-worn scripture. “Saint Paul speaks clearly about—”

“Don’t you dare quote scripture to me!” I spat, slamming my palm against the wooden divider so hard it rattled. “I know the Bible. I’ve lived my whole damn life in its shadow. And I’m telling you, the God I worship—if He’s even listening—would never demand such cruelty. Never.”

The silence after my outburst was thick, suffocating. My breath came in ragged gasps.

I shoved the door open, the creak of hinges startlingly loud. “This is wrong,” I said, my voice low but trembling with fury. “The Church is wrong. And I won’t chain myself to its lies anymore.”

Then I bolted—out of the booth, down the aisle, past the grotesque crucifix glaring down from the rafters. My footsteps thundered in the cavernous sanctuary until I burst through the heavy wooden doors into the blinding daylight.

I stood outside the heavy doors, my chest heaving, the warm sunlight too bright, too clean after the suffocating dark of the confessional.

My hands rose to my face almost without thinking, and I found my cheeks wet.

The tears surprised me—I hadn’t even felt them start.

They burned as if my body were purging something I hadn’t managed to let go of inside.

I wiped at them roughly, ashamed, furious, not sure who the anger was aimed at anymore—myself, the priest, the God I’d spent my whole life trying to serve.

I turned back toward the stairs, toward the stone facade that had once promised safety, and spit hard on the steps.

The sound echoed faintly in the quiet noon air.

For a moment, I wanted the earth to split open and swallow the whole damn place.

My shoulders sagged, and despair crept in, heavy and unrelenting.

Noah’s face came to me then—his smile, the way his touch had made me feel like I wasn’t broken.

But how could he forgive me? I’d slipped out of his bed like a coward in the middle of the night.

Would he ever want to see me again?