Page 120 of Divine Temptations

“Today,” she began, sliding her notes onto the lectern, “we continue our exploration of the Song of Songs. We’ve spoken of desire, of the joy of union. But the text also sings of separation, of the agony of love unmet. Of heartbreak.”

Her voice filled the room, crisp but resonant.

She read aloud: ‘I sought him, but found him not; I called him, but he gave me no answer.’

The words cut into me. I could still smell Henry on the pillow if I let myself think about it. He hadn’t left me a note. Hadn’t left me anything. Maybe I was a fool to hope it had meant more to him. Maybe he thought it was a one-night stand, a first reckless tumble before he returned to his saintly, celibate life.

But no—that didn’t fit. Not Henry. Not the way his hands had clung to me. Not the way he’d looked at me like I was something more than just a body.

Dr. Scheinbaum’s gaze roved the room. “Mr. Miller,” she said suddenly, “why do you think the poet includes this image of the lover searching in vain? What is its power?”

My throat was dry. “Because,” I muttered, barely audible, “longing is as much a part of love as fulfillment.”

Her eyes lingered on me for a moment. Sharp. Penetrating. But behind them—sympathy. A silent acknowledgement. She didn’t press further, just gave the smallest nod and turned to another student.

Rebecca’s hand shot up, Her chin tilted at a deliberate angle, lips curved in that self-satisfied smile she always wore when she thought she had the answer no one else did. When called on, she clasped her hands neatly on the desk, her voice smooth and almost rehearsed. “Well, clearly the passage isn’t about human longing at all,” she said, with the faintest pause that suggested she was about to reveal a great mystery. “It’s a metaphor of divine absence—God concealing Himself from His worshippers, testing their devotion.”

Dr. Scheinbaum’s lips curved faintly, almost a smirk. “Yes, that is one interpretation. But to reduce this poem to mere allegory flattens it. We mustn’t sanitize what is raw. Heartbreak in this text is not merely divine distance—it is human, carnal, visceral. It is the cry of someone abandoned in the night.”

Abandoned in the night.

I gripped the edge of the table until my knuckles whitened. That was exactly what it felt like.

She went on, reading another passage: ‘I opened to my beloved, but my beloved had turned away and was gone. My soul failed me when he spoke; I sought him, but I could not find him; I called him, but he gave me no answer.’

The classroom was silent except for her voice. The words lodged in my chest, an ache that spread until it was almost unbearable.

Maybe Henry was terrified. He’d told me last night that he was a virgin. For someone like him—raised in faith, steeped in guilt—maybe it was too much. Maybe the reality of what we’d done was crushing him even now.

But hadn’t it been emotional for me too? For once, it hadn’t been meaningless. I’d made love to him, not just had sex. For the first time, I’d let myself feel something more.

And now he is gone.

The clock struck the hour and Dr. Scheinbaum snapped her notebook shut, the signal that class was over. “That’s all for today. Please finish the remaining commentary for Thursday.”

Chairs scraped, papers shuffled, the usual post-class chaos. I slid my pen into my notebook, trying to look like I wasn’t holding my breath.

“Mr. Miller,” Dr. Scheinbaum said, her voice crisp, “stay a moment, please.”

My stomach dipped.

Rebecca smirked as she brushed past me, that damn halo braid gleaming like a crown. One by one the room emptied until it was just me and Dr. Scheinbaum. The door clicked shut behind the last student.

She walked closer, hands folded in front of her. Her slate-gray blouse and silk scarf made her look untouchable, but when she leaned in, her voice softened.

“I don’t want to overstep,” she said carefully, “but… was there something going on between you and Mr. Forrester?”

The breath left me in a sigh. I stared at the table Henry and I had shared, tracing the grain with my eyes like it held the answer. “Yeah,” I murmured. That was all I could manage.

Her hand settled gently on my shoulder, cool and steady. The touch startled me—not because it was unexpected, but because it was kind.

“Anything else?” I asked, my voice barely holding together.

She gave me the smallest, most uncharacteristic smile—soft, almost maternal. “No, Mr. Miller. That’s all.”

I gathered my books slowly, like the careful movements might keep me from cracking open. Then I walked out of the classroom, and a question popped into my head.

Was Henry terrified of me… or of himself?