Chapter 5
SAMUEL
Monday mornings had always felt sacred to me.
P-Day—preparation day—was a gift from God after six grueling days of service, a chance to wash clothes, write letters, recharge for the week ahead.
I'd always approached it the way I approached everything: with a schedule, a plan, a checklist of tasks to accomplish before evening companionship study.
Vance approached it like a drowning man reaching for air.
"I need to find an internet café," he said over breakfast—instant oats and oranges I'd picked up Saturday at the market. "First thing."
I glanced up from my scripture study. I'd been reading Mosiah chapter 2, King Benjamin's address about service, but the words kept sliding off my brain. I'd slept poorly. Kept thinking about Kempton's face when I'd lied for Vance, about the way Vance had sat so still afterward, barely breathing.
"There's one near Las Ramblas," I said. "We can go after—"
"Now." Vance stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "I need to check my email now."
Something in his voice made me set the scriptures aside. Not the usual defiance or sarcasm. This was rawer. Almost desperate.
"Okay," I said carefully. "Give me five minutes to change."
The café was dim and crowded, smelling of burnt coffee and cigarette smoke that clung to everything despite the no-smoking signs on the walls. A dozen computer terminals lined the walls, most occupied by backpackers and students hunched over keyboards, their faces lit blue-white by the screens.
I paid for an hour at the counter—two euros each—and we claimed terminals near the back.
Vance logged in immediately, his fingers flying across the keys with the kind of muscle memory that spoke of countless hours online back home.
I watched him from the corner of my eye while I pulled up my own inbox, curiosity warring with the knowledge that I shouldn't pry.
My inbox loaded slowly. Three emails from Mother, each subject line more urgent than the last: How are you doing?
then Please write back then Samuel, I'm worried.
One from Father, subject line blank. Two from my sister Rachel, probably filled with updates about her freshman year at BYU and questions about baptisms.
I opened Mother's most recent email first.
Dearest Samuel,
I hope this email finds you well and spiritually renewed. We haven't heard from you in two weeks, and I've been praying constantly that you're healthy and safe. Your father says I worry too much, but a mother's heart knows no rest when her son is so far away.
The guilt hit like a fist to the sternum. Two weeks. Had it really been that long since I'd written? The days blurred together out here—tracting, teaching, failing, trying again. Time moved differently on a mission. Faster and slower at once.
The ward held a special fast for the Madrid mission yesterday.
Brother Hillman mentioned that several missionaries have been sent home early due to illness and discouragement.
Please tell me you're taking care of yourself.
Are you eating enough? Getting enough sleep?
Your father wants to know if you need anything sent from home.
I could picture her at the computer in Father's study, worrying her bottom lip the way she always did when she was anxious. Probably wearing her temple recommend around her neck like a talisman.
Brother Jensen's son just received his mission call—Tokyo, Japan! The whole family is thrilled. Sister Jensen mentioned that their son speaks often of you, how you inspired him to prepare spiritually for his own mission. Your example continues to shine even from across the ocean, sweetheart.
The words should have filled me with warmth. Pride. This was why I was here—to be an example, to build the kingdom, to prove myself worthy of my family's legacy.
Instead, I felt hollow. Carved out.
Please write soon. And remember: the Lord never gives us trials we cannot bear. Whatever challenges you're facing, He is with you. We are all so proud of you.
All our love,
Mom
I stared at the screen until the words blurred. The cursor blinked at me from the reply box, patient and accusing.
Dear Mom,
I'm sorry I haven't written sooner. You're right—the days get away from me out here. But I'm healthy and safe, and the work is going well. We have several investigators progressing toward baptism, including a wonderful family who I really believe will accept the gospel.
Lies and half-truths. The Morenos were progressing, yes, but toward what? A baptism that Kempton was pushing me to schedule before they were ready? And the work wasn't going well—it was going exactly as statistics predicted. Rejection after rejection after tiny, insufficient victory.
Please don't worry. I'm exactly where the Lord needs me to be, doing exactly what He needs me to do. Give everyone my love. Tell Rachel I'll write her soon.
Love,
Samuel
I hit send before I could second-guess the words.
Next to me, Vance had gone completely still.
I shouldn't have looked. I knew I shouldn't have. But his stillness was wrong, unnatural, and when I glanced over, I saw his face reflected in the monitor—pale, shocked, like he'd been struck.
His inbox was open. One email, near the top, sender name Mom. Subject line: Your father.
Vance clicked it. I looked away, focused on my own screen, but I could see him in my peripheral vision. Could see the way his hand moved to cover his mouth as he read.
The silence stretched. Around us, keyboards clattered. Someone laughed at a video. A printer whirred to life behind the counter.
Vance logged out.
Just like that. Closed the browser, stood up, walked toward the door without a word.
I grabbed my bag and followed.
He didn't speak on the walk back to the apartment. Didn't respond when I asked if he was okay. Just walked with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against a wind that didn't exist.
I let him have the silence. Whatever he'd read, it wasn't my business. We weren't friends. We were barely even companions—just two people trapped in the same cage, circling each other warily.
But I remembered the look on his face.
Back at the apartment, Vance disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the shower start, water hammering against tile. It ran for a long time—longer than mission rules technically allowed, but I wasn't about to knock and remind him of the White Handbook's guidance on conservation.
The shower was still running.
*****
That night, I woke to the sound of crying.
Quiet, muffled, the kind of crying someone does when they're desperately trying not to be heard. For a moment, I thought I'd imagined it—a leftover fragment from the dream I'd been having, something about water and drowning and hands pulling me down into darkness.
Then I heard it again. A wet, shaking breath. The rustle of sheets.
Vance.
I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to my companion fall apart in the darkness.
The right thing to do—the mission thing to do—was to ignore it. Give him privacy. People were entitled to their struggles, their dark nights of the soul. The Lord tested everyone differently.
But I kept thinking about his face at the internet café. The way he'd just… shut down.
And I kept thinking about the email from Mother, the pressure beneath every loving word. We are all so proud of you. As if my worth was measured in baptisms and obedience and living up to impossible standards.
I knew that pressure. Knew how it felt to carry the weight of other people's faith, their expectations, their desperate need for you to be perfect because if you weren't perfect, then maybe they weren't either.
I sat up.
"Vance."
The crying stopped immediately. I heard him go still, holding his breath.
"I know you're awake."
Silence. Then, very quietly: "Leave me alone."
His voice was wrecked. Raw.
I should have listened. Should have rolled over, gone back to sleep, maintained the careful distance we'd been cultivating since he arrived.
Instead, I got out of bed.
The room was dark except for the streetlight filtering through the shutters, casting everything in shades of grey. I could make out Vance's shape in his bed, curled on his side facing the wall, his shoulders hunched defensively.
I sat down on the edge of his mattress. It dipped under my weight, sliding me inches toward him.
In the small space, the air felt suddenly thin. I could smell him—not the sterile scent of the mission apartment, but the warm, salt-and-sleep smell of a human body. He radiated heat like a furnace.
My knee was two inches from his back. If I leaned forward, just a little, my chest would touch his shoulder.
The urge to do it—to close that gap—was a physical ache in the center of my chest, terrifying and undeniable.
I gripped the edge of the mattress until my knuckles turned white, anchoring myself against a gravity I didn't understand.
Move away, a voice in my head warned. This is too close. This is dangerous.
I didn't move.
"What are you doing?"
"I don't know," I said honestly.
"Well, figure it out somewhere else." But there was no heat in it. Just exhaustion.
I should have left. Should have cited the mission rule about sitting on a companion's bed, about avoiding even the appearance of evil, about maintaining proper boundaries at all times.
Instead, I said, "What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Vance—"
"My dad left." The words came out flat. Dead.
"Got the email from my mom this morning.
He moved out two weeks ago. Filed for divorce.
She wanted me to know because, uh, because he specifically told her not to tell me.
Didn't want to 'distract' me from my mission.
" He laughed, and it was the saddest sound I'd ever heard.
"Joke's on him, right? I'm already distracted.
Already failing. At least now I have a good excuse. "
My chest constricted. "I'm sorry."