Chapter 12
SAMUEL
Isat in the back row of the district meeting room, my scriptures open on my lap to a page I wasn't reading.
The words blurred together, meaningless symbols on thin paper.
Across the room, Eli slouched in his chair, his eyes fixed on some point beyond the window.
He hadn't looked at me once since we'd arrived.
Elder Kempton stood at the front, his shoulders squared, his voice carrying the weight of divine authority. "—and that's why commitment is essential. Without it, we're just tourists in the Lord's vineyard, brothers. Tourists."
Elder Moss and Elder Brown exchanged a glance. Elder Torres scribbled notes with the fervor of a man desperate to avoid Kempton's attention.
"Now," Kempton said, his gaze sweeping the room, "I want to address something that's been concerning me."
My stomach dropped.
"We've had some strong companionships in this district. Elder Brown and Elder Moss, despite your... creative interpretation of the rules, you're bringing people to Christ. Elder Michaels, your baptism last month was a testament to your dedication."
He paused, his eyes landing on me.
"Elder Price."
I straightened, my hands gripping the edges of my scriptures.
"You've been a model missionary since you arrived in Spain. Your numbers are excellent. Your testimony is strong. President Dalton speaks highly of you." Kempton's smile was thin, sharp. "But I've noticed something lately. A change."
The room went silent. Eli's jaw tightened, but he still didn't look at me.
"You're distracted," Kempton continued. "Your focus has shifted. And I have to wonder—" He clasped his hands behind his back, his posture radiating judgment. "—if perhaps you're being spiritually weakened by... influences that don't share your commitment to the work."
Heat flooded my face. Eli's hand curled into a fist on his lap.
"Now, I'm not accusing anyone of anything," Kempton said, his tone suggesting the exact opposite.
"But the Apostle Paul warned us about being 'unequally yoked.
' When one companion is striving for perfection and the other is merely going through the motions, the stronger one will inevitably be dragged down. "
My throat closed. The words were a brand, burning into me.
"I'm going to be reassigning companions next week," Kempton announced. "President Dalton has given me authority to make adjustments where necessary. Elder Price, I think you'd benefit from a companion who shares your spiritual maturity. Someone who can help you regain your focus."
Eli finally looked at me. His expression was unreadable.
"Any questions?" Kempton asked.
Silence.
"Good. Let's close with a hymn."
The walk back to the apartment was suffocating. Eli kept the regulation three paces ahead, his shoulders rigid. I wanted to say something—anything—but the words lodged in my throat.
Inside, he went straight to the bedroom and closed the door.
I stood in the kitchenette, staring at the peeling linoleum. Kempton's words echoed in my mind.
Spiritually weak.
Dragged down.
Unequally yoked.
I'd spent my entire life trying to be good enough.
Perfect enough. Worthy enough. I'd followed every rule, said every prayer, studied every scripture.
I'd sacrificed friendships, hobbies, sleep—anything that might distract me from the path laid out before me.
I'd come on this mission believing it would fix me, that two years of service would burn away the parts of me that were wrong.
But I wasn't fixed. I was still broken. And now I was being judged for it.
Kempton thought I was weak because of Eli. He thought Eli was the problem, the influence dragging me down. But he was wrong.
Eli wasn't the problem.
I was.
I'd always been the problem. The flaw wasn't in my companion or my circumstances. It was in me. In the part of me that looked at another man and felt desire. In the part of me that had let Eli touch me and had wanted it. In the part of me that still wanted it.
I sank onto the couch, my head in my hands.
The "perfect" path was already destroyed. Kempton knew it, even if he didn't know the specifics. I could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. He thought I was compromised. And he was right.
I'd lost my worthiness. I'd lost my obedience. I'd lost the approval of my mission president, my district leader, probably God Himself.
And for what?
For one moment of pleasure? For the memory of Eli's hands on my skin, his mouth on me, his voice telling me I wasn't broken?
I closed my eyes, and the shame crashed over me like a wave. But beneath it, something else stirred. Something darker and more dangerous.
Was it worth it?
The question terrified me.
Because the answer wasn't no.
Dinner was silent. Eli reheated leftover rice and beans, dividing them onto two plates without a word. We ate at the table, our eyes fixed on our food.
"Kempton's an asshole," Eli said finally.
I didn't respond.
"You know that, right? He's a petty, insecure asshole who gets off on making people feel small."
"He's the district leader."
"That doesn't make him right."
I set down my fork, my appetite gone. "He's right about me."
Eli looked up sharply. "What?"
"I am spiritually weak. I'm distracted. I'm failing."
"Samuel—"
"Don't." I pushed back from the table, standing. "Don't tell me I'm not. We both know what I did. What I let you do. I'm unworthy, Eli. Kempton can see it, even if he doesn't know the details."
Eli stood too, his voice hard. "You're not unworthy. You're human."
"In the Church, those are the same thing."
He stared at me, his mouth opening and closing, momentarily taken aback by my sudden earnestness, and then he shook his head. "I can't do this again. I can't watch you tear yourself apart over something that doesn't matter."
"It does matter."
"Why? Because Kempton said so? Because some idiotic dead prophet wrote it down a hundred years ago? Because your father will be disappointed?"
"Because it's true." My voice cracked. "Because if it's not true, then nothing is. And I can't—I can't live in a world where nothing is true."
Eli stepped toward me, his eyes blazing. "Then live in a world where this is true." He grabbed my hand, pressing it against his chest. "Where you and me, right now, right here—this is real. This is the only thing that's real."
I tried to pull away, but he held on.
"You think you've lost everything?" he said.
"Fine. Maybe you have. Maybe Kempton's going to reassign you.
Maybe your mission president's going to send you home.
Maybe your family's going to disown you when they find out.
But you know what, Samuel? You're still here.
You're still alive. And you still get to choose what happens next. "
"I don't have a choice."
"You do." His grip tightened. "You always did. You just didn't want to make it."
The words hit me like a fist. I stared at him, my breath coming fast, and something inside me snapped.
He was right.
I'd spent my whole life pretending I didn't have a choice. Pretending the path was set, the script written, the outcome inevitable. But that was a lie. I'd always had a choice. I'd just been too afraid to make it.
Until now.
Because now, there was nothing left to lose.
I waited until after planning session. Until after we'd brushed our teeth and changed into our sleep clothes and climbed into our separate beds. Until the lights were off and the apartment was dark and silent.
Then I got up.
Eli's breathing was steady, but I knew he wasn't asleep. I could feel the tension in the room, thick and electric.
I crossed to his bed and sat on the edge of the mattress.
He turned his head, his eyes gleaming in the faint light from the streetlamp outside. "Samuel?"
I didn't answer. I reached out, my hand trembling, and touched his face. His skin was warm beneath my palm, rough with stubble.
"What are you doing?" he whispered.
"I don't know."
That was a lie. I knew exactly what I was doing.
I leaned down and kissed him.
It wasn't like before. It wasn't hesitant or stolen or desperate. It was deliberate. Intentional. A choice.
Eli froze for half a second, and then his hand came up to the back of my neck, pulling me closer. His mouth opened against mine, and I tasted him—salt and heat and something indefinable that made my chest ache.
I climbed onto the bed, straddling him, my hands tangling in his hair. He made a sound low in his throat, his hips arching up against me, and I gasped.
"Samuel," he breathed against my lips. "Are you sure?"
I pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was flushed, his eyes wide and dark.
"No," I said. "But I don't care."
His hands slid under my shirt, his palms hot against my ribs, and I shuddered. He sat up, pulling me with him, his mouth moving to my neck, my jaw, the hollow of my throat. I tilted my head back, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured against my skin. "If you want me to stop, tell me."
I didn't tell him to stop.