Chapter 15
SAMUEL
The mission office sat on Carrer de Balmes, a sleek building that had always felt sterile to me. We'd reported here for interviews, for transfers, for zone conferences. But never like this. Never escorted by an APN like criminals.
Kempton marched us through the glass doors into the lobby. The receptionist—a local member named Sister Roig—glanced up and her welcoming smile faltered when she saw our faces, saw Kempton's rigid posture.
"President Dalton is expecting us," Kempton said.
She nodded, picking up the phone. I couldn't hear the conversation. The blood was rushing too loudly in my ears.
Eli stood three feet away from me, close enough that I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was set.
He hadn't looked at me since we left the apartment.
I wanted to reach for him, to take his hand, to tell him I was sorry.
For what, I wasn't entirely sure. For getting caught?
For not being brave enough to walk away from the Church months ago? For pulling him into this disaster?
The elevator ride to the third floor was silent. Kempton stood between us like a wall. When the doors opened, President Dalton was waiting in the hallway outside his office.
He looked older than I remembered. Tired. His grey hair was neatly combed, his shirt pressed, his tie perfectly knotted. But his eyes—warm, fatherly eyes that had blessed me and set me apart as a missionary—now held something I couldn't read.
"Elder Price. Elder Vance." His voice was gentle, which somehow made it worse. "Thank you, Elder Kempton. I'll take it from here."
Kempton hesitated. "President, I should stay—"
"That won't be necessary." Dalton's tone remained kind but firm. "Please return to your district. I'll contact you when I need you."
Kempton's jaw tightened, but he nodded. He shot one last look at us—contempt for Eli, something almost pitying for me—and then disappeared down the hallway.
President Dalton gestured toward two chairs against the wall. "Please, sit. I'll speak with each of you separately. Elder Price, I'll speak with you first."
I followed him on legs that didn't feel like my own and walked into the office.
The room was exactly as I remembered it. A large desk, neatly organized. Scriptures on the shelf. A painting of Christ in Gethsemane on the wall, his face turned upward in agony. Two chairs sat across from the desk—one for the missionary, one for the president.
President Dalton closed the door and gestured for me to sit. I did, my hands gripping the armrests.
He settled into his chair with a sigh and folded his hands on the desk. For a long moment, he simply looked at me. Not with anger or disgust, but with something that looked almost like sorrow.
"Elder Price," he said gently. "Samuel. How are you feeling right now?"
The kindness in his voice broke something inside me. I'd been prepared for anger, for condemnation. Not this.
"I—" My voice cracked. "I don't know."
He nodded. "This must be very difficult for you. I want you to know that I love you. That Heavenly Father loves you. Nothing you say in this room will change that."
Tears burned behind my eyes. I blinked them back.
"I need to ask you some questions," President Dalton continued. "And I need you to answer them honestly. Not for my sake, but for yours. The only way forward—the only way to heal—is through complete honesty and repentance. Do you understand?"
I nodded.
"Before we begin, I want you to take a moment. Clear your mind. I'm going to ask you to pray silently, to invite the Spirit into this conversation, so that you can answer with full integrity before God."
I bowed my head. Closed my eyes. Tried to pray.
But there was nothing. Just emptiness where the Spirit used to be. Or maybe where I'd always imagined it to be.
When I opened my eyes, President Dalton was watching me.
"Elder Price," he said quietly. "Before God, before me, and before yourself—have you broken the Law of Chastity?"
The question hung in the air.
I could lie. The golden boy, the stake president's son, the missionary who'd baptized six investigators in his first six months.
I could tell him that Eli had made advances, that I'd resisted, that I'd tried to help my wayward companion and failed.
Kempton would believe it. My parents would believe it.
The narrative was already written—the faithful elder led astray by the doubter.
But when I opened my mouth, I found I couldn't do it.
Because Eli hadn't led me astray. He'd shown me who I was. He'd held me in the dark and whispered that I wasn't broken, that wanting him didn't make me evil. He'd given me the first moments of peace I'd felt in years.
And if I let him take the fall alone, I'd be proving the Church right—that love like ours was shameful, something to hide, something to lie about.
"Yes," I whispered.
President Dalton's expression didn't change. "With whom?"
"Elder Vance."
A pause. "And was this a single incident, or has it happened multiple times?"
The tears came now, hot and fast. "Multiple times."
"I see." He picked up a pen, made a note on the paper in front of him. "Can you tell me, in your own words, what happened? When it started?"
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. "I don't—I don't know exactly when it started. Maybe the first night he came to my bed. When I was—when I was struggling. Or maybe before that, when we held hands during planning. Or maybe it was always there, from the moment you introduced us."
"Take your time, Elder Price. Start from the beginning."
So I did.
I told him about the tension in the apartment, the arguments about doctrine and investigators. About the night I'd heard Eli crying and sat on his bed, how we'd shared our fears about disappointing our families. How the wall between us had started to crack.
I told him about the zone conference, about sitting next to Eli and feeling something shift. About the argument after teaching Maria, when Eli had called the doctrine dehumanizing and I'd shouted that teaching it was killing me.
I told him about confessing to Eli that I was attracted to men. About Eli's revelation that he was gay too. About the desperate, fragile hope that had bloomed in my chest—that I might not have to be alone.
President Dalton listened without interrupting, his pen moving occasionally across the paper.
"And then what happened?" he asked gently.
My throat closed. I couldn't say it. Couldn't describe the way Eli had touched me, the way I'd fallen apart under his hands, the way I'd begged for more.
"Elder Price, I know this is difficult. But I need to understand the full scope of what occurred. Did you engage in—" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "—in sexual activity with Elder Vance?"
"Yes."
"Was this activity consensual?"
The question startled me. "Yes. I—yes. I wanted it."
"And did this activity involve—" Another pause. "—oral contact?"
Heat flooded my face. "Yes."
"And did it progress beyond that? To—to penetration?"
The word felt clinical. Cold. Nothing like the desperate, beautiful thing it had been in the dark.
"Yes," I whispered.
President Dalton set down his pen. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, suddenly looking every one of his sixty-some years.
"Samuel," he said, and the use of my first name made me flinch.
"Do you understand the gravity of what you've done?
The covenants you've broken? You've been set apart as a representative of Jesus Christ. You wear His name on your chest. And you've engaged in—in homosexual acts. In the mission field."
Each word was a hammer blow.
"I know," I choked out.
"Do you?" He leaned forward. "Because I'm not sure you do.
This isn't just about you, Elder Price. It's about every missionary in this mission.
It's about the investigators who trusted you.
It's about the members who opened their homes to you.
What do you think happens when word gets out that two elders were—were involved in this way?
How does that reflect on the Lord's work? "
"I'm sorry," I said, but the words felt hollow.
"I believe you are." He sighed. "But sorrow isn't enough. The question is—do you recognize this behavior as sinful? As contrary to God's plan?"
I hesitated. Because that was the question, wasn't it? The one Eli had been asking me for weeks. Do you really believe loving me is wrong?
"I—I know it's against the rules," I said carefully. "Against the Law of Chastity."
"That's not what I asked." His eyes sharpened. "Do you believe that homosexual behavior is sinful? That it goes against God's plan for His children?"
My hands were shaking. "The Church teaches—"
"I'm not asking what the Church teaches, Samuel. I'm asking what you believe. Because if you don't have a testimony of this principle, then we can't move forward. Repentance requires recognition of sin."
The painting of Christ stared down at me from the wall. His face twisted in agony, alone in the garden.
I thought about my father, about the disappointment in his eyes when I'd told him I struggled with same-sex attraction at fourteen.
About my mother, who'd cried and told me it was just a trial, that I'd overcome it if I was faithful enough.
About my mission call, which I'd seen as a lifeline—a chance to prove I could be fixed, that I could become the man they needed me to be.
I thought about Eli, about the way he'd looked at me in the dark and told me I wasn't broken.
"I don't know," I said, and my voice broke. "I don't know what I believe anymore."
President Dalton's expression softened with something that looked like pity. "I see."
He stood and moved to the window, gazing out at the Barcelona skyline. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet.
"Elder Price, I've known your family for a long time. Your father is a good man. A faithful man. And I know he has high hopes for you—mission, BYU, temple marriage, a family of your own. The path every righteous young man should walk."
I said nothing.
"But right now," he continued, "you're at a crossroads. And the choice you make will determine not just your future in this mission, but your eternal salvation. Do you understand that?"
"Yes."
He turned back to face me. "I'm going to be very direct with you, because I care about you and I want you to have every opportunity to make this right.
Based on what you've told me, you've committed serious sin.
The kind that requires formal Church discipline.
At minimum, you'll be sent home from your mission immediately. Your membership will be at risk."
My stomach turned to ice.
"However," he said, "there's another consideration here. Elder Vance."
I looked up sharply.
President Dalton returned to his desk and sat down, folding his hands. "Elder Vance came from a troubled situation in Madrid. Multiple companions. Reports of disobedience and lack of commitment. And now this." He paused. "I need you to tell me honestly—did Elder Vance initiate these encounters?"
The question hit me like a fist.
"Did he—" President Dalton's voice was still gentle, but there was steel underneath now. "—did he pressure you? Coerce you in any way? Take advantage of your vulnerability?"
And there it was. The narrative. The way out.
All I had to do was say yes.