Finding Home: Just Found Heaven, Bk 1.5 - 4. Chapter 4-Ben

Chapter 4 - Ben

 

"Don't keep your secrets in a prayer. There is nothing you can say or do. I won't cut you loose, no, so break the silence... We know that we can brave it all... If you're hoping we'll be home... Don't be afraid to ask for help.... It won't make me love you any less.. It won't make me love you any less... Don't hide behind me.... You're strong enough to face the fall... It won't make me love you any less... No shame, no hurt, nothing to lose... My love my heart don't need to prove... And there's nothing you can say or do... There's no one that can change my mind... It's not a weakness, we all have our crosses to bear... It won't make me love you any less." (Grace)

-- Rag N' Bone

I SMILED at my reflection in the mirror that hung over the hotel room dresser, as I securely fastened the clasp of the chain of the white-gold, compass necklace that Sam had given me yesterday as a surprise, pre-wedding gift, around my neck. The compass was intricately crafted and settled just beneath my collarbone. The patina of the precious metal gleamed against my tanned skin. I'd left off my clerical collar today, but my traditional suit tie would still conceal the chain when I knotted it at the top of the buttoned shirt collar. It didn't matter. I didn't need to see the meaningful piece of jewelry to know it was there—a compass that represented the fact that we’d always find our way back to one another, even if we ever got parted temporarily by a plot twist in our continually unrolling story.

I didn't need to be told that the unexpected gift was Sam's way of telling me, without any of the words he still occasionally struggled with finding, that he loved me, and was looking forward to today as much as I was. Through that gift he'd told me that each hard-pressed step we'd taken together to get to this point in our lives, mattered as much to him as it did to me.

Sam was an easy man to fall for because he was kind, intelligent, and led by a steadfast heart guided by a bone-deep sense of loyalty, even when it’d been occasionally misguided. Loving him was occasionally a bit more difficult because too often it meant convincing him that he was a better person than he himself believed. His self-doubt had always been the hardest part of our relationship to navigate through. But as Roosevelt had once said, "nothing worth having comes easy." Getting Sam to trust me enough to allow me to love him hadn't been easy, especially considering how we'd met, but it'd been worth it because in less than an hour I'd have a wedding band on my left hand that matched his...

***

(Flashback)

I'd spent most of the morning in prayer and conversation with one of my parishioners—an elderly woman who after 44 years of marriage to her husband, was now burying him after a massive heart attack had taken him peacefully in his sleep. She'd been steadier during our conversation than her slim, wrinkled body seemed it should be capable of, but her husband had been ill for years, and she'd told me that she found peace in knowing he'd found his.

It'd been humbling to hear, and an affirmation that I'd chosen the right path by listening to God when He'd called. For years before joining the clergy, I thought that I'd been permanently and unequivocally lost by poor life choices that I’d tried to justify through sex and substances that altered my mind enough to temporarily to believe my own lies. But despite mentally putting my hands over my ears, and humming whatever song popped into my head to ignore Him, God had patiently waited me out until I'd been ready to listen. Once I did, new paths had opened up for me, and helping others find some of that same serenity granted to me purely by His grace, had helped me find my own sure footing. It was a steadiness many people struggled with, including the man who'd bolted from one of the funeral home's private offices past me after I'd come back inside after walking Mrs. Grayson to her car.

I'd gotten a brief impression of a tall, powerfully built male frame in jeans and a t-shirt. His close-cropped hair could've been brown or dirty blonde-it'd been difficult to make out the exact shade because of both the buzzed haircut, and the fact that he'd been moving with athletic speed despite a subtly swaying gait like he was drunk. He hadn't seemed to notice me, his gaze facing forward as he made a hurried beeline towards the bathrooms, disappearing around the corner.

I hadn't gotten a good enough look at the man to know if he was someone I'd met at church, or in another aspect of my life. I definitely couldn’t have picked him out of a police lineup if my life had depended on it, yet a niggling feeling of recognition pricked at my brain even though I didn't have time to flip through my extensive mental Filofax because even if I couldn't place his face, I'd seen that kind of shell-shocked look before on my parishioners who'd recently lost loved ones, as well as on the faces and in the mannerisms of the people in the grief support group that I'd begun hosting about a year ago. The man might've been moving like he was drunk, but the quick glimpse that I'd gotten of his strong, handsome features had been that of someone completely broken. Considering we were in a funeral home, it made sense.

After a long moment of internally debating whether I should give him space to break apart privately, or to interfere in the way most of the people who knew me well would testify was my usual MO, I went after him.

I'd been to the funeral home so many times over the years since moving to the area and taking over the pastoral duties at our church, that I knew my way around it like the back of my hand. I made it to the bathrooms with a shorter legged, but much smoother stride than my soon to be rescued mystery man. When I reached the bathroom, I paused just outside, then carefully pushed the door open to move inside. I let the elegant wooden door close behind me with an audible enough sound to deliberately announce my presence. No one liked being snuck up on, and considering that the bathroom was empty except for the pair of battered black boots and a hint of blue jean fabric in a position that probably meant he was sitting sideways in the narrow stall with his long legs tucked to his chest to fit, a proper warning was probably the best way to go.

I hesitated for a moment, then moved to the stall door to knock lightly, but firmly on it. The legs and boots rearranged abruptly, as if the man had been startled into scuttling around like a crab. I heard a soft thunk, then saw the back pockets on his jeans, as if he was sitting against the door now with his back to the stall, and to me.

Not good.

I briefly considered leaving to find the funeral director who'd become a close friend over the last few years, to get his help. Evan had a calm manner, as gentle with mourning families as he was with his own four children who ranged from six months, to seven years old. But I didn't want to risk leaving the spiraling stranger alone. I'd been witness to enough panic attacks at the group to know when someone was melting down. Being left alone at those low points could be unsafe, even if there wasn't anything overtly dangerous in the bathroom. So, after another brief pause, I knocked again, but gentler this time, making my tone just as encouraging.

"Hello? Are you all right in there?"

"Yeah. I'm fine," came the other man's voice, which was deep and jagged around the edges as he blatantly lied through his teeth. "Just a stomach bug or something."

"Or something," I agreed, definitely not going anywhere now. "Why don't you open this door so we can talk?"

"Dude, I'm okay. Seriously."

I barely contained my snort as anxiety reduced the man's vernacular to the same whining singsong the kids at Maplewood used when they were about to throw down for a solid teenage sulk in protest against 'the establishment.'

Sorry buddy, not my first rodeo.

"You seriously don't sound okay dude, so if you don't open the door, I'm going to get someone to help us out here."

"I just need a minute."

"Can you please open the door?"

The sentence was a question by literary standards, but I deliberately left off the lilt of a question mark at the end. I was being polite for now, but my mother had always said I was stubborn as a bull and even though I couldn't see his face, I could tell that this man was in the deep kind of emotional pain that I couldn't ignore as a priest or a decent human being.

I silently started counting backwards in my head to give him time to make a decision. I started at fifty to be generous, but if he didn't open by the time I reached ten. I was going to get Evan.

The man exhaled hard when I silently reached thirty. I half expected more bleated protests, or maybe colorful language meant to get me to take a hike. Instead, I heard a shuffle of material, then saw his body position change again until he was obviously on his feet. There was a grating sound against the metal of the door as if he was fumbling with the lock. When the door opened abruptly, I didn't expect him to come tumbling out like a warm bundle of bricks into my arms. I instinctively wrapped my arms around his midsection though, bracing my own black sneakered feet on the bathroom tile to try and steady myself. In addition to being ridiculously tall, he was also broad shouldered, and I could feel dense layers of hard muscle beneath his sweat-soaked t-shirt.

Definitely not good, and he was sure as heck stuck with me now.

"It’s going to be ok. Careful now," I said, trying to soothe the panic I could feel radiating off of him. I shifted my stance so I could get one of his arms over my shoulder. I kept my own left arm wrapped firmly around his trim waist as we started to maneuver awkwardly down the hall towards the nearest exit so that I could get him outside where the fresh air might help.

"Survey says you're definitely not fine," I murmured, trying to put an encouraging smile into my tone to try and deescalate the situation.

I blinked against the brightness of the sun as we emerged from the funeral home out of a side entrance that led to a small, quiet area with a wooden bench beneath some deliberately planted trees— a small safe haven for moments just like this.

"Watch your step there. I keep telling Evan that he needs to replace those paving stones, but he seems to believe that letting people break their necks out here will help his business."

I felt a subtle rumble that vibrated from his body through mine where we were pressed tightly together, but the laughter couldn't make it up to his throat to escape his lips, and my expression softened. It was never easy to witness anyone working their way through hell, even if they were a stranger.

"Easy, almost there to a nice firm bench to plunk down on while I call 911."

The man wheezed. "Don't… need an ambulance… Panic attack. Will be okay... give me a minute."

"Panic attack?"

I'd suspected as much, but hearing him confirm it meant i had about a dozen other questions to ask him. I didn't get a chance though because after another few seconds of fumbling at his neck, I saw a glint of metal highlighted by the sun. It was unrecognizable for a moment until my brain caught up to the situation, and I realized why he'd seemed familiar to me earlier.

I gently rolled his dog tags through my fingers when he presented them to me, the stainless-steel ball chain still fastened around his neck. I'd never been enlisted in the military, but I knew what the tags were. I also knew a parishioner and good friend of mine who'd mentioned having family in the military. She'd recently lost her husband, Connor, and though very few people would mourn his loss, she felt it and apparently so did this man who'd been his brother.

Military protocol always put the last name of the soldier first, then their first. I recognized the surname immediately because it was the same as the man whose funeral I'd be attending in a few days to give the sermon at his wife's request.

Trammell.

Which meant that I now also knew the first name of the handsome hot mess seated beside me on the bench.

Samuel Trammell.

The pictures his sister-in-law Sofia had shown me a few days ago when she'd gotten the news of her husband's death had been framed ones of him with her daughters from several years ago. Sam had been younger in those, but still a carbon copy of her late husband whom I'd met once in passing a couple of years ago when he was home on leave from the Army. The most recent photo of Sam that Sofia had shown me had been one of him in his military fatigues against a backdrop of the American flag. He'd been standing tall and straight, somber as he looked directly into the camera. Connor's eyes had been a deep blue, but I couldn't see Sam's right now because he'd dropped his head between his legs. His strong arms were braced on his knees, but even in that position, I could tell that he was a big, athletic man. Military fit, and way too large to just disappear like he seemed to want to do by doubling over like that.

He was still breathing hard enough for me to hear the soft whoosh every time he exhaled, and it gave the impression of a vulnerable child. I immediately wanted to hug him.

I didn't, partially because I hadn't even formally met him yet, but also because the sudden insistent desire was unexpected. Comforting the lost was part of my job description, but there was a big difference between a few gentle pats to a grieving person's shoulder, and wanting to gather them into your arms and be their shield against anything causing them pain.

My slow exhale was meant to refocus me because having this visceral a reaction to a virtual stranger who I only knew through photos and stories from Sofia didn't make any sense, so I needed to reign it in.

"Ah, all right, this makes some sense now." At least one thing did. "PTSD?"

I broached the topic carefully, watching for any physical response since I still couldn't see Sam's eyes. When he nodded, my expression softened, and I gently squeezed his shoulder. Sofia hadn't told me about her brother-in-law's PTSD, so I was assuming she didn't know about it.

She wouldn't be finding out from me. Everyone was allowed both their secrets and their demons until they were ready to face them.

"Take slower breaths. Nice and easy. If you hyperventilate, I'm going to have to call EMS and you won't be able to stop me, passed out like a big rug on the grass."

A big, sexy rug, an irreverent part of my brain added. An observation that wasn't any more appropriate to the current situation at hand, then the sudden desire to hug Sam had been. At another time and place, I'd have considered asking him out for a coffee date, even though I didn't do coffee dates. I didn't do any dating if I was honest. Not because I was a priest, or because God didn't believe in punch cards—though that was a common joke I used as a believable excuse to friends who encouraged me to 'put myself out there.' My collar didn't keep me chained to celibacy the way a Catholic priest's did, and I'd dated someone seriously for a few moments after graduating from seminary years ago. It hadn't worked out between Danny and me, but I wasn't emotionally scarred from the breakup. Danny wasn't a bad person—he'd been gentle and considerate, both in and out of bed. He just hadn't lit up my heart and soul the way I believed that a forever partner should, and I hadn't encountered anyone else since then, who did either.

Spark was important. The emotional kind, not just sexual connection. I'd had plenty of the hot and heavy sparks in my past life as an escort, before I'd taken my vows as an Episcopal priest to restart my life and get to the point I’d achieved now. Letting your body lose itself in someone else's was easy. Letting your heart do the same was a challenge I hadn't wanted to take on with everything else that I'd willingly piled high on my plate. I was never really 'off the clock.' At least that was what I always told myself, ignoring the little voice in my head—a voice that sounded suspiciously like my former lover, Charlie's—that told me I was always honest with everyone except myself.

"One day you're going to meet a man who you’ll care deeply for Ben, and I want you to be ready and open to that opportunity when it happens."

I could still remember the slight pang of guilt I'd felt that day, knowing that Charlie could never be that man even if cancer hadn't been cutting his life short. We hadn't had a romantic spark between us, but we'd shared a connection of deep friendship by the end. Charlie had known how I felt and had always encouraged me to find love with someone else worthwhile when the moment presented itself. It just never had.

Till now?

Again, that little voice in my head sounded suspiciously like Charlie's amused British accent, as if my subconscious thought that if my former lover, a man who'd believed in love at first sight and in soulmates had said it, then it had to be true. Realistically though, it was ridiculous to even briefly entertain the idea. I didn't know anything about Samuel Trammell other than the stories that Sofia had told me about him over the past few years that we'd become friends. Granted, those stories had painted a surprisingly vivid picture in my head even before she'd shown me the photos of Sam, which I’d appreciated with the eye of an amateur photographer. Pictures truly were worth a thousand words, and photographs told stories that the subject of them sometimes weren't even aware they were telling, especially in candid shots.

Several of the photos of Sam with his nieces, had been those kinds of photos— Sam with a toddler Adelyn hoisted on his shoulders, both their faces in profile as they'd looked up towards a bright blue sky. Sam holding Emma protectively as a newborn wrapped in a lavender blanket. Sam laughing with a young Adelyn, soaked down to the skin beneath his army green t-shirt. She was wearing rainboots decorated with American flags, and holding up red and blue water balloons, one in each hand, obviously prepared to launch another attack on her uncle. There'd also been one of a teenage Sam sitting on the steps of a house beside a teenage Sofia. She was turned slightly toward him and laughing as Sam held one arm up high, obviously trying to keep the bottle of root beer he was holding, out of the reach of another good-looking young man with sandy brown hair, who'd been reaching up for the soda from his position on the step below Sam and Sofia. He'd been making a kissy face at Sam, who was laughing. Sofia had said that the other man was a childhood friend of her, Sam and Connor's, and that he was still close to her, and also Sam's best friend.

Only one candid photograph of Sam alone had been displayed in a simple wooden frame on the mantle with several other family photos. His back had been to the camera, and he was sitting on what looked like a dock at sunset. His hair was longer in the photo, but his shoulders were relaxed, and I could tell without seeing his face that he was enjoying the moment of the sky streaked with fading oranges, and the purples before twilight, that’d been captured by whomever the photographer had been.

Sofia had described Sam as being a good man with a difficult past, but always gentle with her and her girls, unlike her abusive late husband. I could tell all of that from the gamut of photos. What I hadn't been able to see, was any reason why Sam had suddenly pulled away from his family without any warning or explanation about five years ago. Over coffee earlier this past year, Sofia had opened up about her difficult marriage, and her suspicion that something had happened between Connor and Sam that’d strained their family dynamic, and caused the sudden, unexpected estrangement between him and her family. She'd said that neither man had ever spoken about the sudden radio silence between them, and that she hadn't seen or spoken to Sam in years because he never responded to her emails or face-time invitations. Eventually she'd stopped trying, and I knew from speaking to her just two days before Sam had returned to Florida from Afghanistan, that she'd doubted that Sam would even come home for Connor's funeral, though she'd hoped he would. Apparently, her prayers had been heard, even if Sam didn't seem to be experiencing the same sense of relief at a reunion.

I let my hand move from Sam's shoulder down to stroke soothingly over his currently curved spine. It was a nonthreatening touch, but firm enough to be grounding.

"That's it. Just let yourself ride it through. This sometimes happens to someone I know. He's not on active duty anymore so it's gotten easier over the years. When do you go back?"

"I don't."

Sam's voice was rough and tight and I was quiet for a long moment, trying to figure out what I should say. I had plenty of words that were appropriate to the situation, things I'd said to countless others over the years, including Michael Baldwin, the former marine I'd just mentioned. But for some reason, none of them seemed like the right ones to share with this broken man.

"Ah... I'm sorry," I said finally. "Are you doing all right?" I winced inwardly at how trite the words sounded. I was usually better than this. Sam apparently agreed because I felt those hard muscles bunching beneath my hand like he was planning to bolt, but then he exhaled slowly and settled.

"My brother, Connor, was killed in action recently. I'm home for the funeral." He exhaled heavily, like he was trying to wrestle together a sense of calm. "Listen, thanks for your help bu--"

"It’s going to be alright Sam."

I felt the moment that Sam registered that I'd used his name, even though he hadn't officially shared it yet. His name was obviously on his dog tags but considering the state that he'd been in when he'd shown them to me, it was possible he thought I was a mind reader, or maybe a good Samaritan stalker.

Sam coiled up like a spring beneath my palm, and I moved my hand to rest it on my own thigh to give him that small space as his head snapped up and I found myself looking into eyes that were the same rich, dark blue bordering on navy that his brother's had been.

Although I'd been raised Catholic, I'd lost contact with God for years after my parents had rejected me for coming out. It'd taken me over a decade to get myself back on the path to peace, and walking in His way. Even now, I was always humbled when He showed His sovereignty and grace through all of the beauty that He created in the world— flowers, fauna, and apparently, Samuel Trammell.

I smiled and leaned back casually, hooking my arms over the back of the wooden bench, trying to be discreet about my onceover. Those navy-blue eyes were wary, but met mine with steady determination, as if Sam was trying to figure me out. His nose was a strong line that sat slightly crooked between the sharp cut of his cheekbones. The curve of his jaw was set hard and tight with tension, but his lips were surprisingly full, and looked soft. I didn't allow my gaze to linger on that particular spot because I didn't need to encourage Charlie’s voice in my head.

Sam's expression changed from suspicious to surprised when I held out my hand, squeezing for a warm, firm shake when his large, calloused one slid into mind.

"Sorry about that," I said. "Didn't mean to catch you off guard. I'm Ben Santiago, a friend of Sofia's."

"Doesn't explain how you know who I am."

"You showed me your dog tags," I said with a slight smile before I added, "And Sofia's also talked about you before, and shown me some family photos. She told me that her brother-in-law was in the Army, and that he was coming in from Afghanistan for Connor's funeral. She and I are close, so we talk often."

Sam cocked an eyebrow, and I got the sudden impression that I was the one under a microscope as if he'd gotten the wrong idea from my response.

"I see."

I felt my lips quirk into a smile. "We're just friends."

"I didn't ask."

"But you were thinking it," I said, ignoring the defensive note in his tone. "And I understand. I'm a stranger to you. They're yours, and you're the type of man who protects his own."

His eyes narrowed. "Are you a shrink?"

I grinned because I couldn't help it. He'd gone from protective, and ready to do battle for his family, to putting up a shield to protect himself in less than thirty seconds.

Quick reflexes.

"No, but you were long-time military, so it stands to reason that you probably looked out for the men in your unit like brothers. Those protective instincts would naturally carry over to your own family."

"For someone who says he's not a shrink, you talk like one."

"My best friend's a child therapist. I work at the local halfway house for teenagers, and I read a lot so I guess that's a killer triumvirate. We do offer counseling services at Maplewood, but I don't have a medical degree so all I offer are my ears. We're just a safe place for kids who need someone to listen. Everyone has to vent sometimes."

I knew that Sam didn't miss the subtle emphasis that I put on that last part when his eyebrow rose and held.

"Are you saying you think that's what I need?"

"I don't know. Do you get many chances to talk about your feelings when you're doing the stoic American Hero routine in bathroom stalls?"

Ignoring the protest that I saw rising in his eyes, I reached into my pocket for my brown leather wallet. "I run a broad-spectrum adult support group on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. Both are open sessions. Anyone is allowed to come by and share. Nothing leaves the room."

I found one of the small business cards I'd made for the group that simply had the name of the church, and the address, then offered it to Sam.

"Sort of like open mic night," he said, ignoring the card which made me smile again. Someone was getting feisty. Good. If he was annoyed with me then he wasn't focused on the thoughts that had broken him down earlier.

"Only with better coffee. We even have caramel and vanilla flavored creamers. And cookies. Everything’s always better with cookies.”

I patted Sam's knee— a casual touch that could've seemed inappropriate if I hadn't left the card on his knee with the movement.

Mission Impossible's Tom Cruise couldn't have been stealthier.

Sam's lips twitched as he tried to hide a smile and I grinned. Yep buddy, I have move's you've never seen before.

"I'll think about it," he said quietly.

"Okay. I'll take what I can get. Maybe you can get Sofia to join us, too. Adelyn just joined our youth nights."

Sam's lips twisted into a wry smile. "Prepare to hear plenty about how much she hates me. She's not shy."

"Her dad just died. She's allowed to have angst be her middle name for a while."

Sam raised an eyebrow and I leaned forward, bracing my elbows on my knees.

“So are you. It's probably going to be a difficult transition for you, conflicted as you are about where your loyalties should lay. Sofia called me early this morning and said she finally told you about you about the domestic abuse, and that you had no idea before. I’m sorry. I can’t even imagine how difficult it must be to process all that. Connor was your brother, but they're yours, too.”

Sam stiffened immediately, putting the card on the bench between us. I kept my own relaxed position. I was ready to give chase if he bolted, but I was hoping I'd be able to talk him down instead. I jogged daily, but Sam's legs were ridiculously long, and he could've been the poster child for, 'army strong.'

"What's the point of going to this group in the first place then?" he demanded. "You've already got my number."

"I like to get my information from the source."

I kept my tone gentle in contrast to Sam's defensive one. "Sofia's always said that you're a very private person. I respect that, but between your PTSD, and losing your brother, there are bound to be some intense feelings that can bubble up and choke you if you're not careful."

I paused but didn't break eye contact with Sam. "Are you having any nightmares since leaving the field?"

"That's none of your business."

"I'll take that as a yes," I said, ignoring the defensive hostility.

There'd been a time in my life when almost every move I'd made—especially my poorest decisions—had been led by irate impulse and defensive action because I'd been so angry at the world. Not because my family had died--they'd been, and still were, very much alive. They'd just made it crystal clear that they considered me dead to them since a gay son and brother didn't fit into their familial ideals. Pain was pain though, and until I'd allowed God to heal mine slowly over time, I'd sometimes felt consumed by it so I could relate to the emotional turmoil Sam was going through.

Turmoil that on some level I was happy to see. Not because I was a sadist, but because Sam's hostility had increased after an initial surge of intense emotion in his eyes which had looked suspiciously like pain and guilt, before it'd morphed into anger when I'd mentioned the domestic abuse. Shortly after Sam had come home, Sofia had told me that he knew, but she hadn't volunteered details regarding if Sam had just figured it out, or if he'd always known. I wasn't going to push, but I suspected that it'd been recent news to Sam because very few people could fake visceral reactions like the one he'd just displayed.

Back here on the home front, Tara and I had been the only people who knew about the abuse, and only by chance. Tara and I'd been picking up our weekly order of donuts for the kids at Maplewood, and had decided to grab a box for Sofia and the girls as well. We both knew that Connor had just gone back to Afghanistan after a short leave at home, and thought that Adelyn and Emma might appreciate donuts too, since Emma's love of strawberry frosted donuts drowned in sprinkles wasn't a secret. Unfortunately for her, Sofia hadn't been expecting a surprise visit, and her makeup hadn't been applied well enough to completely hide the fading bruise around her left eye.

Tara had loudly expressed her immediate desire to get on a plan to Afghanistan to castrate Connor with anything, 'sharp and rusty.' Both of us had wanted Sofia to go to the police, but we'd respected her wishes to keep the secret because she'd sworn that Connor had never touched the girls any of the times that he'd 'lost his temper.' With her parents and Connor's dead, and Sam in the military, she was all that the girls had and she’d was afraid that if CPS got involved, the girls might be taken from her until things were sorted, and that they'd end up in foster care. She'd begged us to keep her secret, saying that Connor came home so infrequently, that it wasn't worth the risk of involving the police. Neither Tara nor I had pointed out to Sofia that if something were to happen to her because Connor went too far one day, the girls could end up in foster care anyway. We'd discussed it together after the fact though, and after that, we'd both made sure to keep extra, discreet eyes on Sofia and her girls whenever we knew that Connor was back— texting, calling, and even occasionally just stopping by unannounced to say hello. Not to threaten or make anyone feel uncomfortable, but to make it very clear that Sofia wasn't alone. She had a tribe.

Tara had met Connor twice, but I'd only ever met him once in person when I'd run into him with Sofia, and his daughters at the local supermarket. We'd made polite conversation after Sofia had made introductions, but I'd always just missed him when I'd shown up unannounced at their house after that. I considered that proof that God was playing interference to keep the peace, because that day in the supermarket, though Connor had been charmingly polite like military regulations mandated even when enlisted soldiers were on leave, there'd been something in his eyes— and a subtle possessiveness in his bearing when he'd stood with his arm wrapped around Sofia's slim waist to keep her close, that I hadn't liked. It could've been bias since I knew the monster that he could be behind closed doors, but even though Sam looked exactly like Connor, I didn't get any of that same simmering, slightly malicious energy rolling off of him. They looked the same, but that didn't mean that they were identical in every way.

"Try the group, Sam," I said, trying again. "All our people have been through something that still haunts them, including me, and sometimes I have to share too. I practice what I preach so if you come by one day, maybe you'll see what I mean. Anyway, you might find a place there since I can see in your eyes that you're unsure about whether you have a home here anymore."

"Wow... You can't help yourself with the shrinky talk, can you?"

An uncomfortable silence slid between us. The sun had finally broken free of the haze that had blanketed the sky this morning, and I could feel its warmth along the back of my neck. I didn't turn toward it, worried that if I looked away from Sam he would see it as rejection and a justified reason to leave.

I sighed. Working with teenagers daily meant that I'd pretty much mastered having one-sided conversations and not shriveling up beneath death stares and hostility, but Sam was making me earn a new degree in pulling teeth.

"You're right, that was intense," I said, offering a crooked smile when Sam finally looked at me again. "I'm sorry, Sam. I just like your family, and want to help you all get through this as best I can."

"Yeah, I get it. You're a bleeding heart who needs to help, but I'm doing fine. Just had one rough day."

Sam exhaled suddenly when I shifted my position fluidly and leaned into his personal space, bracing my weight with both hands on the bench before I really had a chance to think about what I was doing. It was instinct—wanting to catch him off guard to startle him off the hill of stubborn pride he was trying to die on. We weren't touching, but I was close enough that I could've kissed him if I'd wanted to. Which, I was suddenly very much tempted to do—more for shock value than desire though that was there too. Being this close to Sam with my eyes open, I could see the way that the pulse in his throat jumped, and how his lips parted as if he was unconsciously tasting the cinnamon candy scent on my breath. I had a sweet tooth in general, but Red Hots were one of my favorite candies. Apparently, Sam didn't mind.

I smiled slightly. In my past life, Sam would've found himself with me straddling his lap, distracting him away from his pain in a very different way. An extremely physical way that he would've enjoyed every minute of—until it was over. And then the emptiness would seep back in the moment I left, and so would the possibility of a friend that listened with his ears and heart, not just his libido. Sam was a Ranger, but right now, he was the one who needed a hero.

"Want me to call you on that bull?" I murmured. "I warn you though, I've had plenty of practice with teenagers who perfect the art."

Sam's eyes had dilated and even after hanging my, ‘Team High-End Hooker’ hoodie up years ago, I could recognize that the expression wasn't panic. Surprise, yes. Confusion, yes. The knee jerk reaction of his lips parting... nope. Definitely not panic. But at least I had his attention now.

"What... what the fuck?"

I grinned. "If we were at Maplewood, I'd have to fine you a quarter for that. Normal curse words are a dime, but the F Bomb gets special monetary consideration."

Before Sam could respond, I shifted away and slid to my feet, leaving the card beside him on the bench.

"Come to the center one day. With Sofia or by yourself. There's no shame in needing help."

I'd meant everything that I'd said, but that was the primary theme I wanted Sam to take away from today if nothing else. Sam was obviously attractive and I appreciated the aesthetics immensely, but past that, there was something about him that read like a man who felt he needed redemption, and didn't know how to find it. A man reluctant to accept the idea of being worthy of love, and of forgiveness. I'd been there too once, a long time ago, and I knew how daunting the emotions could be without having a guide, so I was appointing myself that guide. I'd fight for him until he started fighting for himself, and he'd just have to deal with it.

Both Sam and I were stopped from adding anything else to our exchange because at that moment, Sofia exited the funeral home, and made a beeline straight for us. Her expression brightened when she saw me, and I immediately smiled back.

Sofia and I'd been friends for a while like I'd told Sam, though it was only recently over the last year that she and her daughters had been attending services regularly. Unfortunately, just like Sam, she refused to come to the support group meetings, but I was working on her just like I planned to keep working on Sam.

"Aquí estás, Sam. Fui preocupada de usted cuando usted se fue." Sofia slid a gentle hand along Sam's arm before smiling at me. "¿Está todo bien?"

"Everything's fine, Sofia," Sam assured her with warmth in his smile despite the fact he was still a bit pale beneath his desert tan.

My eyebrow arched when Sam responded before I did, apparently fluent in Spanish unless he was just reading Sofia's obvious anxiety which anyone could have done right now because it was rolling off of her in almost palpable waves.

"Estamos muy bien," I added. "Sam y yo acabamos de hablar. ¿Cómo usted está soportando todo esto, Sofia?"

I jumped in to give Sam a lifeline if he needed it, adding to his assurances to his sister-in-law that we were both fine. Sofia visibly relaxed and responded to my question about how she was coping. We went back and forth for a few minutes in rapid-fire Spanish. When I glanced at Sam a few times during my exchange with Sofia, he looked like he was listening, not just staring at his toes, or up at the sky like most people would've if they didn't understand a language.

Definitely fluent then. Another check in Samuel Trammel's growing pros column, though I wasn't going to focus on that.

I gently squeezed Sofia's hand after I leaned in to brush a kiss over her cheek. "I hate to run, but I need to get going. I'm meeting someone here in a bit to help her with her mother's funeral sermon. I can't say that writing moving eulogies is my strongest skill, but it's one of the priestly duties I can't get out of."

I saw Sam shift in my peripheral vision as if I'd suddenly drawn his complete attention toward me. "You're a priest?"

Amusement curved my mouth as Sam's gaze dropped from my face to the smooth column of my bare throat before I chuckled. Like a good friend of mine, who was also an Episcopal priest, I didn't usually wear my clerical collar unless I was giving a Sunday sermon because it was a symbol, not an identity like it was with Catholic priests. I didn't need it to prove that I was a man of God.

"Yes, I'm an Episcopal priest. I've only been here a few years."

"You didn't mention this group was a church thing."

"Did I have to? Anyone is welcome whether they believe in our faith or not. And on that note, I really have to go. Sofia, I'll call you to go over the final details, okay?"

"Si, Padre Santiago. Gracias por todo que usted ha hecho.

"It's my pleasure, Sofia. You have my number. Feel free to call if you need anything at all."

I turned back toward Sam, and my smile slowly widened. His pupils had returned to normal, proof that the earlier dilation hadn't been because of any drugs or alcohol to numb his pain.

"It was nice to meet you, Sam. Have a blessed day, you two."

I walked away, and once I was back inside the foyer of the funeral home and out of Sofia and Sam's line of sight, I looked up toward the ceiling as I murmured, "Charlie, you might finally get your wish..."

***

Charlie... just the name of my former lover, and in so many ways, my first savior, made my lips curve with bittersweet affection. If he'd still been alive I might not be here now. Yet even though Charlie had been dead for years, I could feel his energy as if his stubborn spirit was coming to visit for the day to watch me fulfill his last wish for me.

I pressed my hand briefly over the cool metal of the compass pendant. It might've been a gift from Sam, but Sam himself could be seen as a gift to me from the man who'd been so insistent that I should never give up on the possibility of tomorrow...

***

(Flashback)

"One day you're going to meet a man who you'll care deeply for Ben, and I want you to be ready and open to that opportunity when it happens."

"I am with a man I care for, and he knows just how open I can be for him when the mood hits."

I grinned and stretched my arms over my head languidly, the soft pop of my spine a lazy sound. Charlie smiled. Affectionate exasperation was obvious in his hazel eyes as he tracked my movements when I deliberately bent my left leg at the knee, and propped it at a 90° angle on the velvet covered seat of the antique wooden rocking-chair that I was sitting in. I extended my other leg with the tips of my bare toes braced on the floor so that I could set the chair into an indolent rock. The position stretched the thin, silky fabric of my long, garnet red lounge pants tightly over my lower body every time the chair arched back with the gentle momentum, pulling the material taut across my crotch to make it very obvious I wasn't wearing anything else beneath them.

Charlie's lips twitched because he knew I was doing it deliberately.

The pants had been a gift from Charlie in the earlier days of our relationship. He was a sensualist and enjoyed the sensation of pleasurable textures against his skin. Our bedsheets were a high thread count sateen fabric, that felt like silk against my skin whenever I pushed Charlie into the plush mattress with the long, slow strokes of my cock that he liked even more than the scent of the bergamot candles we always had on hand. They used to add ambiance to our bedroom. Now they helped to subtly tone down the scent of antibacterial soaps, and other small signs of Charlie being mostly bedridden, and wasting away from illness.

Charlie still enjoyed the candles, but we hadn't slept together in months because the medications used to treat his prostate cancer made him so sick, that that even his own touch hurt him. During the last few months, we'd started behaving more like platonic roommates than lovers, but whenever Charlie tried to push through the walls I kept between my emotions and most people—even him who was one of only two people I’d do anything for— I always reverted to sexual innuendo, and carnal diversion. They were distraction techniques I'd used hundreds of times both with Charlie, and with all of the other men who'd come before him and hired me when I'd still been working as an escort before we met.

Most people, especially men, who're generally more easily led by both their lizard brain and their dicks, could easily have their thoughts turned by a strategically planned caress, or well-timed, very deliberately placed kiss. I'd done it millions of times before. My act had been so perfectly mastered that even after my customers placed their envelopes fat with cash on the nightstand to finalize the business transaction, they always willingly bought into the fantasy I could spin of them being the center of my world.

They always came back for more. Men who could afford to pay the prices my house charged—usually in the upper thousands for just a few hours—weren't paying for sex. They could get that with any quick, cheap, street corner hookup. They were paying for the ‘boyfriend experience’— an attractive, open-minded, appreciative and attentive lover who'd do anything they asked whether it ran along the long gamut of the kinky spectrum, or just venting about work, what expensive private schools to send their children too, or how much they had to pay their ex-wives in alimony. I'd been expected to listen compassionately, then rock their world however they wanted so they could forget about their problems. Problems that were usually ones they'd created themselves, with bad decisions.

That hadn't been my problem though. Men with power and high prestige who could afford my rates, made living a comfortable lifestyle relatively easy. Most of my regular client's tastes ran along the entire spectrum of kinky but safely depraved. Some of those men had also occasionally required an attractive trophy piece to accompany them to galas and charity events. Women no longer cornered the market as arm candy meant to inspire lust as desirable trophies. Being well spoken, intelligent, and charming in public, but completely uninhibited behind closed doors, was a recipe for success in their world.

I'd been with men from every race, religion, and walk of life, and the one thing that almost all of them shared in common, was that their primary interest had been what was between my legs, not what was in my head. At least none of the things that I actually cared about, or was interested in. My talkers usually had a specific pot of topics I could pull from and mix up in new configurations, so that every ‘date’ always seemed like the first one, even for my longtime regulars.

Charlie was the only man other than my closest friend, Roman, who'd never treated me like a rent boy. Our first, 'date' had been at a high-end restaurant in Miami that I knew had a waitlist over a year long. Charlie had made the reservation that same night and had been waiting for me inside at a quiet table in the back near the windows—a private spot, but not a situation he was trying to hide from the world. I’d appreciated that open confidence almost as much as the fact that he’s immediately stood up when I was escorted to the table by the restaurant hostess. Instead of kissing my hand, cheek or any other body part most men preferred, he'd offered me his hand for a warm, solid shake. He'd given me a solid once over of course, but he'd also pulled my chair out for me, which had amused me to no end. Instead of champagne, he'd ordered a glass of scotch on the rocks for himself and told me to order whatever I wanted for dinner and for dessert. He'd added, with a mischievous, lazy smile, that he wouldn't be offended if I preferred not to drink on a first date, so I could, 'keep my wits about me.'

I hadn't been the first, second or third of Charlie's paid dates over the years, so he'd known how to play the game. I'd found it charming that night, and the next one we spent together. He hadn’t lost that charm on the multiple ones that came after that over the next few years when he'd stopped asking for anyone else except me, until I'd eventually sold my list, and gotten out of the life.

I hadn't stopped hooking because I was Julia Roberts and Charlie was my Richard Gere. I'd just wanted out, and by that point I was financially comfortable and wanted something different, though I wasn't sure what that was, other than figuring out a major so I could finish my remaining two years to get my bachelor's degree. Charlie had offered me the opportunity to stay with him while I figured it out—friends with benefits. He'd always made it clear he was in love with me, but he'd long ago accepted that it wasn't reciprocated at the same level, even though I did care for him. Us being roommates and companions had worked out well because he enjoyed traveling and experiencing the world, and I got to go along with him.

The first time I'd ever seen Paris was with Charlie. We'd made some amazing memories, unburdened by price tags or time constraints. But now that his cancer had given us a definitive timeline about the number of days we had left together, Charlie had embarked on a personal mission to make sure I lived a, 'fulfilled life,' as he put it. One that was more than just the economically well-off one he planned to provide for me with the stipulations he'd recently made for me in his. Without any other family as beneficiaries, Charlie was leaving his entire estate, and all of his investments to me, even though he knew that I didn't care about, or want the money. I could take care of myself since I'd been savvier with investing the money I'd made from hooking, than I'd been with some of my other life choices.

Charlie didn't need to take care of me, but he wanted to. Despite my stubborn sense of pride that made me want to maintain complete control over my own life, I allowed it. I knew Charlie’s motivations were genuine. He was my friend. My closest next to Roman which was why when he got into these moods where he wanted to discuss his mortality, I did everything I could to distract him and change the course of conversation.

My biological family were very traditional Cuban Catholics and had disowned me years ago when I'd told them I was gay. Before that, we'd been a large, close-knit family. My brothers and sisters had been my closest friends and allies, but except for my youngest sister, Catherine, who'd been too young to have a real voice in our family at the time I'd come out, none of them had spoken to me once I'd left home after my parents had given me the ultimatum of hiding who I was, or getting out of their house.

I'd chosen to leave because I'd felt I had no other choice.

I could still remember the look on my parent's faces—varying levels of shock, disbelief and anger. The latter had been mostly on my father's face. My mother had been the one to verbally react first, though it'd just been a low, strangled sound deep in her throat, before she'd crossed herself and burst into tears. My father's face had turned florid red with anger before he'd started shouting. Mild mannered most of the time, he'd become a different person after finding out that one of his sons wouldn't ever be bringing a pretty Catholic girl home for Sunday dinner.

Most of the exact conversation was blocked from my mind, the rest left behind in hazy fragments— emotional self-preservation because I didn't want to remember how my mother's soft palm had felt when it'd connected hard enough with my cheek to make my ears ring. My father had gone after her when she'd fled from the kitchen, leaving me with the confusion and wrath of my siblings, who'd all voiced their opinions about my newly queer status in an angry harmony of volume levels.

It was only after Michael had pushed me up against the wall after calling me a faggot— a word that’d drained all the color from my face because I'd never expected that kind of vitriol from my compassionate older brother—that I broke. My pleas for understanding turned to rage at the rejection, and I'd lashed out.

Growing up with as many siblings as I had, we'd all gotten into scuffles over the years, but it was mostly verbal, and never with any true intent to hurt one another. I'd never thrown a solid punch at any of them, but when my fist connected with Michael's face, I felt the blood even before I registered him shouting in pain instead of in anger. When he'd stumbled back away from me, I'd seen the blood slicking his face and fingers, still pouring from his nose.

I'd never found out if I'd broken it, because everything happened so fast after that. Silence had descended after my oldest sister had moved to grab paper towels which she’d pressed against my brother's face—a silence more deafening then all the screaming that’d come before it. All of my brothers and sisters were staring at me in mute horror, but it'd been Catherine's wide eyes, and the round, quivering O of her small mouth that’d broken me.

I'd taken off before anyone could even attempt to stop me.

I'd never gone back to the house after that. I'd spent the night on the living room couch at a casual friend's house, and in the morning, after breakfast with him and his boyfriend, I'd called my parents on their home line because their cell phones had gone straight to voicemail when I'd tried them first. They hadn't picked up the home line any of the other five times that I'd called throughout the day. Pain and regret had made me try to justify their silence as just not knowing it was me calling, but even if I hadn't left long messages each time, they were retired, and had caller ID. They knew that I'd reached out. They just didn't want to talk to me.

I'd also tried Michael's cell that day, and multiple times over the next two weeks. I'd left voicemails for him every single time. I'd also texted him at least a dozen times, asking for forgiveness. Asking if we could try to fix things by talking on the phone if he didn't want to meet in person.

He'd never responded.

None of my siblings had, and after one week became two which became three, then a month, then several months of me living in shelters until I'd realized that the streets were safer as long as you stayed out of certain areas, I'd finally just given up completely. After I'd started hooking occasionally outside of clubs in back alleys to pay for my closet of an apartment that I shared with two other men, and my boxes of ramen noodles, my resentment had morphed into rage. I'd turned away from every aspect of my former life that reminded me of everything I'd lost. That had included the religion I used to find comfort in. The God who I'd been raised to believe would always have my back, hadn't gotten his hands dirty to help me in the kitchen that day, or any of the times I'd been forced to give up things I'd imagined I'd only offer to willing romantic partners.

Losing my virginity had been a quick encounter with my jeans around my knees and my face pressed into a wall as a man twice my age had grunted heavily in my ear about how good I was being. His spit and the thin layer of slickness on the condom hadn’t been any good against the tearing pain as he’d shoved clumsily into me, but being high as a damn kite had at least helped to fade some of the details over time.

That didn’t stop me from holding it against God.

I'd tried to be a good person and a better man as I grew up, but loving men had been the character trait that’d made God turn his back on me. I'd never been able to shake the comparison between me in the kitchen that night, and Adam and Eve being cast out from the garden of Eden.

Those first months alone had been hard with no money, and few life skills past a 4.0 high-school GPA, and two years of undergrad education. More than a few times, I’d considered ending it all with an overdose of whatever street-level drugs I could get my hands on. But then, by chance, I'd met a now former colleague, Justin, from the escort agency. He’d been in the bathroom of an upscale bar that several escorts met their clients at for preview drinks. I'd been sleeping with one of the bartenders at the time, which was the only reason that I'd gotten through the door in my one decent pair of jeans, and the black t-shirt that was tight across my chest from age, not fashion. But after telling me that I had, “great bone structure,” Justin had launched into what I now knew was a spiel to recruit ‘new talent.’

I'd seen the writing on the wall, but I hadn't cared. I'd been sleeping with men for a lot less than Justin's expensive looking suit and haircut had hinted I could make. A desperate sense of resignation was what had made me follow him out to the town car where I'd been, 'interviewed,' in the back seat. That was also where I'd been introduced to Roman shortly after Justin and I were done, since he was the one who drove us back to the elegant mediterranean style home that was one of the handful of buildings that my former madame, a respected realtor, had run the business out of.

Roman had never turned tricks, but after a stint in jail that was the consequence of a tragic, juvenile mistake, he'd been working as a driver for the agency in between other odd jobs. We'd hit it off immediately, and he'd always had my back whether I was on the clock or off. Even though he was a behemoth of a man, Roman was gentle towards, and protective of the people he cared for, which included me. We'd never crossed the line of friendship, but he was the only person other than Charlie who I could call family.

After losing my biological relatives even though they were all still very much alive and living throughout Miami except for Catherine who eventually moved to Havana with her new husband Raul, my heart couldn't handle losing anyone else, so I tried to avoid thinking about the inevitable expiration date on my life with Charlie. But when he got like this, Charlie was as determined as a dog with a bone he refused to drop.

"You know what I mean Ben. We've been companions for ages, but you don't love me the way I want you to love someone else after I'm gone. You have a heart that yearns for passion and connection, despite your stubborn avoidance of the topic. The size of your heart is built for a deeply connected romance. True, epic love."

"Charlie, I'm happy where I am. Some of us don't get forever afters."

“Rubbish.” Charlie snorted as he reached for the glass of water on his nightstand. I tried to ignore the way his wrist trembled from that minor weight.

"The Spanish soap operas you're obsessed with say otherwise. Overly dramatic rubbish," he repeated, his British heritage poking through even though his accent had faded after more than two decades in the US. "Pure trash, but true love always triumphs despite ridiculously written adversity."

My lips twitched, but I lost my fight to maintain a straight face. "If watching trash TV was a road map to finding true love, the divorce rate would be much lower."

Charlie snorted again when I grinned without shame.

My enjoyment of telenovellas had started as a goof on my sisters in our early teen years, just something to tease them about. But like most train wreck TV, the high drama in the over-the-top, formulaic storylines was addicting. They usually revolved around a variation of the same handful of storylines. One of the most popular was that of a poor girl who was actually the secret love child of a rich man and maid. A girl who almost always fell for a rich playboy and had his baby in secret, only to find out he was already engaged, or married to someone else. Her heart would always be broken, and she'd vow to get revenge by working her way up to his same high social-economic status by raising hell in ways that required much more than normal amounts of suspension of belief. The odds were always stacked against the couple but somehow love always won out. All the wicked were punished, and the storyline was resolved in just a few months, unlike the decades-long American soap operas, so that another equally absurd show could begin.

They were completely ridiculous like Charlie thought, but they reminded me of my family and the excitement of my sisters who'd loved to plan my happy ending, and potential ever after's as often as they did their own. But those plans had always involved a future sister-in-law. When I’d told them they’d have to settle for a new brother-in-law instead, the happy world we'd built had exploded, and my belief in unconditional love had fallen apart with it.

"I don't like the idea of you giving up on your future, Ben. You're too young to be this cynical."

"I'm not cynical, I'm pragmatic. And I don't like you talking about dying, so consider us even."

"Everything that lives eventually dies, Ben. That's why how you live your life matters."

"You sound like a fortune cookie."

"Cheeky. I prefer to think of myself much higher end then that, Benjamin. More like a Yogi tea bag."

My lips twitched both because he’d used my full name, and because Charlie had only every purchased that brand of tea for me because I liked it. He was a snob about commercial tea bags, so I was surprised and amused to hear that he'd noticed the uplifting mantras printed on the little slips of paper attached to the strings on the tea bags.

"Well on that note, I'm going to make us some tea. I bought a new lavender and chamomile loose blend last week that's supposed to help with sleep. You need to rest."

"I'll rest eternally when I'm dead. Sit."

I tensed, even though I'd already stood up. "Charl--..."

"No," he said, cutting me off before I could finish. "I've reached my quota for the day of the number of excuses I'll accept from the most beautiful, and equally stubborn man I've ever known. Sit."

"Charlie, I don--"

"Oh, hell's bloody balls, Ben! Enough with this nonsense. Sit before I try and get out of this bed."

I sighed when Charlie's British roots came out again to clearly support his level of aggravation. He'd always been passionate in bed when he'd been in good health, but his career as a museum historian had crafted Charlie's personality into a calm, level-headed one that was usually governed by intelligence and rational thought. He'd rarely gotten angry in all the time I'd known him, not even when the doctors had told him that he was terminal. Charlie had accepted his fate with a grace I wasn't sure I'd be capable of if I'd been in the same position. His expression was void of that grace and calm now.

Sighing, I sat down again. I knew it wasn't an idle threat, and I didn't want to be responsible for him getting up and possibly falling into a heap on the floor before I could launch from the location of the rocker to get to him.

Charlie relaxed visibly. "Thank you, Ben," he said, because he knew how much it cost me to swallow my pride.

I'd been on my own for years before meeting him, responsible for myself, and no one else. My family had abandoned me and though Roman and I were close, I'd had no other ties to anyone else. I'd lived my life that way on purpose, to avoid pain from rejection and loss. Being an escort had helped me maintain those boundaries because men paid for my body and passion, not my mind or heart. The few friends I allowed into my life except for Roman were casual at best. I hadn't even had pets or plants in my elegant Miami apartment before I'd moved in with Charlie—nothing to hold me down or to feel my absence if I decided to detach.

Until now.

"You know I'm not one for melodrama, but at this point I'm going to make an exception and appeal to your sense of the dramatic by making this a dying appeal you can't deny."

He eyed me hard and the protest on my lips turned into another sigh.

"Fine."

Charlie ignored my peevishness summed up in a single word. "Please get me that book on the third shelf to the left of the blue leather volume of The Great Gatsby."

I could see the strain showing in Charlie's face so I went to the bookshelf without any more attitude. But I tensed when I located the ‘book,’ that he’s asked me to retrieve.

I was familiar with the bible. Most of my siblings were older, so our family's Children's Bible had been well worn in by the time I came along. Our mother had read from it to us every night before she switched to a children's story like Peter Rabbit. We'd gone to church every Sunday, and attended every Catholic holiday, including Easter Vigil, which had felt excruciatingly long in my elementary age years. Sunday night dinners were an entire family affair even after my older siblings moved out. We'd been considered the epitome of a ‘good Catholic family’— loving, loyal and devout.

Until I'd come out.

I knew that the Catholic church condemned homosexuality. The bible was littered with verses against it, especially in the Old Testament where fire and brimstone rained down on the wicked for sexual perversions. But even in the New Testament, where the entire theme had always been about God's great love shown in the ultimate sacrifice of his son to save all sinners, laying with men was condemned. I knew that. However, I'd also been raised to believe that we'd all been created in God's image, so I'd always struggled with trying to understand that if He was sovereign and incapable of fallibility and mistakes, then how could I be gay if that was a hell ensuring sin? The contradictions had hurt my head for years before I'd convinced myself that I didn't care anymore. Looking at that bible though, warring with my emotions, I realized how deep in the sand I'd been hiding my head.

"Ben."

Charlie's gentle tone infiltrated my thoughts, and I filled my lungs with a deep breath before I released it slowly.

"Charlie... this isn't fair."

"Maybe not, but love is about doing what's best for the object of your affections. And you my dear boy, are the only person whose ever captured my heart and held it, so I'm willing to ignore niceties like fairness."

I exhaled hard again. With Charlie's days numbered by his doctors, I didn't want to cause him more strain just to avoid my own pain. He'd been good to me. He didn't deserve all the belligerence I'd built up against God.

Slowly my hand moved and closed around the spine of the bible, to remove it from the shelf before I took it over to Charlie. My feet felt wooden, but not heavy enough to slow my steps long enough for my preference.

I sat down on the bed when Charlie patted a spot on the plush mattress that I'd special ordered a few months ago to ensure he was as comfortable as possible after he'd been confined to his bed by his failing body. Charlie's expression softened when my eyes met his, and he rubbed my knee gently.

"If I could think of another way to get through to you, I'd do it, but I can't, so here we are. Ben, I want you to give yourself the chance to fall in love, and you'll only be able to do that when you're at peace with yourself."

"And you think that I'll find peace with myself in religion?"

He nodded, ignoring the curt note in my tone. "I think it will be a start, because it's given me peace, and I always considered myself agnostic. But, after I was diagnosed, I was so angry at the universe. Not having someone to blame or to ask, ‘why me’, made me feel more lost than I've ever felt in my life."

That confession surprised me because he'd never let me see any of that anguish before.

"So... we're having this conversation because you want me to believe in God just so that I can blame him?"

"Don't be cheeky. I'm not asking you to believe in ‘religion,’ because that's a term people sometimes use just to justify their personal opinions. I want you to believe in a power greater than any of us. You were raised catholic so I though this might be most familiar and comforting to you, but you could become a happy Buddhist for all I care, so long as you believe in something that promises serenity through surrender. A surrender that’ll allow you to fall in love completely, maybe at first sight with the right person, because you'll be open to the idea that there are so many things outside of our control, orchestrated by a higher power for our benefit. And what is more to our benefit than true love?"

"God doesn't condone being gay," I said ignoring the part about love since religion was easier to argue against.

Charlie snorted, the sound turning into a hard cough that tightened my heart and made his eyes close for a moment as he leaned back into the pillows to catch his breath. When they opened again, there was a hint of the passionate flare for life in them that used to encompass his entire being.

"The Catholic church doesn't approve of homosexuality but considering their stance on so many other things that I personally don't approve of, I don't put much stock in their opinions. God was willing to send his only son to this earth of sinners to save our souls. Do you really think He cares who you love physically so long as your spiritual love is for Him? Keep in mind that the bible, while INSPIRED by God, was WRITTEN by men. And even men under the inspiration of the highest being possible, are fallible. Not to mention that as many times as the bible's been translated from the original Hebrew into other languages and versions, some things are bound to be interpreted differently, so is it really still God's exact word?"

Charlie must have seen the hesitation in my eyes at his rationale because he tightened his hold on my hand for a squeeze that was gently firm despite the fragile feeling of every bone beneath my hand.

"How about this— I’ll drop the subject for right now, if you promise to speak to Father O'Brian when he gets here later today. Fair?"

Charlie cut me off with a soft tsk before I could protest. "He's not a Catholic priest. He's Episcopal and doesn't care that either of us is gay. Their doctrine is similar to Catholicism, but less rigid on the judgement and wrathful hellfire. ‘Catholic light,’ as he calls it."

Charlie's lips curved into a smile that though tight with pain, was also relaxed. "He can help put things better in perspective than I can. He has a way with words that goes past theology."

His smile deepened till there was a hint of his old, confident, take the world by storm self in it. "In another lifetime I might've researched what the rules of engagement are to seduce a priest."

I snorted, but I was fighting hard to hold back my own smile. Before he'd gotten sick, Charlie had had the looks, brains, charm, and old money finances to make men take a number as they fell at his feet like willing dominoes. Seducing a priest wasn't something I'd consider an impossible feat for him.

"That's a sure road to hell."

"Oh, pish posh my boy. I raced down that road more than once, and it was always a

lesson learned, no matter what the outcome was. I don't regret any of those choices because I learned something from each of them. Besides, Episcopal priests can be in relationships with men or women. Their sexuality doesn't matter because their first love is always God."

Charlie grinned again, and I knew what he was going to say before the words even left his mouth.

"He's single."

"Stop it, Charlie."

"Why? He's young, handsome, gay, and very Irish, although blonde, not a redhead. But he does have eyes as green as the Irish isles, and that brogue of his would probably vibrate through your entire body to your soul when he whispers his Gaelic love language in your ear."

I rolled my eyes. I'd been with so many men between the years I'd hooked, and the ones before that when I'd sleep with anyone with a pulse just to prove to the world that I embraced being gay, that I'd lost count of names. But more than a few of those men had had accents, including Charlie with his crisp English lilt, and none had ever ‘vibrated their words’ into my soul. Sex was cardio, and occasionally, detached affection. At least that was what I'd been telling myself for years. It was the safest mantra for both my head and my heart to live by.

"Your pain meds must be kicking in. The love affair with the regency romance novels you don't think I don’t know are hidden behind your scholarly journals, is peeking through. Go to sleep and get some rest."

It was Charlie's time to snort with surprisingly derisive oomph. "Says the man who watches The Bachelor."

My ears colored like a naughty child's because I'd been caught. I didn't believe in true love eternal anymore, but the part of me that had always enjoyed watching telenovelas with my sisters, still enjoyed dramatic romance.

At least on TV where it was safe and detached.

"I consider them cautionary tales. What not to do if you want to live a peaceful life."

"Oh, come on now, Ben. Considering your past life, a life which I thoroughly enjoyed being part of I might add, don't you want to explore a gender-bending happy ending to your version of Pretty Woman?"

I snorted. "Didn't you know that they co-starred in another movie together where she put on her running shoes as soon as she could?"

"All romance has a bit of the comedic in it, and the chase is part of the fun."

"Unless you don't want to be caught."

"Pft, being afraid of being caught isn't the same as not wanting to be chased and cornered until you submit."

"Talking dirty to me isn't going to help your case."

Charlie grinned. "When you find someone whom you can love and also be absolutely filthy with at the same time, then I'll rest my case."

I eyed him in silence for a moment but his expression was as composed and slightly amused around the edges, like the infamous Mona Lisa.

He didn't bother waiting me out.

"You say you want serenity. Well, serenity is found in connections, Ben. It's built on experiences, including a determined kind of passion, affection, loyalty, and hope. Those are also all things that life-long relationships are built on, whether they're romantic or not. Look at the two of us. You could've left long ago. We both know you have the means, yet you've stayed even as I've wasted away a little bit more every day. I barely recognize myself, but you still look at me with that same exasperated affection you've felt for a majority of our relationship.

My hands curled around the edge of the Bible, lightly opening and closed the cover. Not because I had any actual intentions of opening it to read it, but because it gave me something to fidget with. I normally didn't display physical signs of restlessness even, when I found myself in uncomfortable situations. My former madam had made sure to teach me about always presenting with composure, no matter what was going on in my head. I just wasn't prepared to have this conversation right now.

"I'd considered killing myself you know."

My head snapped up immediately at that confession. The corners of the bible’s cover cut into my palms painfully when my grip tightened. "What?"

Charlie nodded. His tone was mild to combat the ice of that one word. "I did. I even made some calls about it."

"Euthanasia isn't legal in Florida."

"No, it isn't, but having a living will that directs medical professionals to withhold, or withdraw life-prolonging procedures in the event that a person has a terminal illness, end-stage condition, or is in a persistent vegetative state, is allowed."

"You're seriously quoting legal semantics at me right now?"

"Yes, I am, because I'm trying to prove a point. I made that living will and I was very clear in my desire to just be let go if was my time. I'd given up on myself."

"And on me apparently."

Because he'd never mentioned any of this before.

Charlie’s hand curled around my wrist when he felt the tremor in my right arm composed of anger and a sense of helpless grief.

"Yes," he said. His tone was gentle, but his grip was tight as he could manage. "You'd have been taken car—"

"For fuck's sake Charlie, you know I don't want your damn money!" I said, angrily cutting him off.

Charlie ignored the vehement emotion that exploded out of me like an enraged genie.

"I know, but you're still going to get it all whether you like it or not. I can't take it with me when I leave this world, and I know you'll be able to figure out something truly wonderful to do with it, that I'll consider a worthwhile legacy," he said. "But, you're missing the point because you keep interrupting me. That's rude," he chided, a gentle affection in the tone to soften the sting of his words.

"Go to hell."

"I'm hoping that isn't where I'm headed, but that's what this entire conversation is about isn't it? The inevitable truth that made me void that clause in my will two weeks ago— None of us can truly know what our final destination will be when we die, but we can take comfort in knowing that God does. That He, in his infinite wisdom and grace, will take us where He knows we need to be."

"You sound like a fortune cookie again."

"I sound like Father O'Brien, which is why you're going to speak to him. You need this, and so does my peace of mind."

Charlie shook my arm a little with failing strength. I looked up at the ceiling for a moment because I didn't like the sudden heat welling up behind my eyelids. Neither of us were the crying type.

Or so we said.

When I glanced back down and opened my eyes to meet Charlie's, his were suspiciously glassy.

"He's coming over this afternoon to look in on me. You could talk to him today on your own terms and "turf," so to speak, rather than going to see him at the church."

I wanted to protest, but Charlie had never asked me for anything that I wasn't willing to give freely. Denying him now would be a betrayal of the friendship we'd cultivated after so much time spent together.

I still sighed as I placed the Bible on the nightstand. "I'll talk to him but I'm not going to promise that anything he says won't go right back out of the ear that it enters through."

"I'll take whatever I can get, you beautiful, obstinate man."

Charlie grinned as he ignored the indignant puff of sound that escaped my throat as I stood up again to rearrange and smooth the covers up and around his body. I knew Charlie hated it when I fussed over him, but considering that he was making me face demons I'd long ago trapped in a box—reinforced with every kind of tape, and adhesive known to man because I hated the idea of coming face to face with them again— on the highest shelf of my mental closet, I felt like a bit of quid pro quo was in order.

"I'm going to make grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch."

"Ooh the one on brioche bread with fontina cheese, arugula and glazed pears?"

I grinned, letting go of my irritation for the moment. Charlie had always been a foodie. His appetite was limited these days, so when he got excited about food, it was an extra incentive to cook for him. My enjoyment of time spent in the kitchen had always worked out well for us since Charlie couldn't cook worth a damn, and I enjoyed both the quiet time alone, and the comradery of sharing the meal afterward with someone else.

I'd come up with that grilled cheese recipe one day after making a recipe for a pear tart. I'd ended up with too many leftover ingredients and hadn't wanted to throw them out. ‘Waste not, want not,’ had been a mantra in my family. With so many of us, we couldn't afford not to use up everything we had, before going grocery shopping again. Charlie could afford to get rid of things we didn't need, but I still preferred to try and find ways to clear out our refrigerator that didn't involve filling up our garbage bags. Our local homeless shelter wasn't able to accept already made meals due to legal restraints, so I always went through the refrigerator before I went grocery shopping to see what could be used up in interesting ways.

The fontina and pear grilled cheese sandwich was one of Charlie's favorites, as was my self-dubbed ‘clean out the fridge pasta,’ which was made up of whatever type of pasta I had in the pantry, as well as any, and all vegetables that were on their way out, and could go together nicely. I stirred them up with some pasta sauce, or wine and butter if I was feeling ambitious. It was always different, but generally delicious. The grilled cheese was easy in comparison, but I'd chosen it deliberately— Charlie liked it, and it took a bit of time to prepare, which meant I would have some time alone to clear my head.

"Yes, along with the honey and tomato bisque."

Charlie chuckled. "Do you think putting me into a food coma will get you off the hook? You promised, Benjamin."

"I did, and if Father O'Brien decides to wander into the kitchen after spending time with you, I'll probably still be there doing meal prep for the rest of the week. You said he was Irish right? He can help me peel potatoes. He’ll feel right at home."

Charlie laughed so hard he ended up in a coughing fit, but after he managed to drink a few sips of water from the glass on his nightstand on his own, he grinned widely.

"There's the sass. Good. Hold onto it. When he challenges you, fight back. Father O'Brien won't take offense. He didn't when I argued against the idea that God chose us before we were born. He just showed me that God loves us, and that He heals. You just have to allow it."

"Do you think God will still feel that way if I seduce one of His people in the kitchen like you suggested earlier? That island is large enough that we might not even disturb the stack of potatoes while I make him hear a symphony of depraved angels."

Charlie chuckled again, but when he leaned back a little more heavily into the pillows, I could tell he was tired. I stroked my hand over his jaw before I leaned over to brush the lightest kiss across his mouth, then another to the top of his head. Like every time that I kissed him lately before leaving the room or the house on an errand, I wondered if this would be the last time that my lips ever touched his skin. He was fading faster than either of us wanted to acknowledge, but I kept that thought to myself. Charlie didn't need to deal with my anxiety, and I needed to keep my head level just in case Father O'Brien decided that he was both brave, and Irish enough to corner me in the kitchen later for a potentially awkward debate about the salvation of my tarnished soul via religion.

"Rest," I said before I pulled back.

Charlie's eyes were already closed, though his breathing was steady and warm across my fingertips when I held them just above his lips for a moment to make sure that I felt it. I pressed another kiss to his head, then went downstairs.

The kitchen was ridiculously massive for only two people, but Charlie came from very old money. During the days that he'd hosted lavish dinner parties, every inch of the kitchen would be crowded with cooks and waitstaff, the walls practically vibrating with warmth and excitement. These days however, it was just usually Charlie and I in the house by ourselves, unless his doctor came to make a house call. Very few of his friends came by anymore—out of respect for Charlie's wishes for them to remember him the way he used to be before the cancer, not because they didn't care. Charlie had made it very clear to everyone early on after his terminal diagnosis that he didn't want anyone's pity. He'd flat out told me that he didn't want ‘elevator style funeral music’ at his wake. He'd insisted on Mozart and Bach and had smirked when I'd 'helpfully' suggested sliding in some AC/DC as an intermission soundtrack.

Charlie had still had the strength to flip me off back then, growling about taking me with him on the way to hell before he'd pushed me up against the island counter and dropped to his knees to take me in the opposite direction of fiery wrath.

Some people were squeamish about kitchen sex, but as long as you were an avid cleaner and believer in disinfectant like I was, the kitchen was just another multipurpose room for enjoying something in your mouth. It'd been almost a year since the last time we'd disrespected the island, but I still ran a clean dish rag sprayed with natural disinfectant over the granite out of habit, so I could start meal prep on it.

My lips twitched when I reached the corner that had left a light red mark on Charlie's midsection for a couple of hours after I'd drilled him into it. I doubted God would approve of that particular memory if He was watching, especially when one of His shepherds was coming to offer words of comfort to Charlie, and possibly to exorcise me.

Charlie had said that Father O'Brian was openminded and compassionate, but in my personal experience, there was a big difference in how people treated me when they met me casually without knowing my past profession, and how they reacted if they knew what I used to do for a living.

I forced myself to stop worrying about Father O'Brian' s potential judgement, then set the ingredients that I needed for the bisque on one end of the island until I was ready to use them. The bisque took longer to cook than the grilled cheese did, so I always made it first, but the oven-roasted pears in the grilled cheese sandwich needed more prepping. While they baked in the oven, I'd work on the bisque.

I quickly washed and peeled the two large anjou pears before slicing them in half. Then I scooped out the middle before I seasoned them with coconut oil, coconut sugar, raw honey, and a touch of lemon to add a balancing acidity. After I'd stuck them in the oven at 350 degrees, and set the timer for twenty minutes, I went over to the small Bluetooth speaker that I kept in the kitchen on the edge of the expansive island and connected it to my phone.

Charlie had a very expensive home stereo system, but I preferred this because it was portable. I could also easily adjust the volume so it wouldn't disturb Charlie who he liked to tease that it was just a, 'high-end boom box for young people.' I'd always countered by saying that if he really wanted to age himself, all he had to do was remember that he'd been in high-school when he'd watched his favorite R film in the theatre, while I'd been playing with my GI-Joes because I hadn't been old enough to watch more intense than cartoons.

He'd always laughed, able to take as much as he gave. At least until the last few weeks, when he'd begun to steadily decline a little more every day. Our Brit-Bix version of the OK-Corall showdown upstairs, had been the first time in months that I'd seen Charlie that passionate about anything, which was why I was down here making enough lunch for three people instead of just him and I.

I grumbled beneath my breath as I flipped through the playlists on my Spotify app. Most of the grumbling was just random, dirty words in Spanish, but the curses were interspersed between what Charlie referred to as my, 'exasperated dinosaur noises.'

My playlists were eclectic, loaded with everything from the lively salsa I'd grown up with that could be heard all over Miami, to the afore mentioned AC/DC, and other rock bands. There was also an embarrassing amount of pop songs because I had a secret love affair with Beyonce, Brittney, and Lady Gaga.

Everyone had their quirks.

I settled on the pop playlist that began with Lady Gaga's, 'Telephone.' It was a tune I could sing along with, without paying attention to the words. It was cheerfully upbeat trash in verbal form, just like my favorite soap operas.

"Hello, hello, baby, you called, I can't hear a thing. I have got no service in the club, you see, see... Wha-wha-what did you say, oh you're breaking up on me. Sorry, I cannot hear you, I'm kinda busy. K-kinda busy, k-kinda busy..."

"Are you busy?"

I paused in my tribute to Lady Gaga when I heard an unmistakably Irish lilt in the masculine baritone that’d asked the question. I tensed for a moment, before I turned with an eyebrow arched.

"Father O'Brien, I presume? How'd you get in?"

Rude Ben, very rude.

My conscious chastised me about my greeting toward the stranger. It was a valid question, but if he hadn't startled me in my current mood, I'd have been more socially civil.

I got a broad, amused smile that revealed even white teeth that were framed by a thick, but neatly trimmed, blonde beard that matched the carelessly tousled curls on his head. They were a little longer than I ever wore my own and the style brought all attention to the vividity of his eyes. Eyes, which were as Charlie had said, as green as Ireland's rolling hills. Between the hair, the eyes, and Father O'Brien's dark jeans paired with a charcoal gray sweater, he could've been any random, attractive man in his early thirties. Certainly not what I imagined a priest to look like.

As if he noticed my silent onceover, his grin deepened.

"I haven't had a chance to get a haircut. My mother says it's more rocker than gospel, but I always remind her that Adam and Eve didn't have access to beauty salons."

I blinked, my lips curving as I automatically slid my hand into his when Father O'Brien held it out. His grip was strong and confident. I felt hard callouses on his palms, as if he'd done a lot of manual labor in his life before he'd decided to start tending to the needs of lost souls.

"I’m sorry, Father O'Brien. That was extremely rude of me. I'm Ben. It's nice to meet you."

"It's alright," he said as he released my hand. "Charlie must've forgotten to tell you that he gave me a key a few weeks ago so I could let myself in if someone wasn't around to open the door. I heard the music and decided to pop in so you wouldn't be startled by coming upstairs and seeing me speaking to Charlie."

Charlie hadn't told me about the key, but considering the brain fog side effects of some of his medications, I couldn't fault him for that. And now that Father O'Brien had explained himself, I felt more chagrined by how I'd spoken to him. It wasn't his fault that Charlie was sick, or that I was in a bad mood.

"That was considerate, and I really am sorry. I usually have better social skills."

"Please don't apologize," he said with another warm smile. "How about you just call me Patrick, and we can consider ourselves even."

Two fingers lightly tapped against the side of his neck, indicating the crew style of his sweater where there was no white collar visible.

This time I was the one who grinned. "Off the clock?"

"I'm never off the clock, but I don't usually wear the collar unless I'm preaching or doing something at the church that requires the visual symbolism. The collar tends to make some people anxious, especially when they're not used to talking to a priest."

"Or when they don't want to talk to a priest," I said, though I gestured for Patrick to wash his hands before I pointed to the wooden cutting board on the counter where there was a knife, vegetable peeler, celery stalk, and the large carrot that the bisque recipe called for. To his credit, Patrick didn't miss a beat. He just pushed the sleeves of his sweater to his elbows, and went to the sink. After he washed and dried his hands on a dish towel hanging over the handlebar of the oven, he moved dutifully to the other side of the island opposite me, moving the cutting board and kitchen utensils to that side in front of him as well. I didn't say anything about the positional change— which I suspected was so that we could talk face to face instead of the more detached side by side.

"What are we making?"

"Tomato bisque soup, and fancy grilled cheese."

"I didn't know that grilled cheese could be fancy."

"Then you've never been to a pretentious restaurant."

I saw Patrick's lips twitch with amusement when I glanced up.

"According to Charlie, you're anything but pretentious. It's a quality he admires about you as well as your intelligence and passion for life."

I arched an eyebrow. "I thought your conversations with Charlie were faith based."

"They are," Patrick agreed as he finished peeling the carrot, then began chopping it with impressive efficiency. "But preaching at someone for an extended amount of time if they're not committed to a pew for a sermon, tends to make their eyes glaze over. I like to encourage conversation about whatever they want to talk about. Charlie likes to talk about you and the life the two of you used to have. He also talked about the one he hopes you'll have in the future when he's gone."

I tensed for a moment, but forced myself to focus on the onion I was chopping so that I didn't accidentally lose a finger. It was bad enough that my eyes were watering from the onion's scent, and could be mistaken as sad tears depending on which direction the conversation went.

"Charlie should be focusing on his health. I'm fine."

"Are you?"

I glanced up, surprised by the blunt question. Patrick read my expression and pushed the little pile of carrot rounds towards me, before reaching for the celery stalk. He sliced it in half before starting to chop it with as much efficiency as he'd shown with the carrot.

"Did you ever work at a restaurant?" I asked as a way of delaying having to answer his question.

Patrick let the evasion slide as he continued chopping the celery into tiny pieces.

"I did actually. It was a part time job while I was in seminary. Just at a small local diner and it was mostly dishwashing and garbage removal, but when we were short-staffed, I was allowed to do some of the easy prep work. It wasn't bad. It gave me time to mentally go over the scriptures and reading materials I needed to memorize for my classes."

"Sounds like a good way to focus."

Patrick smiled. "It was, and it gave me some kitchen skills which are helpful in everyday life. It is said that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach."

I piled my diced onion into a bowl, then added Patrick's piles of celery and carrot to it as well. "Charlie said you were gay. I didn't believe him."

"Why?" Patrick's head tipped to one side like a curious puppy's after he'd wiped his hands on a paper towel. "Because I'm a priest?"

I nodded as I popped a small piece of carrot into my mouth to chew it. "Just so you know, he suggested I seduce you."

Patrick grinned broadly. "Did he now? Right here in the kitchen?"

"Mmm hmm, right on the island, likely with your legs over my shoulders since the granite would be a little cold against the skin if your face were pressed into it while my dick became your bridge to angel choirs.” I offered him piece of chopped carrot. “Unfortunately, we currently have food out, so a raincheck is all that's happening today."

Patrick's grin deepened until dimples appeared to soften the strong angles of his face. "That would probably be amazing and if I thought you meant it, I'd be helping you to do the dishes at lightning speeds after lunch so the counter was pristine in preparation of you rocking my world. But as it is right now, I'll keep my fantasies centered around fancy grilled cheese instead."

I didn't want to smile when he called out my glibness, but I lost the battle and Patrick winked.

"The Episcopal church doesn't believe that only men can preach the Word of God because that completely dismisses women. We believe that God is the one who plants the desire in a person's heart to both follow and preach his word so it can reach as many people as possible. That's why we also don't believe that being gay is a sin. God made us, and knew us before we were born."

The phrase was almost exactly what Charlie had said to me earlier, and I told Patrick that.

Patrick smiled, deep lines forming at the corners of his green eyes when they crinkled. "Psalm 139: 11-14," he said. "If I say, "Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me, even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you. For you created my inmost being . Yu knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful. I know that full well."

I'd been raised devoutly Catholic, but even though my family had attended Sunday services every week for as long as I could remember, I couldn't truthfully say that I knew actual scripture well, at least not anything I could recite flawlessly from memory. Certainly not with the same level of calm conviction that Patrick just had.

His eyes and smile both warmed. as if he saw the wheels turning in my head. Patrick was throwing out the bait. but I wasn't ready to be caught just yet. The original fisher of men hadn't saved me from my family's abandonment, or turning to a life of very monetarily lucrative hedonism.

I'd liked the money and the excitement of getting to go to events among people so far up the social and political food chain, that there'd never have been any other way for our paths to cross. And I'd met Roman and Charlie, the most important people in my life whom I'd never have met if I hadn't traveled down that life path. I knew all of that. It still didn't mean that I liked feeling like I'd somehow been manipulated into becoming who I had, simply because God thought it was His right to choose my path. I actually hated it, but Patrick was smiling openly, trying to draw me in to drink the holy Kool-Aid.

No thank you.

"With all due respect, Patrick, I told Charlie that I'd speak to you. And I did” mostly “so I kept that promise. But now I think you should keep yours by going up to see him like you told him you would. I'll bring lunch up when it's done. If you're still here by then, you're welcome to stay. Do you have any food allergies or intolerances?"

Patrick swept me with a look that I managed not to squirm under after years of practice, but it wasn't easy. I didn't know why I was finding it so difficult to put up my usual walls with this man. He was attractive, but what I felt drawing me to him wasn't a sexual, or even potentially romantic spark. I'd have been more comfortable with that. then with the reality that slipped stealthily into my mind.

Patrick's steadfast belief in God's saving grace, his warmth, his ease in the kitchen... all those were things that reminded me of my family before everything had gone sideways. Standing here, I realized that I'd missed that comfort from both my family, and from God.

"I'll go upstairs and see Charlie if you truthfully answer the question that I asked you earlier."

"Which one?"

I knew damn well which one, and Patrick knew I knew it, but he smiled anyway, not budging from his side of the counter.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

Patrick clucked his tongue lightly in gentle disapproval. "I asked for a truthful answer, Ben. From everything Charlie's told me about you, and what I know in general about people who are going through difficult times, especially the loss of a loved one, I doubt you're, 'fine.' Confused and terrified, maybe. Definitely a little lost, and angry enough to kick every can you find down the street one way, then back up the other if you weren't working so hard to exude detached reliability."

"I'm not detached. I'm also not in love with Charlie."

"I didn't say you were in love with him. I said you love him. He's your friend and your family. You're devoted to him. When he's called home by God, the loss will take a part of you with him, because that's what happens to everyone who loses someone who matters to them, especially someone who offered them a sense of redemption when they needed it."

I was beginning to wonder if Patrick was actually a priest, or a mind reader. "You think I needed redemption? Because I was a hooker?"

Patrick didn't blink at my deliberate choice of the more derogatory term for my previous career choice. "Nope," he said, not breaking eye contact. "I think you felt, and maybe still feel, like you need redemption because you believe that you failed your family and that's why they cut you out of their lives."

I couldn't keep the sudden heat out of my voice, lunch prep derailed for the moment.

"Charlie had no right to tell you any of that!"

"He told me because he loves you. He's worried that you'll try and cope in unhealthy ways when he dies."

"Like going back to hooking?"

"Nope," Patrick said again. "More like closing yourself off from trying for something more real with someone who you won't be afraid to open up to."

"I don't need anyone playing matchmaker for me."

"I actually agree with you, and told him the same thing."

I arched an eyebrow. I hadn't been expecting that. "You agree with me?"

Patrick nodded. "I don't think that anyone should rush into a romantic relationship while they're still trying to figure themselves out."

"I know who I am," I said, not able to keep the irritation out of my voice.

"You know some of who you are, but you were young before you became an escort, then eventually, Charlie's companion. Those were roles you sort of fell into, and while none of that's bad, especially not the obviously genuine affection between you and Charlie, you've still been making other people the focus of your world instead of giving yourself some grace and putting yourself first."

"I thought men of God were supposed to be non-judgmental."

"I'm not judging. I'm making an observation. I think you need to be able to work through this and accept that Charlie dying isn't something you have any control over. His illness isn't your fault. Neither is your family being held captive by the religious tradition that led them astray, and made them treat you poorly for being who you are. Doing what you had to do in order to survive isn't your fault either. God doesn't care what we've done on our paths to find him. The journey itself doesn't matter. What matters is the destination."

"Is this where you tell me that Mary Magdalene is a good example of a redemption story— prostitute turned devout follower? Because I heard in a recent documentary that the prostitution angle was propaganda started by the Catholic church to discredit her role as an unofficial disciple of Jesus'."

"You're correct, which is exactly why I won't use it." Patrick leaned down, propping his elbows on the island with his chin propped on his hands before looking up at me. "The problem with the bible is that people often interpret it in whatever way speaks to them. That's natural because we're human, and we'll always interpret any situation, news story, relationship, etc., through the lens of previous personal experience. There's no getting around that and it’s partly why there are so many Christian denominations, even though Catholics, Episcopal and Evangelical Christians all read the same book. So, why can't we all agree that there’s only one theme throughout the entire bible that is consistent and cannot be warped by viewpoint?"

I arched my left eyebrow to indicate he could continue.

Patrick smiled. "At the core of every single bible-based religion is one fact— God is love. The rest is just filler that can twisted and even perverted by people calling individual pieces 'facts.' Look at the news. Watch four or five different stations covering the same story, and you'll get that many versions of 'the truth.' Not because they're trying to lie to anyone, but because while facts are constant, people's opinions aren't. So, when watching the news, you have to focus on the pieces that can't be disputed. When you read the bible, you do the same thing. The one thing that can't ever, EVER be disputed, is that God sent his only son Jesus down here to save ALL SINNERS. We always have to live through love— Love to God above all, but also love of your neighbor, and love of yourself because we’re made in his image."

He paused to accept the glass of ice water I handed him, having filled on for him and another for myself while he was talking.

"Thank you. Take Atheists for example,” he said after taking a sip. “Atheists say that their belief system is simple. They say there is no God. However, when you think about it, it requires more faith to believe there's nothing out there, than to believe that there is something more than us that we just are too inconsequential to understand. To say you don't believe in any higher power is to say, that despite all the infinite possibilities out there in this universe, you somehow know for certain that there is no creator of anything.” He snorted then drank half his water. “That's how ridiculous atheism is. Atheists are really just people who are anti-religion—something which many people are for various reasons. But, if you really get into deep conversation with an atheist and press them on that point, you'll find that they can't argue against God or any higher power because something can never be created out of nothing. There's so much that can’t be explained and their only real arguments are against religion itself, and how it interprets and packages God into whatever best fits the specific religion in question."

He paused again to finish his water. I sipped mine as well, but his fishing hook had caught me because I was listening attentively. The Catholic priests at my former church would have shit bricks by now.

" 'Religion' screws us up so colossally because they get so dogmatic and come up with these artificial systems and rules. In some like Catholicism, you have very human, very powerful men as the face of a church that's telling people what's going to happen to them when they die, and what they've got to do to be saved. Part of that is a worship them, angels and saints, to help you pay your way into heaven in the form of required tithing. All that makes religion an easy target for atheists, and anyone else whose fallen out of faith because of difficulties in their life. When you feel anger from shame or self-loathing, it can make it difficult to believe that you deserve God's love, or His grace. But the beautiful and most comforting part of GOD, not religion, is that He will never forsake us. He knows how fallible we are, yet we are still his children, and he sacrificed His holiest son for us. As long as we try our best to live our lives as well as we can, and in keeping with His rules of love, He won't let us fall. Religion isn't consistent. God always is."

I eyed him in silence for a moment. It was similar to what Charlie had said upstairs but like my former lover had said himself, Patrick had a way with words that made the theology easier to swallow.

"So, is there a cheat sheet? Cliff notes? I read quickly and like colorful pot-its."

Patrick grinned. No matter how cheeky I got, he knew he had me, at least for now. "Bible study is every other Wednesday night, and Sunday services are held weekly at 10:00 a.m. His grin deepened when I took a sip of water to hide my smile.

"Ben, it's very rare when we can see what God has planned for us, and even more rare when we can see it while everything seems to be crumpling around us. Sometimes life’s so messy that being able to sift through the rubble feels impossible.” He smiled. “But it isn't. Those times just require a little more faith on our end. God is never trying to break us. He's just using all of that pain to show us how strong we actually are."

"I think I could handle feeling weak if it meant less rubble."

Patrick chuckled. "I think we'd all prefer that, but unfortunately, that isn't the way it works. Which sucks, but we can make it through with help."

I made a noncommittal noise. He looked amused but stayed on his end of the island. I sighed internally. Patrick O’Brien was a stubborn pain in the ass, and I could see why Charlie liked him. I was beginning to like him, despite my better judgement.

"All right, you win," I admitted, putting my hands up in the universal show of defeat. "I'm not fine. I'm pissed because I hate that I can't help Charlie after everything he's done for me. I hate that I feel helpless because ninety-nine percent of the time I'm self-sufficient. I hate that Charlie is so ready for the end. What I hate most is that he intends to leave everything he owns to me.”

“He told me that,” Patrick said.

My jaw twitched. “I don't want the money. I'd give it all away to anyone who could make the cancer go away if that person existed. Charlie is one of only two people I can call family, and I wish I could understand why God would let all of this happen."

I turned away when Patrick's expression softened, taking the vegetables with me to the stove so that I could add them to the olive oil I poured in first to help the vegetables soften as they cooked. I hadn't intended to share that much, but I was tired, and Charlie had poked holes in my emotional armor earlier.

"Thank you, Ben," Patrick said quietly, and I could hear the sincerity in his voice. "I'll go upstairs now because a deal is a deal. I intend to stay for lunch since I'm curious about that fancy grilled cheese, but we won't talk any more shop today. Just think about what we've talked about later whenever you feel like you can and look up John 4: 4-19. It’s the story of Jesus meeting the woman at the well," Patrick said to clarify, when he apparently read the confusion on my face. "I won't quote it to you now, but it's a scripture that I believe everyone can relate to because we're all sinners, and it's only through God's eternal grace that we find salvation. But I think it'll speak to you in a specific way. That's all I'll say about it because I want you to read it with an open mind. I'll put a post-it in Charlie's bible for you to make it easier to find. No pressure."

"Pressured is exactly what I feel."

"Imagine how you'd feel if I was wearing the collar."

I glanced over in time to catch Patrick's grin, and the wink he offered my way before he took his bag and left the kitchen....

***

I chuckled as I turned away from the hotel mirror for the time being to spray on a quick burst of the cologne I knew that Sam liked best before I searched the top of the dresser for the box containing the cuff links that’d belonged to Charlie— my something old. My something new was the pocket-sized bible in my inner suit jacket pocket that’d been a pre-wedding gift from Patrick. The print was almost too small for me to see without my reading glasses, but Patrick had highlighted every wedding appropriate scripture about love, including Corinthians 16:14: ‘Do everything in love’, 1 Peter 4:8: ‘Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins’ and Mark 10:9: ‘Therefore, what God has joined together, let no one separate.’ He'd also highlighted John 4: 4-19, the scripture he'd asked me to read that first day he'd met.

My lips curved into a slight smile. He'd been right. That passage about Jesus and the woman at the well had slammed its meaning into me so hard that I'd ended up on my knees in the study a week later when I'd finally won the battle against my defiance and read through it twice—the first time my vision had blurred too much from tears halfway through.

The woman at the well had been searching for something she hadn't even known she'd been looking for— something real. Something larger, and deeper than herself that would fulfil her in the ways that none of her five husbands before the man she'd been sleeping with at the time she'd encountered Jesus, could give to her. She'd been lost until He'd found her and revealed Himself. By accepting him, she'd started fresh, free of her past.

I'd been daring God to try His best when I'd opened the bible. He'd answered. Not through fire and brimstone, though I'd still felt like the world had narrowed down to a crushing weight on my shoulders, when my head dipped in submission and my knees sunk into the carpet. I’d waited to be flattened beneath all the anger and shame, but suddenly, that weight lessened without any logical reason. It wasn’t completely gone, but a feeling of emotional freedom I hadn't felt in years, bloomed in my heart like I was being held up by an invisible support.

I'd been red-eyed and broken into a new sense of humility by the time I'd gone to our bedroom and crawled into bed beside Charlie. He'd woken up when he'd felt the bed shift beneath my weight, but didn't say a word though he'd undoubtedly felt the lingering wetness on my cheeks dampening the fabric of his t-shirt when I'd laid my had against his shoulder. I didn't tell him that I'd seen the light. We’d both have agreed that that was too Hollywood melodramatic. But the next morning, after I made breakfast for us and got dressed in khaki-colored slacks, and a lightweight, short sleeved, cream colored linen shirt after showering, I'd gone went upstairs and asked Charlie if he felt well enough to accompany me to the morning mass at the Patrick’s church with me.

I'd never seen his smile that serene.

Patrick's smile had been just as encouraging when we'd come in together. I'd wheeled Charlie's expensive, well-padded wheelchair down the outer length of the left aisle closest to the windows. After I'd set the brakes on the chair and handed Charlie a bible and a hymnal, I'd sat down in the wooden pew that felt so familiar, despite all the years that I'd avoided walking into any house of worship. I'd gone back the next Sunday with Charlie, and then the third, and every Sunday after that for the next two months. By then, Charlie hadn't been strong enough to go with me but he'd insisted that I attend anyway. I did, even after the third month when he'd finally died in the late afternoon after I'd come home and told him that Patrick’s sermon had inspired me to apply to seminary school. His smile had glowed as much as it had that day that I'd asked him to come with me to service. He'd squeezed my hand and had drifted off shortly after.

I'd kissed Charlie's forehead because his skin was still warm, then went to the closet and gotten out the suit he'd wanted to be buried in, along with the CD of the music he'd also chosen. I’d laid them on the console table in the foyer by the door, then had gone to Charlie’s former office to get the envelope from the bottom drawer of his desk, which contained exact instructions about how he wanted the funeral to be planned. Even in death, Charlie had been particular, but I'd smiled when I'd seen that he'd scrawled the names of the songs on the CD—Highway to Hell was there right between Mozart and Bach.

After calling the funeral director so Charlie could be picked up, I'd called Patrick and had been waiting for him out on the steps of the house in jeans and a lightweight, long-sleeve t- shirt because the day was sunny, but breezy for the time of year. His expression had softened in empathy, not pity and though he didn't hug me, he did sit on the step two above the one that I was sitting on so I could subtly shift my weight until I leaned my head back against his knees. We'd sat that way until the funeral home's hearse had come to take Charlie.

I'd had to get up to give them Charlie's things and the letter. After I'd agreed to come by the next afternoon, and accepted the funeral director's condolences, Patrick and I had gone into the kitchen to make the lavender and chamomile tea that had become one of Charlie's favorites. While we sipped it in the sunroom, I'd told him that I planned to apply to seminary and asked if he’d help me prepare.

I’d had to hold my teacup out of the way to avoid spilling it when Patrick had hugged me almost hard enough to bruise.

He'd hugged me again when I'd graduated seminary. Because he was a natural hugger, he still did it on occasion, including this morning when he'd come to see me. He’d congratulated me again, then quickly run over the details of the wedding ceremony since he was going to be the one officiating it. That had been when he'd given me the bible, telling me that Charlie would be proud of me.

"I'm proud of you, Ben."

The voice was as familiar as Charlie's had been, but feminine, and with the same Cuban accent that softened mine. I turned as my youngest sister Catherine, entered the room with her son Noah Alexander, perched onto the generous curve of her left hip. Catherine's knee-length, yellow dress looked like silk, but neither she nor Noah looked concerned that he was drooling liberally around the little fist he'd shoved into his mouth that—if the heavy scattering of orange crumbs on his shirtsleeves and her dress were of any indication—had once been full of goldfish crackers.

Unlike the other members of my family, Catherine had tracked me down when she'd turned eighteen and started college. She’d wanted to reconnect. Before we’d finally met for coffee in Miami during the middle of her freshman year, I hadn't seen her since she was a little girl. I’d expected awkwardness, but she’d hugged me like no time had passed. We'd become close over the years, staying in contact even when she and her husband moved to Havana because his company had transferred him

"Oh?"

"Uh huh. You managed to completely take over the beach with people.” She grinned. “Guests are even standing up in the back behind the last row of chairs. I thought you said this was going to be a small wedding."

"That was the plan and it is, for the most part. We just opened the ceremony to my parishioners, and the local police department since there were so many people who wanted to wish us well. The room we're having the reception in, isn't large enough to accommodate more than the guests we formally invited, so the hotel allowed us to make the beach ceremony accessible to extra people because going over numbers outside isn’t a safety hazard."

Noah gurgled happily, kicking his sneakered feet as he shifted in his mother's hold before leaning towards me when I held my arms out in invitation. Only fourteen months old, he was still all chubby arms, and thick little legs that normally propelled him around a room like a small, heat-seeking missile at impressive speeds. Catherine had been holding him hostage, but she handed him to me with a soft snort.

"You're going to ruin your suit Ben."

"Totally worth it," I said.

Catherine grinned, relinquishing her hold so that I could pull Noah into my own arms. His dark silky curls smelled like apples when I pressed a kiss to the top of his head. I knew the scent was from his baby shampoo.

Catherine and Raul had moved out of Cuba and back to Florida when Raul’s tech company gave him the option. They’d bought a house ten minutes away from Sam and I, so we'd been spending a lot of time being doting uncles—otherwise known as free babysitting services. Services that included a lot of baby feedings, baby chasings, and of course, many of the ever awkward—for most men—baby baths.

Sam had been endearingly awkward around Noah when he'd been delivered fully clothed, and snug in his car seat the first time Catherine had left him with us overnight while she and Raul visited friends. He'd just stared at Noah quietly, while Catherine had rattled off a verbal list of feeding times, and other baby related babble. Outwardly Sam had looked calm and relaxed, offering a gurgling Noah his finger so the baby could grip it happily. Noah had kicked his feet so hard beneath his train printed blanket, that it’d kept shifting around.

I'd known Sam well enough by that point to recognize when he was uneasy, or getting stuck in his own head. But he'd smiled at Catherine before she'd left, making the appropriate reassurances that Noah would be fine, even joking that if he could handle himself around enemy combatants, he'd be fine with a six-month old.

Fortunately for Sam's nerves, he hadn't seen noticed Catherine and I smirking at each other behind his back when we'd both seen right through the false bravado. He also hadn't seen Catherine draw the sign of the cross in the air behind Sam's head before she’d left, like the male bartender had so long ago the night I’d picked up Sam at the bar when he was drunk after his brother’s funeral. I hadn’t seen him do it, but Sam had told me months ago.

I wasn’t going to be repaying the favor because I wanted him to relax.

I knew that Sam had helped raise his oldest niece for the first year and a half of her life before he and Connor had enlisted in the military, and that he’d also spent time with Emma as a baby whenever he'd been home on leave before his five-year estrangement from his family. He just hadn't had any experience with infants since then. When he told me he was rusty—his excuse for why I should be the one to get Noah out of his car seat and settled—I'd read between the lines.

Sam had trouble believing his own value about many things. Being a good father figure was one of the things he doubted most, even though it was obvious to anyone with eyes how devoted he was to his nieces, and how much they adored him.

It'd taken a couple of hours of on-and-off-again coaxing and encouragement to convince Sam to actually pick Noah up so he could entertain him while I started dinner. But by the time the table was set, I couldn't pry the baby away from Sam.

Noah had spent the duration of dinner that night, tucked securely in the crook of Sam's right arm while his newest uncle ate awkwardly with his left hand. After dinner, Sam had carefully situated Noah's little blue plastic baby tub inside our deep farmhouse sink to bathe him. He'd been quiet the entire time, concentrating on keeping Noah settled comfortably, with one hand on the baby's back while he'd gently rinsed the apple shampoo out of Noah's sparse hair, then swaddled him up in his baby towel with the silly monkey hood.

I'd pretended not to watch so that Sam wouldn't feel self-conscious, but I’d snuck glances every chance that I could, unable to hide my smile when Sam leaned down and pressed the gentlest kiss to Noah's little forehead before he’d carried him out of the kitchen. I'd found them in the living room together after I'd finished unloading the dishwasher.

Sam had been sprawled on his back, asleep on the couch with my nephew securely curled up against his broad chest in his dinosaur pajamas, Sam's wide, strong hand resting gently on Noah’s small back. Noah had also been asleep, obviously knowing he was safe and protected.

I'd leaned against the wall and just watched that snapshot of tender devotion until I finally got my fill— for at least one night—then woke Sam up to put both him and Noah to bed. Since then, Noah spent more time with Sam than he did with me because Sam's work schedule allowed him more flexibility than mine did. I also knew that being around my nephew, and looking after his safety and welfare fed into some of Sam's naturally ingrained, protective instincts, and settled him. He'd be an amazing father when we had our own children, even if he didn't see it yet.

"Escupir bebé es sagrado."

Catherine grinned at me. "It doesn't matter how holy baby spit is. It'll still show up in your wedding photos on that sateen fabric. Give me my kid."

She laughed when I held Noah out of her reach. Catherine was short even in her wedge heels, and I was strong enough to balance my nephew over my head with one hand in a loving game of keep-away. But even in that precarious position, Noah gurgled happily, knowing I'd never let him fall.

"Not a chance. Noah quieres su tio favorito, and wants to give me something borrowed for the wedding. Some spit stains and a few crumbs held in safekeeping will do nicely. Sam will approve."

"Of the spit and crumbs probably, but he might have a problem with your delusion of being his favorite uncle. We all know Noah prefers to watch Paw Patrol with his soon-to-be tio Sam on the couch than with you."

Her dimples popped out as she teased me. I eyed her as I rolled Noah back down into my arms so I could press another kiss to the top of his head before gently rubbing the sign of the cross against his right temple.

"My ego will remain intact until Noah starts talking."

Catherine giggled as I handed her son back over, planting a few of her own kisses on his face and arms until he cooed and accepted the goldfish crackers she fished out of a hidden pocket on her dress.

"So, are you ready to join the ranks of the happily married? Because if you're not, that's going to be a tragic waste of a ridiculously well put together wedding archway of fully decorated, potted Christmas trees on either side of the arbor. Wait till you see the ballroom. I can't imagine the electric bill for tonight."

"Emma has a vision. Thankfully Sofia managed to redirect it enough that we missed out on balloon animals made to look like Olaf. And yes, I've been ready for this day for months. Hopefully Sam is too."

"Oh, he is," Catherine said with a slow, knowing smile that made me quirk an eyebrow.

"I'm not supposed to tell you this, but as your baby sister who loves to interfere as needed because she adores you, I think you need to know about what he did because it's sweet, hermanito. Just don't let Sam find out that I told you."

I grinned when she put a finger to her lips and Noah innocently mimicked her. I made fish lips at him before returning my gaze to my sister.

"Okay... You have me properly intrigued. Go ahead."

"Sam asked for permission before he proposed to you."

My right eyebrow arched immediately because that was complete news to me. "Permission from who?"

"From all of us. Even mami and papi."

My left eyebrow joined the right as it lifted and held. "How did he manage that? He hasn't even met anyone beside you and Raul."

My sister's smile warmed. "He called me first because obviously he knew that he'd get my vote. I gave him everyone else's number, including mami and papi's. Sam called all of them to ask for their blessings."

"He did?" I knew I sounded like a parrot repeating everything Catherine said but I was both shocked and touched by the unexpected, sentimental act from my normally reserved fiancé.

Catherine smiled again. "Sam's extremely focused when he sets his mind on doing something, which is really cute, and actually very sweet considering how stoic he normally is. Must be from all those years of following military rules."

My lips twitched because I knew just how much I privately benefited from that single minded focus of Sam's when we were behind closed doors. But to track down all six of my brothers and sisters without me knowing about it, especially knowing how strongly two of them felt about me being gay, much less my parents...

Catherine's expression softened as if she'd read my mind. She reached out to squeeze my shoulder gently with the hand not holding onto Noah. "Rebecca wouldn't talk to him. Neither would mami and papi," she said, confirming my silent assumption that some members of my family wouldn't ever be happy for Sam and I. "But Sam still tried, and that's a big deal." She paused, then added, "Michael showed up."

I blinked at that bit of news. My surprise was apparently going to know no limits today. Our oldest brother Michael, and our oldest sister Rebecca, had always sided with my parent's stances about homosexuality being unacceptable, and I'd never spoken to Michael after that horrible night in the kitchen.

I swallowed hard and closed my eyes for a moment because I could feel the hard sting of tears behind them. "He's really here?"

"Yes, he is, in his Sunday best. Sandra and the kids are with him in the second row. He said he wouldn't know how to say he was sorry for everything that happened between the two of you, so he figured that if you could see him up close, front and center, you'd know."

I nodded. My throat suddenly felt too thick for words.

Michael was right. My older brother had never been big on sentimental expression—a lot like Sam in that way—but he'd always gone big with gestures. This was probably the largest one he'd ever made.

"I should go talk to him."

"You can talk to him after the ceremony. Today is about you, and that tall, stacked drink of water who melts around my kid like frozen yogurt on a warm day. I know you're used to putting everyone else first, but for today, you get to turn off your minister mode and just enjoy being a man in love." She grinned at me. "Besides, we don't want to ruin the surprise for Sam when he sees you walking down the aisle. I already told your photographers that one of them needs to be focused on Sam's reactions when he first sees you. Everyone always looks at the person walking down the aisle when the music starts, but it's the person waiting for them at that altar that always shows every ounce of feeling in their heart, because the attention isn't on them. Considering how reserved Sam is normally, I really want to capture everything in his eyes so it's preserved in history."

I felt my expression soften before I leaned in to brush a kiss across her cheek. She patted mine gently with her hand, and Noah held out a slightly mushy looking goldfish cracker half clenched between his fingers. Catherine made a gagging noise as I dutifully leaned forward with my mouth open so that my nephew could shove both the drool dampened cracker, and his tiny fist into my mouth.

Noah chortled gleefully. Catherine made another face.

"He's my son, and even I wouldn't do that. So gross. You and Sam are going to put us all to shame with your dynamic daddy duo-ness."

"Sam is dynamic in sooo many ways all on his own," I said, then laughed when she grimaced and pretended to cover Noah's ears as she zoomed my nephew out of the room.

I could hear her laughter lilting down the hall.

Alone again for the moment, I finished putting on my own cuff links, wondering in lazy amusement if Sam had managed to get his own on. Whenever we attended any kind of event together, I always had to help him when he got frustrated. The man could face down enemy insurgents without blinking, but he was routinely defeated by little pieces of decorative metal.

I grinned as my phone went off. When I looked at it, I saw a reply to the message I'd sent Sam earlier in the morning. It was only a simple heart emoji, but it was leaps and bounds from his previous stoic rules of romantic conduct. I'd have to thank Adelyn with a gift certificate to the mall for helping Sam enter the world of emojis.

Chuckling again, I considered using a more creative string of emojis as a response but settled for duplicating Sam's simple heart.

No need to overwhelm him. It was going to be a praise filled, joyful day, but also one that was filled with a lot of people and social situations which I knew Sam still struggled with, so I'd go easy on him for now. At least until we exchanged our vows, and Patrick gave us permission to seal our promises of eternal love with a kiss. Tara had already told me that there was some very vocal catcalling planned by the three women in Sam's family—his biggest fans. I'd considered warning Sam, but there was nothing wrong with a little loving teasing, especially when it colored the tips off his ears and the blush that spread across his cheeks was a reminder that as hard as life had made him in many ways, it was his heart that made him a man I loved as much as he loved me.

Sam was a good human being. He was also unconsciously sexy, considerate, and open to the idea of completely submitting to me in bed to let me take him where he needed to go during that privately spent time when he had to give up control. He wasn't classically submissive in any way, so feeling comfortable enough to relinquish his carefully built layers of control and trust me when he was at his most vulnerable, meant more to me than he knew.

Years ago, I'd hooked for many reasons. One of them—albeit a minor one in comparison to the intense complexity of the others—was that once I was with a reputable agency and treated reasonably well, with more choice over my clients, I'd enjoyed the sex. Being newly out and cut off from my family for being gay, my choices had been to either curl up in a corner and fade away or do the best that I could. Getting paid to explore my sexuality had made sense at the time. I'd enjoyed feeling warm hands on my body, inviting my pleasure while they took theirs. Sex could be fun, great cardio, and sometimes a way to open doors to new and unexpected possibilities, like the one it'd opened to my relationship with Charlie. But sex without love, was also like flowers without scent— exotic, exciting, but devoid of anything to make you want to linger. When Charlie had died, I'd decided that I was done with engaging in soulless relationships.

After I'd been ordained into the ministry, I'd only been with one other man romantically. He’d been the owner of a local flower shop—though not the one we’d used for the wedding—and the inspiration for that particular analogy about love and sex. For the three months we'd dated he'd treated me with respect and affection. The sex had been good the few times we'd slept together, and we'd been a comfortable fit. But like those sneaky pieces of a puzzle that could masquerade as the correct ones in an empty slot because of how closely they resembled the piece that actually belonged there, we hadn't been perfect. And although I was aware that nothing in this world is perfect, and that infinite beauty can be found in flaws, when it came to the idea of finding the person who I'd spend the rest of my life with, I wanted as close to perfection as I could manage. Sam, with all of his pain, hope and character forming imperfections, was my definition of the pieced I needed to create my happily ever after.

It just hadn’t been easy…. But all great love stories have their dark moments because without them, you'd never appreciate how bright the light of love and redemption truly is...

***

(Flashback)

"Ben, Tara is on the phone for you."

I glanced up in confusion when Catherine appeared in the arched doorway of the nursery with the cordless home phone in her hand. I briefly shifted my attention away from her over to my cell phone which was resting on the small side table to the left of the wooden rocker that I was sitting in, with Noah in my arms. The screen was still dark, never having rung even once during the last twenty minutes that I'd been giving Noah his late evening bottle. Over the last few weeks that I'd been staying with Catherine and Raul at their home in Cuba, I'd started taking over some of Noah's frequent feedings. A colicky baby and exhausted first-time parents were a combination that occasionally benefited from an extra set of patient hands, and I enjoyed the private moments I got to spend with my newest nephew.

I had eight other nieces and nephews of varying ages. I loved them all, but Noah and I had bonded extra quickly. I could usually get him to settle and fall asleep securely in my arms after only a few minutes, even when others couldn't— a fact that exasperated Catherine, and amused Raul. I always saved myself from my sister's maternal wrath by pointing out that I was here hiding from my life back in Florida— a fugitive from my own heart. Noah was just trying to show me that there was at least one person I loved, who also loved me completely, and unconditionally.

I didn't normally enjoy playing sympathy cards, but I'd been keeping an entire deck stashed in reserve until I could figure out what my next steps were going to be now that I was past the stage of anger, tears, and copious amounts of good rum. My emotions had mellowed into a quieter, more manageable pain, but I'd still been avoiding thinking about my life back home in Florida. Unfortunately, my time to be indecisive had apparently come to an end.

Noah didn't budge as I slowly eased the rubber nipple out between his slack lips, and set the almost empty bottle on the table. I shifted him carefully in my arms so I wouldn't wake him, then traded his small sleeping body to Catherine in exchange for the phone. She waved me off when I got up, and headed out into the hall, though the expression in her eyes was blatantly curious and I knew she'd interrogate me later.

"Tara?"

"Hey Ben. How are you doing?"

"Surprised. I didn't know you had Catherine's landline number."

"Sofia gave it to me after you stopped returning the texts and voicemail messages I left on your cell. I know you needed some time and space to get your thoughts straight, but at this point we're worried about you."

The balmy night air wrapped around my body, sinking through my thin white linen shirt and shorts like a damp caress as I opened the front door of and stepped out onto the veranda. Their house was located in a relatively quiet neighborhood, but I could hear the soft strains of traditional salsa music wafting over from a neighbor's open window. It was the only thing interrupting the quiet, other than my voice, and the occasional electric snap of the mosquito zapper. Even in the dark I could make out the silhouette of the two old wooden rocking chairs that Raul had recently painted a bright tropical green only a few shades darker than the color of the house. After tucking the phone into the crook of my neck, I sat in the nearest one. I had a feeling this wouldn't be a brief conversation.

"I'm all right Tara. It's been nice spending time with my family. None of my siblings or I were born in Cuba, so if Raul's company hadn't transferred him here to Havana for the last few years, I'd probably never have seen it. It's a beautiful country."

"I'm sure it's amazing, but Florida also has gorgeous beaches, and a democratic society. Win-win."

My lips curved into a grin at her cheerful sarcasm, but I felt the tension in my temples when I rubbed my hand over my face. After I'd reclaimed my life, starting with being ordained and assigned to my parish, I'd promised myself that I'd accept my life moving forward in whatever form it took, and never again run away from it into a world of excuses. I even preached about it in my sermons often because I believed in leading by example. Yet here I was, laying low and far away from my problems.

Coward.

I exhaled slowly, but what was probably going to be another variant of an excuse stilled on my tongue when Tara said, "Sam came to the community center to find you."

My chair creaked as I shifted my weight and leaned forward with a better grip on the phone. "What?"

"Sam came to the group last week looking for you," she repeated. "I told him you were in Havana and he..." Tara's tone softened. "He was upset you left and no one told him."

"Well, it's nice to know I made some sort of impact on Sam before he made the decision to walk away from me first."

I hated the bitter note in my voice as I rubbed the hand not holding the phone over my face again.

"Hey, I read him a proper riot act. Went up one side of him and down the other with beastly bestie wrath until he did that owlish blinky thing he does when he doesn't know what to say. And then he got pissy."

"You don't say," I said dryly.

As much as I loved Sam and had been willing to take so much on to save him from himself because I'd believed he and I were worth the fight, I'd also learned firsthand how hard he could lash out emotionally when he didn't know how to accept freely offered love. That character flaw had kept him from his family for years. I wanted to believe that this wasn't my turn for a long estrangement period, but I wasn't sure that I could.

I'd tried. Tried so hard, but when Sam had walked away for me in the hospital that night after everything that had happened between us, he'd broken my heart, and started my descent into self-doubt about so many of the life choices I'd made since meeting him.

Granted, he’d tried to make it right. Coming to my house after walking away from me in the first place couldn’t have been easy. I was sure of that in hindsight, but I’d been so angry, and my pride and jealousy over Max had gotten in the way of forgiving Sam in that moment. By the time I’d gone back to the door to open it, Sam was gone, and the moment of remorse still didn't conquer my pride enough for me to return any of his texts.

He’d gotten the message, and I’d been allowed to stew in my own conflicted emotions that night, and everyone since.

God had saved me after I'd lost Charlie. The belief Charlie had shown toward his faith had sparked something in my heart and soul that had grown under Father O' Brian's tutelage and continued to grow with each new person I'd helped after I became a priest. God had been at my side the entire time and had never steered me wrong when I'd maintained my faith and trusted in His plans for me.

When I'd met Sam, a man as broken and lost as I'd been in some ways before I'd learned to find home through faith and a renewed receptiveness to love, I'd thought God had put Sam in my path so I could help him find his own way back home.

The name Samuel means, 'God has heard' and after slowly fighting my way through the thick mortar of Sam's emotional walls, and getting glimpses of a man who had so much potential for good laced throughout his core, my feelings toward him had shifted from those of a shepherd wanting to rescue a wayward sheep whose lost bleats had been heard by God, to the warmer, more deeply felt belief that maybe Sam had been put into my path because God had heard me.

I thought I'd finally found someone who could understand my strained family dynamics because of his own formally estranged relationship with Sofia and her daughters. Someone who deep down wanted to be saved, and who possessed the same ability to love deeply, that Charlie had claimed to see in me.

Because of my faith in God, I'd trusted that theory.

Now here I was, an entire country away, trying to pick up the pieces of that splintered conviction.

"Tara, I'll be home in a few weeks. You don't have to worry."

"I think you need to come home sooner. Much sooner. Like maybe for the community center dance for the kids this weekend."

I felt both my eyebrows lift. That was specific. "Really? And why is that?"

"Because even though Sam was angry you weren't at the meeting and even more pissed after I said I wouldn't tell you he'd come looking for you, he still stayed."

I just stared into the dark for a moment before I stood up to pace slowly from one side of the veranda to the other. The house wasn't huge, so it ended up being more of a short shuffle but still long enough for me to have time to gather my thoughts.

Sam had been reluctant to join our support group from the first time I'd made the suggestion, and he'd refused to return after the one night he'd come and left almost immediately because he hadn't been able to handle the idea of revealing his innermost thoughts to strangers. But Tara was saying Sam had gone to the group despite his apprehension and that he'd stayed...

"Did he share anything?"

There was a momentary pause on Tara's end, giving me the impression that she was nodding even though I couldn't see it. "He talked a lot actually."

"About what?"

"About things that happened in Afghanistan—well the things he could talk about anyway. Nothing that would make Homeland Security pee pickles, but still pretty deep stuff. He also talked about Connor, who, by the way, was even more of a jack-hole than we thought. Of course, Sam didn't outright call him that because he's a good person, but our own homegrown Jason Bourne needs soooo much therapy, along with frequent care packages of ice cream, chocolate, and hugs." She snorted lightly, then paused again. "And he talked about you..."

My eyebrows arched as I stopped pacing in the center of the porch. "Sam talked about me? Anonymously?"

"Nope. Obviously, he didn't share any intimate details, but when he talked about how he'd stupidly ruined the new relationship he'd been building with a wonderful man he cared about deeply, he used your name Ben. Put it right out there more than a few times, which was somewhat stupid considering his audience. Helene just about disintegrated him with her evil eye when he talked about accidentally hurting you both physically and emotionally, but it was an admittedly bad-assed, all-in-balls-out moment and everyone was able to appreciate that. Especially when he got choked up."

I swallowed hard. Sam wasn’t a crier. At least not in front of me. And I knew despite everything else that might be broken between us, that he trusted me more than most people. If tears had gotten the better of him…

I sighed as I leaned against the nearest support pillar. "I can't believe he showed up...”

“He stayed,” she corrected gently and I nodded though she couldn’t see it.

“That's good. I'm glad that he was finally able to take that leap forward for his sake, but... he left me Tara."

"Ben..."

"I don't blame him for what happened at the house," I said, cutting her off before she could tell me what I already knew-- that it'd been an unfortunate accident I'd immediately forgiven that same day.

"I knew about Sam's PTSD and all the possible risks. I was prepared for those consequences. He didn’t mean to hurt me, and I know it destroyed him so I could forgive him for leaving me in the hospital alone for a few hours because he was trying to get his emotions under control. But he left with Max and never came back, never called, until he just showed up at my place…”

And you sent him away like a spiteful child because you were jealous of a man Sam swore to you is part of his past.

My breath released in a soft chuff of sound. “I understand that Max is his best friend, but I also know damn well that he wants to take Sam away from me."

I closed my eyes for a moment as I exhaled deeply again. It was rare that I swore anymore. Before Charlie had started playfully fining me quarters for using profanity anywhere except in the bedroom where he loved my explicitness, cursing had been an easy stress reliever for me. But I'd found new ways to cope with stress since then, and I was annoyed at myself for allowing Sam to work me up to a level where I'd taken a step backward in even an inconsequential way.

"Ben, Max is gone. He left."

"I know Tara. Max told us all was here on temporary leave until he retires and comes back."

"He is coming back, but it won't be to Sam. Max gave him up."

"What?" I felt my eyebrows lift again. "Sam told you that?"

"Nope. Max did when he called me from the airport the night Sam dropped him off, before he even went to see you at your house. Max knows he can’t compete Ben. He said it as plainly as that."

I remained silent, listening to the still subtle strains of music from the next-door window. The words were too muted for me to make them out clearly but trying to concentrate on what the song could be, provided a temporary distraction from trying to think of what to say next. There were so many possible questions to ask, so I just chose the most obvious one.

"Why did Max call you?"

"Because we have many shared interests, and one of those interests is Sam," Tara said, chuckling softly. "Max can be a cocky, smartass dog, but that last quality makes him loyal as hell to his people. And Sam’s one of those people. Max loves him."

"I'm well aware of that Tara. God knows Max didn't make his feelings a secret the night we first met, when he suggested he give me pointers on what Sam likes in bed."

"Yep, he's a dog," Tara agreed, though I detected a hint of amusement in her voice that said she wasn't taking my unfair, uncharacteristic rancor personally. "But what I meant is that Max loves Sam enough to want what's best for him, wants who is best for him. Max gave Sam up because he believes you’re what’s best for him. He wanted me to know that. Probably because he suspected I'd eventually tell you. Max is admirably pragmatic and a good person despite his frequent bouts of Mickey Mouse bullshit," she added as if she was preempting any possible caustic responses from me. "He just plays a devil-may-care dick very convincingly."

My sigh made static crackle over the line as I leaned my head back against the pillar. "I don't know what do Tara."

"I'd normally suggest praying on it like you usually tell me to do, but I'm assuming you've probably exhausted that option. So, I'd start with tracking down a tub of ice cream, maybe something smooth and coconutty considering the climate, and then eat it in front of your laptop to help you swallow your pride while you look for one-way flights back to Florida. You can work out the rest on the airplane in between beauty naps."

My cheeks heated as she called me out, and a reluctant chuckle escaped from my throat. "I thought God had a plan for Sam and for me. But maybe I just misread the signs."

"Ben, you've always told me that there's no science to faith, so there isn't a formula to check for the accuracy of any decision that we make ahead of time. We just have to go with whatever we feel most strongly in our gut at that decision-making moment, then let it play out. One day when we're standing in front of the pearly gates, we can ask God what gives, but for now, trust yourself because He trusts you to do what you think is right. Free will is a bitchy, double-edged sword."

This time when I inhaled deeply, for the first time in weeks, I didn't feel smothered by anything other than the thick island humidity.

"I'll be home in time for the dance. But please don't tell Sam. I need to think about what I'm going to say to him. We… have a lot to figure out."

"I won't say anything. I think you guys need your own private, take my breath away, Top Gun moment, even though Sam was an Army Ranger, not Navy. Same sexy idea though."

Even though Tara couldn't see it, I was sure she could hear the slight smile in my tone. "So, it shall be written, so it shall be done..."

***

And it had been.

I'd been the one who physically came to Florida and went to the dance that night after shaving and changing into my linen suit that was my go-to outfit for events in this simpler life I’d chosen, but it'd been Sam who'd actually been the one to show up. Shown up as in giving me the rose from his lapel like any properly prepped Bachelor, before he’d laid all his cards on the table with his rambling confession once the wall closing him off from his emotions had finally crumbled. If I hadn't kissed him when all that heartfelt, telenovela worthy romance had poured out of his mouth, he probably wouldn't have stopped talking.

I grinned when I thought how that was still a way to shush Sam when I needed to refocus him, even if it was just a quick kiss in public. Sam still struggled with initiating public displays of affection, but he was getting better at it. Hooking his fingers lightly through the loops in my jeans was one of his favorite discreet ways to keep me close when we were at social events together. He wasn't a sensualist in the same way that Charlie had been but there was a part of him that was as touch starved as most of the kids at Maplewood, and my touch always seemed to comfort and ground Sam as much as his comforted and delighted me. We were two sides of the same coin, and had our own love language like any couple that knows each other well. And in just a few hours, we'd be sharing glimpses of that bond to the world...

***

(Flashback)

"We should've brought you a rain poncho."

Sam's obvious confusion when he looked from me, up to the sky—which even at almost 9 o'clock at night, was perfectly clear and cloudless without anything more than typical Florida humidity adding condensation to the soda can in his left hand—deepened when I grinned at him. His already cocked eyebrow lifted even higher and held when I used my half-eaten, mustard and kraut slathered hot dog to gesture at the clear plastic bag in his right hand that was filled with fluffy clouds of pink cotton candy—a treat obviously meant for Emma.

I wasn't Sherlock Holmes, but I knew from earlier conversation that Adelyn was on a self-imposed, no carb, no sugar diet, and that Sofia had already opted for a simple vanilla cone without sprinkles as her desert choice for the evening. I also knew Sam couldn't stand anything as artificially sweetened as the spun sugar disaster in the bag. His sweet tooth was nonexistent. After six months of dating, I still hadn't been able to convince him that adding some steamed milk, and at least one heaping teaspoonful of sugar to his daily morning cup of the Cuban style espresso I'd taught him to appreciate, would smooth and perfectly mellow the sharp edges of the dark roast coffee. The fact he allowed me to put Ceylon cinnamon in it was as much of a win as I could claim.

I personally liked my coffee light and sweet, but cotton candy was too saccharine for even my tastes, so the only logical recipient of the airy, spun sugar confection was Sam's youngest niece, who, like most children, considered sugar their drug of choice.

"From unfortunate up-close experiences with eight nieces and nephews who've all gone through sugar overload at some point in their lives, I can tell you that if Emma eats even half that bag on top of the corndog, two cans of Cherry Coke, popcorn, and strawberry cone that was more sprinkles than ice cream, that she's already inhaled in the past two hours, you're going to be wearing her buffet when you hoist her onto your shoulders to watch the fireworks."

My grin deepened when Sam made a face before tossing the entire unopened bag into the blue metal garbage can a few feet away from the cotton candy stand. It was almost five dollars down the drain, but we would've spent more in time and detergent trying to wash little girl vomit out of Sam's gray T-shirt, and his favorite frayed blue jeans, so I was betting we were on the same page regarding the small financial sacrifice.

"Sometimes I forget kids are miniature garbage disposals that occasionally explode. Good call."

I chuckled when Sam made a face again, though it quickly morphed from the slightest lip twitch, into a full out smile. His body language was completely relaxed when I reached for his now available right hand, and he curled his fingers securely around mine, his thumb briefly stroking lightly over the top of it like he always did when our fingers were laced together. And like it did each time, my heart warmed at the emotion that tiny touch always invoked.

"The fireworks should be starting soon," Sam said, glancing up at the sky before we started heading toward the high grassy knoll in the back of the park. “We better get a move on before Emma has a cow.”

Sofia and Sam's nieces had set up folding beach chairs to reserve spots for us to watch the Fourth of July fireworks display that the town's Parks and Recreation Center put on every year. Sam had mentioned to me a few weeks ago that he hadn't attended the fair since Adelyn was about Emma's age, so I'd decided that a little over a decade had been a long enough estrangement period and suggested we all go together.

We'd arrived at the park early to enjoy the street fair food, and the handful of rides geared towards younger children. I'd been convinced that Emma was going to lose both corndog and ice cream on a spinning ride she'd gone on with Sam. However, her stomach had prevailed and kept everything in— a small miracle. But although I wholeheartedly believed in miracles, I didn't believe in pushing my luck. Hence, it was one of my ‘boyfriend duties’ to warn Sam of the hazards of being a doting uncle.

Sam glanced at me when I chuckled. "What?"

"Just thinking that the fact you aren't wearing regurgitated ice cream is proof that God is good."

Instead of rolling his eyes or shifting uncomfortably when God was mentioned like he would’ve almost a year ago, Sam offered me an amused smile as he squeezed my hand lightly with what sounded like a low hum of content deep in his throat.

When we'd met, Sam’s shaky relationship with faith that had made finding common ground on the subject interesting, but over the past year, he seemed to have made his own private peace with God. I never asked him how and he’d never mentioned anything official. We didn't keep secrets from one another, but I'd had to make my journey back home to Him on my own terms after Charlie died. I remembered how private some of those moments had felt, so I respected Sam’s unasked for boundaries. I was just happy that Sam had found a way home for himself.

"Yeah, he is,” Sam said with a grin “but I don't know if He'll protect me from Emma's wrath if she missed out on the candy AND sitting on my shoulders, so walk faster."

I yelped when Sam discreetly goosed my ass to get my strides to match his ridiculously long ones.

"If she'd done both and gotten sick, you'd be walking home, and hosing off in the garage before you stepped foot in our house, let alone our bed."

Sam grinned. "I thought you loved every part of me. The occasional stink's out of the question?"

"Considering how often I jump you when you get home from one of your masochistic fifteen mile runs all drenched in sweat and extremely fragrant, you know exactly how sexy I find your natural eau de all-man scent. But having had many unfortunate experiences with children getting carsick in the summer after drinking strawberry Nesquik, I can tell you that child vomit is a completely different level of funk."

Sam's chuckle washed over me, warm and relaxed as he brought our linked hands to his mouth to brush a gentle kiss over my knuckles. "I'll take your word for it then. And as a reward for having my back..." He trailed off for a moment, glancing around briefly before he leaned in close to me, lowering his voice to a murmur only I could hear, "you can have my mouth anywhere you want tonight."

I could feel my lips curving into an answering grin as I took advantage of how close Sam's lips were to my ear. When I shifted slightly, I was able to brush my lips over his mouth in a brief kiss that was chaste enough to be family-friendly, before I pulled back to look him in the eyes.

"I'll always have your back Sam. The optional lip placement is just an added bonus."

Sam's grin spread out even more deeply, crinkling the corners of those deep blue eyes that were so expressive when he put his guard down. His lips parted like he was about to say something, but whatever it was, remained on his tongue when the speakers set up throughout the park, crackled to life, and everyone was asked to stand for the national anthem.

Sam immediately laid his hand over his heart, his posture perfectly straight. Even without a uniform, it was obvious Sam had a military background by the way he stood still and proud, the strong line of his jaw set comfortably, bearing steady.

As soon as the song ended, we started walking again, faster this time because the moderator had said the fireworks would be beginning in the next two minutes. We were almost to the bottom of the knoll where we'd agreed to meet Sofia and the girls, when the opening bars of the iconic Peanuts theme song began to silence the soft murmuring of happy families around us.

Sam's brow quirked at me in obvious curiosity.

"The fireworks show ended with the Peanuts theme last year. They set off basic fireworks in the beginning, then added in some clever ones shaped like hearts, Snoopy, and Woodstock. The kids loved it. I guess the sequence was popular enough that they decided to open the show with that this year. You'll like it. They're—"

My assurance that Sam would enjoy the display was cut off by the first boom of fireworks going off. The sudden sound drew my attention up to the brilliant streaks of color left behind when they exploded overhead and lit up the sky in sporadic patches. The first few were just standard fireworks, but the second wave that quickly followed in accompaniment to the music, were shaped like smiling faces and hearts. As they faded, one of Woodstock appeared.

Children around us were cheering happily, probably more excited by the colorful ingenuity than any familiarity with the vintage cartoon. Every adult's face was relaxed and happily animated as they watched the sky breaking apart.

Except for Sam.

My fiance was staring up at fireworks like everyone else around us was, but although I couldn't see the expression in his eyes, it was impossible to miss the hard line of tension coiling along the edges of his jaw, setting it tight. The tilted back angle of his head exposed his throat, and I could see his pulse jump when the next series of blasts went off. His hands were curled into fists at his sides.

Not good.

The first time I'd met Sam he'd been in the middle of a panic attack. Although they'd occurred less frequently over the past few months as he continued working with his therapist and support groups, they still occasionally snuck up on him. The last one had occurred about three months ago, and we'd handled it together, but that had been in private. Having it happen now in public, where he'd feel on display, would make it so much worse.

Sam startled the moment I touched him. When he stumbled back, he accidentally knocked over the small cooler on the edge of the blanket of a couple close to us. Ice scattered across both their blanket and the grass, but their surprised, irritated voices barely registered as more than background noise which I addressed with a quick apology before I went after Sam when he took off.

He was trying to weave through the maze of blankets and chairs strewn around every available inch of the park, where the street vendors and Parks and Recreations vehicles weren't situated. His long-legged pace was faster than it might've been for most people in the midst of a panic attack, but I'd been running with him a few times a week for months, so I could keep up.

I had no idea what was going on in Sam's head other than the obvious panic. When Sam had anxiety attacks and nightmares, some of the same old themes resurfaced, like the loss of almost his entire team in a combat zone years ago. Unfortunately, the spectrum of Sam's painful past was vast, so I had no idea what else he dreamt about.

Sam stumbled again when I finally caught up with him, tensing when I got a hold of his wrist. He had both height and substantial muscle on me, but I used the element of surprise and his own unbalanced equilibrium, to pull him towards me so I could get one arm around Sam's waist, while I reached up with the other. I laid my palm gently against his tense jaw to get him to look at me.

His eyes were glazed over and unfocused, though he didn't pull away from my touch.

I exhaled slowly. We were beginning to attract attention—I could see movement in my peripheral vision—but I kept my gaze on Sam. The shame and anxiety were rolling off of him in almost palpable waves.

He'd been looking forward to this night for weeks because of the positive memories he'd had of the last time he'd been here with his family— a normal happy night. Those had been a rarity in his past life, so Sam had cherished that memory. He'd wanted to recreate those feelings, looking at tonight like a fresh start to a new normal. A panic attack was a minor setback in the grander scheme of things, but I knew that Sam would consider this a failure instead of just a temporary pause while we settled him down. I wanted to comfort him with a hug, but needed to get his focus on me so we could get away from the crowd first.

It's okay Sam. You're alright. It's going to be fine baby," I said as I reached for his hand, lacing our fingers together again. "Just look at me. Hold my hand, breathe, and we'll take a walk to the car."

"Sofia and the girls--"

"Will be fine," I interjected gently. "We'll call them from the car. We're just going to sit for a little bit, take a breath, and then we'll meet back up with them, okay? Just hold onto my hand. It's going to be okay."

"I should've known this would happen," he mumbled. "The crowd… noises… sounds like gunshots…"

"I know, but they're not. You're not in Afghanistan, or anywhere else scary. You're right here, home in Florida with me. You're safe. You just need a minute, so we're going to walk out to the car and regroup. Alright?"

Sam visibly flinched as the sky continued to light up with colorful booms. He didn't respond verbally, but he didn't fight me either as I steered us as best as I could in the direction of the parking lot. His steps were heavy, slower than his usually agile, athletic gait, but he'd managed to compose his expression outwardly, staring straight ahead with stoic, almost dogged determination, though I felt my knuckles popping from the pressure his silent anxiety was exerting on our linked hands.

When we finally reached the crowded parking lot, it took another few minutes before we located his dark SUV, but Sam kept pace beside me until I began to release his hand. His jaw ticked, obvious anxiety flaring in his eyes again. I soothed him by briefly raising our joined hands to my mouth to press a kiss to the top of his.

"Shh, it's okay, baby. I'll be right back, Sam. Just wait here for me a minute."

Sam's forced exhale was a noisy rattle of acknowledgment as he leaned against the back of the vehicle. He closed his eyes, but otherwise didn't budge, displaying such complete, hard-won faith in my guidance, that my head and heart intensely disagreed about the appropriateness of the brief moment of happiness I experienced in knowing that Sam finally trusted me not to let him fall.

"I'll be right back Sam," I repeated, before I quickly moved around to the passenger side of the SUV. I'd driven us to the park, so I had Sam's keys in my pocket. A quick double tap of the fob opened both the front driver, and passenger doors. I opened the passenger door, then slid the front passenger seat back for more leg room, before returning to where Sam was still obediently waiting for me.

Sam's eyes opened when I gently took his hand again. His pupils were so blown out that the blue was almost nonexistent, swallowed up by black.

"Come on," I said, gently tugging him upright, and supporting most of his weight until I got him into the car and settled in the front seat so he could stretch out his long legs in the extended space between his body and the dashboard. I’d positioned the seat that way mostly for his comfort, but it also allowed me easier access to the glovebox.

I pressed a reassuring hand against Sam's thigh and squeezed gently with my right hand, while my left popped open the glove compartment so I could get to the iPod and headphones that I'd stashed in there a few months ago.

Having an action plan for any emergency situation was always a smart play, and over the last few months, I’d come up with different strategies to help Sam cope with his panic attacks and PTSD inspired nightmares, without putting myself in danger. Accidentally hurting me that one time had almost broken Sam. Had almost broken us. Physical bruises healed, but the experience was still embedded in Sam's soul and psyche.

After spending time talking with both Sam's therapist, Andrew Whelan, and other members of the veteran support group that Sam attended twice a week, I'd finally understood that someone as well trained as Sam was, could be lethal when terror reduced him to primordial instincts of self-preservation, and that was why he’d run. He’d been terrified, so he’d gone to Max, the one person he felt, could handle the parts of him I couldn’t.

It'd been humbling, as both a man and his boyfriend, to admit that loving Sam as much as I did, still didn't make me skilled or strong enough to take him down without one of us getting hurt. It was a pill I hadn’t wanted to swallow, but if Sam had killed me that day, it would've been a tragic accident he probably wouldn't ever have come back from emotionally. Not putting myself at risk, was as much for his protection as it was for mine.

Instead of focusing on what I had no control over, I'd learned different techniques to build a bridge for Sam to use whenever he had to cross over out of his nightmares, to find his way back home into my arms.

I unwound the headphone wires from around the iPod so I could free the earbuds. It was an archaic setup considering that both our cell phones had music apps, and that Sam had bought us both wireless earbuds for when we went running together. But I'd chosen the iPod specifically because it was easy to transport, and I'd preloaded it with a single playlist which consisted of one song on repeat.

Sam didn't pull away when I carefully inserted one bud into each corresponding ear, then turned on the iPod to hit play on the digital screen. The one song repeated twenty times, though over the last few weeks, the lyrics usually started cutting through Sam's panic by the fourth time through.

As soon as I heard the music start to stream, I squeezed Sam's hand and let go just long enough to close his car door before making my way around the vehicle to the driver's side. When I was settled in the supple leather seat and had shut my own door, I reached for Sam's hand again.

His eyes were still closed, but he lightly squeezed my fingers to acknowledge my presence. It was enough for now. He was beginning to settle. I could see his breathing evening out, the rise and fall of his chest slowing as he got control over his inhalations and exhalations. That didn't mean that my heart wasn't aching for him just like it did during every anxiety attack, and panic driven night terror, especially on the nights when instead of calling out the names of the friends Sam had lost in combat, he called out mine.

Sam had told me what had happened to his unit when they'd been ambushed in Afghanistan. He wore the memory of that tragic night on his exterior in the form of the tattooed names of his fallen comrades on his back, but he'd never tell me what he'd dreamt the last two times he'd had sweat-soaked nightmares and yelled my name.

I didn't press whenever he shut down my questions. Curious as I was, whatever demons haunted Sam when he was asleep, seemed to fade the moment he registered the song currently playing on the iPod.

That was enough.

I'd initially started playing it on my cellphone while sitting in a chair a safe distance from our bed until Sam woke up, but the result was always the same— palpable relief registering in his deep blue gaze when he saw me, then realized we were home and both safe. That success was the reason that I'd started keeping the iPod in the car.

I lightly rubbed my thumb over the top of Sam's hand. His skin still felt a little clammy, but I didn't let go. While words were my preferred love language, simple touch and action were Sam's. If he felt he didn't know what to say, Sam found ways to tell me how he felt through action. Like with the red roses he sometimes had delivered to my office at the church, or the cups of fresh espresso that he left for me on my nightstand in the morning. Those cups of coffee were always hot no matter how light he made my coffee, because he'd learned to steam the milk for me the way I liked, even though he still couldn't comprehend why I insisted on buying espresso, and then "ruining it," by adding more milk than coffee, and copiously delicious amounts of sugar.

I'd never had a problem telling Sam how I felt whether it was in English or Spanish, but I'd learned how to meet Sam halfway, and give him what he needed in a way that made sense to him.

I began singing along with the song softly when it went on repeat for the fifth time, the volume up high enough that I could easily hear the words even though I'd memorized the entire song months ago. It was ironic that it was a Lady Gaga song, but unlike the poppy tune that Patrick had caught me singing along to all those years ago in Charlie's kitchen, these lyrics invited Sam to come home to me, instead of pushing him away.

‘Raise your head, look into my wishful eyes. That fear that's inside you will lift, give it time. I can see everything you're blind to now. Your prayers will be answered, let God whisper how, to tell me you need me... I see that you're bleeding... You don't need to show me again... But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you, I won't let go 'til the end.... So, cry tonight, but don't you let go of my hand. You can cry every last tear, I won't leave 'til I understand... Promise you'll just hold my hand...’

As if on cue, Sam's fingers tightened in mine. He finally opened his eyes, turning his head to look at me. His pupils were back to a more normal size so I could see the blue again. Though he looked physically tired around the edges like he always did after a severe panic attack, he was holding my gaze, and leaning upright and back against the truck's passenger seat instead of being slumped in a collapsed heap.

I raised an eyebrow and gently tapped the edge of my own left ear with my left hand, silently asking Sam if he was ready to take the earbuds out. He had to relinquish his hold on my right hand to do so after he nodded slightly.

We didn't talk for as long as it took him to turn the power off on the iPod, then carefully wind the wired headset around it so that they wouldn't tangle. Had it been me, I'd just have tossed the entire thing into the glove box, and worried about any possible tangles later, but Sam liked routine and for things to be organized, especially when he had to ground himself. So, I waited until he'd finished with his task, and closed the glove box with a soft snick of sound.

"Hi," I said, smiling when Sam offered a lopsided smile and a soft snort.

"No more, how you doin?' he asked, managing to nail Joey Tribbiani's accent better than I ever could which was one reason I'd stopped saying it, even though it'd always made Sam chuckle.

"Sometimes simplicity is best. Feeling better?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah...I'm sorry. I was hoping that wouldn't happen... I've gotten better with loud noises. That was just... a lot."

"Don't be sorry. It's nice to be able to rest for a moment. They've been expanding the fairground a little more every year, but you don't realize how many miles you're walking in circles while you're stuffing your face full of snacks, until you actually sit and your feet scream, Hallelujah!"

Sam smiled, then moved his hand to rest it lightly on my right thigh. "You and the blasphemy again... it's going to catch up to you one day."

"Nah, God loves it when we give Him thanks in every possible way, for every good thing that He does. That includes my feet, which he modeled, along with every other part of me you enjoy on a nightly basis."

Sam chuckled again, his thumb lightly rubbing over the denim of my jeans just above my knee like he was still discreetly grounding himself.

"Did you text Sofia that we're out here?"

"Not yet. I will, but I wanted to make sure that you were alright first."

"Good call. Sofia redefines twenty questions, so it's always good to have a complete breakdown to slow her down before she starts talking at pitches only the neighborhood dogs can hear."

I grinned back because he wasn't wrong. "True, but even though I love Sofia, and have a humanitarian type empathy for the afore mentioned dogs, you came first simply because you’ll always come first, Sam. Whether it's dragging you out to the car to ply you with a pop love song or sharing the first—and last—bite of my pint of highly coveted, haggen daaz pineapple coconut ice cream, you always come first to me. The rest is background noise until we're ready to address it. There's never a time limit."

Sam's expression softened immediately even though I could see a soft flush crawling up his cheeks. I bit back my inclination to smile. Accepting genuine affection and compliments was something we were still working on.

"We should make that our wedding song," Sam murmured, his voice so low that I almost missed it. In my defense, it wasn't a sentence I ever expected to hear coming out of Sam's mouth.

"What?"

Sam shrugged and ducked his head slightly. "It always makes me think of you and... it's the way you bring me back home to you when I get lost in the nightmare zone of own mind so... it feels appropriate... a way to give it a more meaningful association in our heads than just as a way to talk me off of the ledge... Stupid idea?"

I grinned so hard my cheeks hurt, and I didn't care if I was provoking my TMJ issues. Sam always rambled when he got uncomfortable with tender moments. It never failed to melt my heart every time. I'd actually been considering another song, but after this, it was Lady Gaga all the way. Charlie would've approved. Patrick would tease me about it for the rest of our lives, but Sam was worth it.

God, thank you for giving me this man to love.

"Nope. Not stupid. Not stupid in the slightest. Try ridiculously romantic to the level that I'm getting some ridiculously inappropriate red rosing thoughts right now."

Sam's coloring was currently somewhere between a radish and a beet, but when I teasingly referenced the way he'd proposed to me the multi-colored roses, he laughed. The deep sound was so warm and genuine, it washed away all remnants of the earlier angst.

He glanced up, his expression amused. "This is a family friendly park."

"And the reception will be a family friendly event. But it's also a nice hotel with probably more than a few places for impulsive, amorous newlyweds to duck away for a private moment. I'm sure every room has a bottle of Lysol disinfectant spray tucked away in a corner somewhere."

"We could always snag the aerosol hand sanitizer that Roman always carries in his inner jacket pocket first."

We grinned at each other, our minds obviously meeting in the middle to the night we'd romantically violated Roman's office at his newest club. Granted, I was positive—though he’d never confirmed it—that there was at least one hidden camera in each of his offices at the two clubs. If I was right, he knew exactly what we’d been up to that night, but I also knew Roman well enough to know, without any doubt, that he wouldn’t have watched that particular recording. Not because he was a prude in any context, but because we were friends, and he knew that Sam and I didn’t fall into the casual sex-tape category.

“I don't think I've ever met anyone with that level of organizational OCD, and I was black ops."

"Roman's always been like that. After he got out of prison and got his life back on track, he kept himself straight by being organized and always having a plan. But he's also as kinky as they come, so the sanitizer and Lysol are must haves because I’m sure we aren’t the only ones who’ve violated that office."

Sam snickered, then turned in his seat to completely face me. "Text Sofia to let her know that we're ok, and then if you still want to know what I dream about sometimes, because I know you're curious even if you don't push... I'll tell you," he said softly.

I didn't want to look over eager even though I'd been trying to respect Sam’s pace for months, confident he’d share things with me in his own time. I'd done alright till now, but if he was giving me an open invitation, I didn't need it gilded or engraved.

After I'd obediently texted Sofia—and gone back and forth a few times in digital shorthand to give her the cliff notes so that she wouldn't worry or preemptively come to find us—I put my phone on mute, then set it face down on the dash so that Sam had my full attention. He swept me with a slow, silent look, then leaned back against the seat, facing forward again.

"You know that I dream a lot about what happened in Afghanistan right?"

"Yes, I know."

Sam wasn't looking at me, but he was talking to me unprompted, so I was fine with admiring the strong lines of his handsome face in profile.

"That's what I usually dream about... what happened, and how I couldn't save everyone who was my responsibility."

My heart tugged for him. On a logical level, Sam knew it wasn't his fault that his team had been ambushed by enemy combatants. Guilt was just a heavy, and persistent albatross.

“Other than A.J., I wasn’t to save the guys who'd have given their lives for me, the men who had my back," he continued. "Instead...I saved Connor and Devlin. And they didn't deserve it." His jaw ticked and his hands were clenching into fists on his knees. "Obviously I didn't know about him and Devlin at that point, but it doesn't erase the fact I put A.J.’s life in danger to Save Connor’s. And now... making a poor choice would cost me so much more than it did that night..."

He finally turned to looked at me, and his eyes were calm, but rimmed with haunted fatigue. "That's what I dream about. About making a bad decision that puts you, or the girls, or Sofia or even A.J. in danger because I've gotten complacent with how good life is right now. I have nightmares about not being fast enough to save any of them, or you if I had to."

If I could've crawled out of the driver's seat, and over the console to sprawl in Sam's lap to comfort him I would've, but I had to settle for reaching for his hand to press a kiss first to the top of it, then to every single finger individually, starting with his pinky, and ending at his thumb. I pressed a kiss right into the center of his palm afterward before gently closing his own fingers back into a clenched fist like he was holding onto the invisible kiss.

Sam raised an eyebrow at me questioningly, and I moved my own hand to gently stroke his cheek.

"Consider that a testament of my faith in you. Remember when you gave me your dog tags to hold onto?"

He still looked confused, but he nodded anyway.

"This is the same concept. I know that we can't always plan for everything that happens in life, good or bad. Sometimes life is messy, and it hurts, but there’s also so much joy in the smallest things. So, while every single person who loves you knows that you'd move heaven and earth to keep us safe if you had to, none of us would ever blame you for the natural hiccups of life. And to prove that, I'm going to play a game with you that Catherine used to play with me based off a book she liked as a little girl called, The Kissing Hand."

Sam lips twitched slightly. He obviously had no clue what I was talking about, but he nodded anyway.

"Every single morning before you leave for work, I'm going to put a kiss right in the center of this same hand, and close it tight, so you can keep it safe as both a reassurance of my love for you, as well as testimony that I have complete faith that you'll always do your best to keep away the scary parts of life, and return my kiss to me each night so we can save it for the next day."

Sam's lips twitched again, before the gesture turned into a soft chuckle. "And if I can't?"

"Then you’ll just have to kiss all of my newly acquired boo boos better. Hopefully if I have to get a few, they'll be in places that’re more interesting than my hand."

Sam chuckled again, but this time he reached for said hand, and clumsily repeated the silly ritual of kisses to each of my fingers, then the palm. If I hadn't been head-over-heels in love with him already, he'd have effectively owned me right then and there.

I swallowed around the emotion in my throat as Sam closed my fingers around his kiss carefully. When he looked up to meet my eyes, his expression was calm again with that subtle softness it had on the mornings when he woke up peacefully, and realized I was wrapped around him like he was my personal, life-sized stuffed animal.

"I love you, Ben."

"I love you too, Sam. Are you ready to go back?"

"I want to, but... I'm not sure I can handle it," he admitted quietly.

I just smiled. "Then we can open up the trunk and have a suburban style tailgate moment while we watch the fireworks from here. It's not as loud, and we'll still have a great view because huge, sparkling booms lighting up the sky are pretty hard to miss anywhere around here."

Sam chuckled and then he'd leaned in to kiss me....

***

"Ben, are you ready? Everyone's assembled downstairs. Tara was talking to Max in the hallway, so she asked me to come and get you. We don't want you and Sam accidentally crossing paths until you meet at the altar."

I snapped out of my reverie and grinned when Sofia appeared behind me. I'd seen her and her daughters earlier, but now she'd added a bouquet of blue roses and white lilies interspersed with the same "ice crystals," that were in all of the boutonnieres including mine. She looked beautiful, and dimpled when I told her so before she handed me her bouquet to hold while she pinned my boutonniere to my jacket collar.

"Emma really embraced the frozen theme, didn't she?"

Sofia grinned. "Wait till you see Tara. You and Sam are going to owe her boxes of Voodoo Donuts, and pints of mint-chocolate chip ice cream for at least the next twenty years."

She giggled. I grinned. I hadn't seen Tara in her dress yet, but the rumors had been circulating for weeks.

"Twenty-five is considered a life sentence, so I see her angling for that."

Sofia chuckled. She stepped back after adjusting my boutonniere and then took her bouquet back.

"How bad is it really? The last time I talked to her after her final fitting, she ended up owing me so many F-bomb quarter fines that I was able to pay half the pizza bill for movie night with the kids at Maplewood."

Sofia laughed again. The kids at the hallway house I ran had been just as amused at Tara's expense since she'd surpassed the highest of their fines by almost twenty dollars. In teen speech, EPIC.

"She looks amazing. Absolutely beautiful, and if I had any interest in playing house with another woman, or could’ve found a way to sneak Sloane in, she might be late walking you down the aisle." Sofia smiled. "Addie and I secretly bedazzled a pair of wedge flip flops to give to her for the reception. The bling satisfied Emma's need for us all to sparkle, and the comfort will pacify Tara because we all know that the heels she's wearing right now won't last the night.

I chuckled. "Well, Sam and I appreciate you all being here to celebrate with us, sparkles and all. I never thought that this would happen."

"Getting married? Why not? You're the most domestic human being I've ever met."

"I think you're standing on that bar right beside me," I said, my lips quirking in amusement when Sofia's flush deepened the already cosmetically rosy color on her cheeks. “I think A.J.’s right there on that bar with us…”

Sofia sighed. “I know… we need to talk. I promised Tara I would if she called Sloane and invited her out for coffee again, but… “She hesitated, tucking her hair back behind her right ear with the same hand. “Even if she doesn’t, A.J. and I do need to talk. I never expected to connect with anyone again after Connor… I didn’t feel like I’d ever be able to trust anyone or feel safe with someone again. And it happened so quickly that I wondered if maybe I was just running away from my ghosts, and I didn’t want to use him. I… I like him much Ben. It scared me," she admitted softly. "So, when it came time for us to talk about how we’d move forward, I second guessed myself, so he did as well and… well, you saw how it ended.”

“I did, but that doesn’t have to mean it’s a hard stop. Maybe just a pause. He’s here now. Ask him to stay awhile if he can or maybe go back with him for a visit to Alabama. See how you do away from the ghosts. Max and Tara will be happy to watch Adelyn and Emma while you’re gone. If you want to extend your visit past a week, Sam and I’ll be back from our honeymoon by then and can take over.”

When I saw the hesitation in her eyes, I reached for her hand. “Sofia, you deserve a chance to be happy and whenever you and A.J. were together, I saw the possibility for that to keep going far into the future. Your children adore him, and you obviously love him as much as he loves you…”

I was assuming, but I had eyes and when Sofia offered me a shy, crooked smile, I knew I was right about her at least.

“Sam said something similar. I... I’ll talk to A.J. and we’ll go from there.”

“Good. And as for why I never thought I’d get married, I guess I never felt I’d find a man who shared my values about faith and family, but who could also accept my past. I've met plenty who met some of the criteria, but never all three. Not until I met Sam."

Now Sofia was the one who looked amused. "You make it sound like he made it easy on you, when we both know he didn't."

"No, he didn't," I agreed with a soft snort. "He was a massive pain in my behind who dragged his feet almost every step of the way. But it was all worth it because at the end, I found a man whom I love enough to tone down my wedding vows for, though that was a challenge."

Sofia laughed when I grinned. We both knew that Sam would melt into a puddle of embarrassed goo if I put every deeply felt emotional thought into my wedding vows. I'd spare him the public embarrassment, but when we were alone on our honeymoon in Bali, I had every intention of plying him with both verbal and handwritten love notes, especially in the morning. Sam was always more receptive to lovey pillow talk after we’d screwed one another into the mattress. He was very much a morning sex man.

"I also found a family in him," I added. "Catherine told me that our brother Michael came, but the rest of my family didn't. They still can't accept who I am. They may never be able to, which will always hurt because it means I'm estranged from my nieces and nephews, and all of their childhood milestones. But now, through Sam, I have two new nieces in my life and I'm grateful to God for both of them, and for the sister I'm getting in you."

I caught a soft whiff of vanilla when Sofia abruptly leaned in to hug me hard. She brushed a light kiss to my check, lingering in the embrace for a moment when I hugged her back. I got another kiss, and a soft pat to my opposite check when Sofia pulled away to carefully set down her bouquet on the bed for a moment, so she could grab some tissues from the box on the nightstand to wipe off any pink lipstick that she'd left behind on my skin.

"We're so happy, and so grateful that you're joining our family Ben, because without you, we probably wouldn't all be together right now. Sam loves us and we all know that. He always did, but what happened between him and Connor put a rift like the Grand Canyon between us. Without you pushing him to see how capable of love he is, I think he would've run away again eventually. So, thank you for reuniting our family, Ben. From the very bottom of my heart, and those of my children."

I gently brushed my thumb against the corner of Sofia's right eye when I saw a tiny, shiny bead threatening to break free of the other tears gathering in her eyes.

"There's no crying in baseball or in my hotel room,” I teased her gently. “If you ruin your makeup, Tara will have one more reason to embark on a homicidal spree, and I was told there are an overabundance of faux plastic icicles hanging from the archway in the ballroom."

Sofia laughed and carefully dabbled at her eyes with another tissue before picking up her bouquet so she could tuck her hand into the crook of my arm when I offered it to her.

"Ready to walk me down to hand me over to Tara?"

"Mmmhmm. Sam's not going to know what to do with himself when he sees you."

"Fortunately, I know exactly what I plan to do with him privately tonight, so we’re all good."

Sofia laughed at exactly the same time that we stepped into the hallway together. Camera flashes immediately went off. Even though I was momentarily blinded, I was also grateful that we'd hired two photographers because that was only one of many happy moments I hoped would be captured tonight.