(Find previous chapters and a description of the project here.)

It is 4:02. Anna is nowhere in sight as she walks into the coffee shop. She has expected this though. Anna is not usually on time. She should have known to come at 4:15, but she had to get out of the house. She left Brett and Finn watching garbage content on YouTube. She doesn’t like leaving them alone, but they won’t get into any trouble. They know where all the snacks in the house are and they have an emergency use only cell phone in case they need her. They aren’t likely to miss her at all, she muses as she scans over the menu looking for any options that are decaf. She huffs as she moves closer to the counter. She was hoping for something other than peppermint tea.

“What can I get you?” the barista asks cheerily.

“You can make any of these drinks decaf, right?” she asks hesitantly.

“We have decaf espresso. If you want decaf coffee I’ll have to do a pour over for you.”

This is helpful. “No, no pour over. I’ll have a decaf macchiato, please. With almond milk.”

“Oh, we’ve just used the last of the almond milk today. I’m so sorry. Would you like oat or coconut instead?”

Oat milk sounds entirely unappealing. “Coconut is fine,” she answers. “Sorry to be a pain, but can I get that with sugar free syrup?” She is already thinking about the gestational diabetes test she’ll have to take.

“Yes, of course,” the barista answers as she scratches more writing out onto the cup in her hand. “Anything else?” She begins tapping the screen in front of her.

“No, that’ll be all,” she says, glancing around the room. Still no sign of Anna. Her phone buzzes. Be there in 5!

“$5.75,” the barista says.

Rebecca hands her six dollars and declines the change. She moves towards the pick-up counter. She notices that she’s chewing her nails and quickly ceases. It’s better that she was alone when she ordered. Anna was bound to ask her about her decaf choice. She watches the door. She sees Anna moving across the parking lot. Her hand is on the door when the young man behind the counter yells, “Decaf macchiato!”

She almost shushes him, but manages to refrain. “Thank you,” she says as she takes it from him. Anna spies her and waves. Rebecca sits down at the closest table.

“Sorry, I was running late,” Anna says as she approaches.

“I’m used to it,” she says, smiling. “I’m glad you suggested this. I had to get out of the house.”

Anna almost frowns. “Bad day?” she asks.

“Eh…” she shrugs. “I’ve had better.”

Anna is eyeing her suspiciously now. “What happened?”

She lets all the thoughts in her head melt away so they won’t come out of her mouth. “It’s just…” she stops. “Get your drink!” she fusses. “I’ll tell you in a minute.”

Anna sets her bag down in the chair across from her, then reaches inside and grabs her wallet. “Be right back,” she says.

Rebecca stews, wondering if she can tell Anna. She is sure Anna wouldn’t shame her. Anna is not very religious, and never understood why church people could be so uptight and prudish. But she would be hurt that Rebecca hadn’t told her about the relationship. She watches her friend, smiling at the barista, moving towards the pick-up counter. She is handed a mug just as she reaches it. She thanks the young man.

“Nothing fancy for you?” Rebecca asks, as Anna sits down across from her. The drink in the mug is dark.

“Nah, I’m trying to cut out sugar,” she says as if she doesn’t really mean it.

“Again?” she jokes. She is stalling.

Anna laughs. “It’s a hard habit to kick. You know I have a huge sweet tooth.” She takes a sip of the brew. “What’s been going on? Why is your day so bad?”

“Who said it was bad?” she asks, deflecting.

“You look awful,” Anna says. She’s not unkind, but she doesn’t take time getting to a point.

“I’m…” the word is stuck inside her. She changes her thought. “Tired,” she says.

“Well, I could have told you that!” Anna leans forward. “You sure you’re okay?”

Anna will press her until she collapses. She smiles warmly, allowing the fears she has about the future to momentarily fall out of mind. “I’ve been seeing somebody,” she says.

“What?!” Anna squeals.

She is embarrassed by the outburst and dips her head. “Don’t make sure a big deal of it,” she says through gritted teeth.

“Okay, so… I have so many questions. First things: what’s his name? How did you meet? How many dates have you gone on?”

Anna is bursting with excitement over this news. She thinks back to Tuesday, just 5 short days ago, when she fizzled Jesse’s excitement with her revelation. This will be similar. She steadies herself for the confusion.

“It’s Jesse.” When Anna stares at her blankly, she adds, “The minister.”

Anna seems frozen. She blinks once slowly before leaning forward and asking, “Jesse Pearson? Your pastor?!”

“Anna,” she almost hisses. “Can you keep it down?”

“Oh,” she says, now sitting back in the chair. She can’t tell if Anna is offended or not. She is wearing a smug look. She crosses her arms. “It’s a secret,” she assesses.

She offers a brief smile. “I called him one night after Alan died. He’d been gone about four months and I was feeling…” There were no words for what she had been feeling. Broken. Lonely. Defeated. Reckless. Numb. “Anyway, we had a bunch of beers and then we had sex and ever since then, we’ve been secretly dating.”

“Hang on,” Anna says, holding up a hand. “You’ve been dating him for a year and eight months?” She is completely scandalized.

She nods, then sips her macchiato, waiting for Anna’s anger.

But Anna doesn’t say anything. She studies her face, how her mouth flattens into a thin line as her eyebrows draw together. “And you didn’t say anything to me?”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” she says, nearly whispers. “He’s not supposed to…” she falters. “The church doesn’t want the staff dating the members.”

“Why?” Anna asks, seeming confused. “Who cares?”

“I think people see it as predatory,” she says, thinking of Myrtle Abbot. “Before Jesse came, we had a choir director who got involved with one of the choir members. The personnel committee made a rule after that.”

“Seems like a dumb rule,” Anna says dryly.

“It certainly feels like one from where I’m sitting,” she admits. “I shouldn’t have gotten that close to him, but it happened before I knew it was happening, and then it was too late.”

Anna considers this as she feels the weight of the secret fading. She should have told Anna sooner. She should have trusted her. She should have been more open. Anna could have helped her.

She is going to should herself to death if she doesn’t stop.     

               “I don’t like that you didn’t tell me,” Anna admits.

               “I’m sorry.” It’s all she has to offer. There really is no excuse.

               “Why tell me now though? What changed?”

               She hesitates. She looks down into the mug for a moment, as if it holds a sign for her to read.

               “It’s gotten serious,” Anna guesses. “He wants to get married?”

               She is right and she isn’t. She doesn’t look up. “I’m pregnant,” she says to the macchiato.

               “Oh my god,” Anna says quietly. She pauses. “Rebecca!” her friend says. She looks up at the sound of her name. Their eyes meet. Anna’s mouth is working wordlessly. “You’re pregnant?” she asks, to be sure she understood correctly.

               She nods slowly, not taking her eyes off Anna’s. “I just found out last week. We haven’t told anyone,” she explains, urgency creeping into her tone. “Don’t say anything, Anna. Please.”

               “Who would I tell?” she asks. She sips her coffee. “Not like I’m going to report him to your church or anything.”

               She laughs at this though she feels like she is ripping at the seams. “They’ll find out anyway,” she says calmly.

               “Do you have a plan?” Anna asks.

               She has made and remade many plans already, but all of them ended with Jesse forced to leave the church in disgrace, and her running out the door after him. “I need to see the midwife first.”

               “You’re still early then,” Anna comments. She looks at her mug. “Are you drinking decaf?”

               “Who are you, my mom?” she asks. Anna laughs, but Rebecca is quiet. “I’m scared,” she admits. “Of what will happen to him.”

               “I thought church was full of grace?” Anna asks sarcastically.

               “Sometimes,” she answers quietly. She can’t imagine Myrtle being gracious with anyone.

               “Just get married,” Anna suggests. She blinks at her friend as if she doesn’t understand. “Get married and then nobody will assume anything. No one is going to be sitting around counting the months.”

               “Yes, they will,” she argues. “And then we’d have to beg forgiveness.”

               “Aren’t you going to have to do that anyway?”

               Anna was pointing out all the things she has already walked through inside her own thoughts. Jesse had told her he wanted a life with her. A real life. He promised they would find a way to make it work. “I feel like no matter what I do, I’m going to lose my community.”

               “Well, if you ask me, it’s not worth having if they’re going to kick you out.”

               She hadn’t asked, but it didn’t mean Anna wasn’t right. Her phone buzzes before she can respond. It is Jesse. I want to see you. Suddenly, Anna isn’t there. She is singularly focused on the message and what it might mean. Jesse has never asked to see her outside of their prescribed time. She thinks hard, not knowing if that’s true. He has been her friend far longer than he has been her lover. Surely in all that time, he must have suggested they get together on a day other than Tuesday.

               She picks up the phone, ignoring Anna completely, who has asked a question and is waiting for an answer. She types as quickly as she can. I’m with Anna. I’ll text you when I get home. She does not want to seem too abrupt. The truth is, she is nervous. Why can’t he wait until Tuesday? Has something happened?

               That brings her thoughts around to the baby slowly growing inside her. She imagines it floating, blissfully unaware of the turmoil it has caused. She stamps out that thought too. She can’t blame the baby for any of this. Only herself.

               “Hello?” Anna says impatiently.

               She glances up at her friend who is wearing a look of annoyance mixed with confusion. “Sorry, what?”

               “I said my sister can throw together a menu for you if you want. It doesn’t have to be fancy. Let’s do it at your house, in the yard. We can rent one of those trestle things.”

               “Do what at my house?” she asks blinking stupidly.

               “A wedding,” Anna says carefully. “But you obviously weren’t listening. Who texted you?”

               “Jesse,” she breathes. “He wants to see me, but we normally only get together on Tuesdays.”

               Anna takes a sip from her mug. “Maybe he’s thinking of a plan,” she says conspiratorially.

               “He might be,” she admits. It would be like him, to plan first and then ask her later. “And it’s called a trellis, I think. Not a trestle,” she adds.

               “Oh, so you were listening,” Anna laughs. Then she grows quiet, the hum of the coffee shop filling the air and the space between them. Anna reaches and places her hand on Rebecca’s arm. “Whatever you want to do, Rebecca, I’m here with you, okay?”

               This makes her eyes water. “Okay,” she whispers hoarsely. “Thank you.” Her earlier nerves about telling Anna float away. She wonders why she kept the secret from her for so long. Anna would never have judged her for this. She has no patience for church or workplace politics, and no time for nonsense either. “I should have told you about him,” she admits, letting her sadness overcome her for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she adds.

               “Don’t be,” Anna says, squeezing her arm.

               Her phone buzzes again. Ok. It is 4:37, and though she feels that she has only just begun to catch up with her friend, all she really wants to do is go home and be with Jesse.

            (Find previous chapters and a description of the project here.)  

It is Sunday. Her boys sit with her in their normal spot, fourth pew, left side. She takes the middle so no one has to ask her to scoot in. She passes Brett and Finn peppermints. They are too old now to be bribed this way, but they don’t complain. They slowly unwrap the candy, the crinkle lost among the softly plinking piano and the rustle of bulletins. She looks at the chancel, at Jesse. He is wearing gray slacks today and a black button up. His tie is plaid—black and dark green and bright white. He catches her eye and smiles at her.

               Her heart skips. He does not smile at her in church.

               She looks at her phone. It is 10:08. She tries to stay in the moment, with the music and the stillness, but she feels almost sick. She wonders if she will be sick with this baby like she was with Brett and Finn. She glances over at them. Finn is flipping lazily through the hymnal and Brett is picking at something on his shoe. The peppermint wrappers lay discarded in the pew beside them.

               They will not notice anything this early, she reminds herself. She is more worried about her sister and her mother. Her clothes will not fit for long, and when she buys new ones, they will comment on it.

               She glances behind her, scanning the sanctuary for them. Her sister doesn’t always come, but it’s unlike her mother to be this late. A knot of worry starts to wind itself around her guts. Or maybe that’s just the hormones. She swallows what tastes like bile. She didn’t eat any breakfast. Perhaps that was a mistake.

               The pianist ends her playing and Jesse stands, making his way forward to the pulpit. Rebecca checks her phone again, looking for a text from Cindy. She wonders if she should call her mother, just to be sure. Maybe it would ease some of the queasiness.

               Jesse offers the congregation a welcome and an invitation, but Rebecca is too distracted to listen. She leans over to Brett and whispers, “Do you see Grandma anywhere?”

               Brett turns fully around in the pew, almost stands up so he can look around the room. He sits down again, shaking his head at her.

               Her phone buzzes. It is Cindy calling. Calling. During church.

               “Aunt Cindy is calling me,” she whispers to Brett. “I’ll be back.”

               She rises from the pew, and she hears Jesse falter for just a moment. She imagines his eyes following her. She marches up the side aisle, phone still buzzing in her hand. She exits the sanctuary, and slides her finger over the screen to answer her sister’s call. “Hello?” she asked, frantically. “Cindy? Is Mom okay?”

               “What?” her sister asks.

               “I don’t think Mom is here at church, and neither are you,” she says, feeling more bile at the back of her throat. She moves towards the restroom. “Why are you calling during church?” she asks.

               “Oh, Bec, I didn’t mean to scare you,” her sister says. “I didn’t think you’d answer, and I was going to leave you a voicemail.”

               She almost rolls her eyes. “Couldn’t you just text instead?

“It was too much!” she answered defensively.

“What’s too much?” she asked, pushing open the bathroom door.

               “Well, I got us a spot at Old Stone Wall, you know that brunch place you’ve been wanting to try. Anyway, bring the boys after service. I have a table already.”

               She yanks a paper towel from the dispenser, wets it thoroughly and presses it to her neck. “Where’s Mom?” she asks.

               “Oh, Mom is here with me,” Cindy answers happily. “It was actually her idea. I don’t know what’s gotten into her, it’s not like her to play hookie.”

               She laughs despite how sick she feels. She does not want to go to brunch with her mother and sister. She wants to hide for the next eight months and then tell them someone dropped a newborn on her porch. “It sounds so nice, Cindy, but I don’t know if I can today.”

               “What?” her sister nearly screeches, and she pulls the phone away from her ear at the pain. “What else do you have to do?”

               Cindy knows there is nothing else that Rebecca has planned on a Sunday. She never has any plans. Ever. “I’m just a little under the weather,” she admits. She imagines Cindy’s calculating scowl as she tosses the wet paper towel into the trash bin.

               “Are you sure? It’s not just because you and Alan were going to come here, is it?”

               She shudders slightly at the memory. Old Stone Wall was only a month old, and Alan had just booked them a reservation for Mother’s Day. It was the day he was killed. “Maybe that’s it,” she breathes, thankful that Cindy has given her an out.

               There is a scuffle on the line, and she hears her sister arguing with someone before her mother’s voice floats through the speaker. “Listen, Bec, sweetie,” her mother says in her most placating tone, “Just come out with us. We did this for you, honey.”

               She is charmed by the thoughtfulness. She hates disappointing people. “I’ll see how I’m feeling when church lets out,” she says.

               “Alright, honey. We’ll see you in a bit,” she says.

               Cindy comes back on the line, “Bec, it’s okay if you’re ill. Really.”

               “No, I’m fine,” she lies. The bile is climbing up her throat. “I’ll see you there. I’m sure it will be lovely.” She almost chokes on the last word. “I have to go,” she says.

               “Right!” Cindy exclaims. “Church!”

               “Yeah,” she swallows. “Bye.” She ends the call before Cindy can say anything else, then moves into a stall, and heaves over the toilet. There is nothing inside of her to bring up. Shakily, she takes a square of paper from the dispenser, and wipes her face. She flushes and returns to the sink.

               The door opens and in walks Myrtle Abbot. Myrtle is roughly 108 years old and she has never in her life minded her own business. “You look a little green, Rebecca,” Myrtle says sourly.

               “Oh, must be something I ate,” she says weakly, offering a smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”

               Myrtle eyes her suspiciously as she shuffles into a stall. “I’ll make sure to use the other sink, so I don’t pick up any germs,” she says from behind the locked door.

               “Yes, good plan, Mrs. Abbot,” she says as she scurries out the door. She wonders if Myrtle would suspect her. If she did, could she tie it to Jesse? Surely not. They have been so careful.

               The thought sends a shot of ice through her belly. Not careful enough.

               She returns to the sanctuary, to find Brett and Finn nudging each other mean-spiritedly during a rendition of The Old Rugged Cross, sung by Fred Baldwin, who is in his late fifties and starting to go bald on top. His voice is strong and rich. It reminds her of wood smoke and dark chocolate. She snaps her fingers at the boys, giving them her best mom look. They quiet immediately, and she offers each of them another peppermint. They take them reluctantly. Brett carefully unwraps his, but Finn opens his loudly. The harsh crinkling makes Rebecca’s skin crawl. She resists the urge to shush him.

               She tucks her phone back into her purse. The screen turns on as she does. It is now 10:22. She looks up, knowing Jesse will be moving to the pulpit now that Fred is finished with his song. This is always the hardest part of the service for her. She sits here every week, pretending to listen to what he has to say about God and faith and a life lived in community, but all she can ever think about is how his hands feel sliding over her body. She wonders if he ever thinks of her when he’s sitting on the chancel, waiting to preach. She wishes she could stop thinking of him and listen to his sermon instead. She stews with guilt.

               Today, she also wonders what will happen when he comes to see her on Tuesday. Is it possible to have any more normal Tuesdays with him? Will anything ever be normal again?

               He is preaching from the book of 1 Kings today. She thinks this is a strange selection, as he had chosen something from Matthew last week. Or perhaps that was two weeks ago. She doesn’t know. She fidgets with her hair, with her skirt, with her necklace. She tries to remember a time when she loved his preaching, when she could sit through a sermon without burning with shame. How does he do this every week? He makes it look so easy. Perhaps he isn’t ashamed at all. Perhaps she doesn’t need to be either. 

               Jesse is already finished preaching. Either his sermon was shockingly short, or she has spaced out for a solid twenty minutes. She isn’t sure which one it is.

               The pianist, Ellen Cleary, is playing again. People around her are standing. She fumbles with the bulletin, with the hymnal. Brett sees her struggling, and passes the hymnal he already has open. She is grateful for the care he shows her. Brett has always had a kind heart, and it has only gotten bigger since Alan’s death. It’s like he can’t take anyone else being in distress. She takes the corner of the hymnal, holding it between them so they can share.

               She is not singing. She doesn’t have the words. She is staring at Jesse, singing with a smile on his face, wondering how he can look so happy when their entire world is about to cave in on them. She glances down at the page. She has forgotten how to read music, how to decipher words. She stares at the page in bewilderment, her stomach twisting with sickness.

“Are you ok, Mom?” Brett whispers. Somehow, the song has ended. Jesse is giving his benediction and Brett is staring at her like she is too fragile to be standing. “You don’t look right.”

If her ten year old son has noticed this, so will everyone else. “What do you mean, I don’t look right?” she asks.

“You’re really pale,” Brett answers softly.

Ellen is playing the postlude now. How has she missed the whole service? Around her, other members are sliding up pews to the aisle, or gathering their belongings, or chatting with their friends. She feels like she is nailed to the floor, as if one step towards the door is too many. She wants to lay down in the pew and sleep. She is suddenly, desperately tired.

“Sit down, Rebecca,” Jesse says to her, his hand coming to her shoulder. He pushes her down slightly. She does not have any strength to resist him. The anxiety inside feels like lightening. She looks up at him and she wishes he could cup her chin here, or touch her cheek, but it would be too familiar. It would give away the secret they have kept to themselves.

“Mom and Cindy wanted to take us to brunch,” she says, softly. The words slide from her but she hardly hears them.

“You look like you need to lay down,” Jesse says.

“I just need to eat something,” she argues. “And get my…” she eyes the boys, who are watching her with concern, “emotions under control,” she finishes.

“Are you thinking about Dad?” Brett asks. “You used to get this way whenever you thought too much about him.”

Brett has no idea what a gift his words are. Now she can hide behind them. “Just a little anxious, I guess.”

“It’s okay, Mom,” he says. From the other side of him, she sees Finn nodding.

Now she is crying. The boys feel like the only proof she has that Alan was ever a part of her life. She wonders how they will react when they find out about her and Jesse, about the baby.

Jesse has his hand on her shoulder. He has taken a seat next to her in the pew. He will not run his hand over her hair here, but she wishes he would. She wishes and wishes and wishes, but no amount of wishing has ever brought her anything she wanted. She wipes her eyes. She can feel other eyes on her, but she knows they will not stop to check on her. They are used to seeing her cry as they mutter to themselves things like “poor woman” and “what a shame” and “I don’t know how she does it” as they pass by her grief. As if she has a choice. As if she has chosen widowhood willingly.

Jesse’s hand slides down her back and she is suddenly alive with tension. He feels her stiffen and lets his hand fall away from her. Only then does she realize that no one is left in the sanctuary. He has chosen to sit here with her today rather than greet the congregation as they leave the church. She turns towards him, searching his eyes. There are unsaid words there, but she knows what they are. If it were Tuesday, not Sunday, he would be free to say them. But it is not Tuesday, and they still have to pretend for a little while longer.

“Are we going to get brunch with Grandma?” Finn asks, “or are we going home?”

Finn’s impatience has replaced his compassion. She smiles weakly at her son’s annoyance at being delayed. She stands, feeling slightly shaky. “Why don’t you come with us?” she asks Jesse.

He seems surprised, but he smiles at her invitation. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

He has been to enough family events that this will not seem strange. He has always been a close friend. No one will know, she thinks as she composes herself. No one will know unless she tells them.

(Before reading this chapter, you may want to read a description of the project here.)

It is Tuesday. Tuesday is when he comes to see her. She has opened the front door, leaving only the glass storm door between her anticipation and his arrival. When he comes, she knows he will not knock. He will open the door and call for her, his questioning “hello?” ringing down the hallway to where she waits in her office. She will shoo the dog from beneath her desk chair, and she will parade up the hall to him. She smiles to herself as she slides the brush through her hair. Tuesday, noonish, when her children are in school, and he can say he is going to lunch with a friend. Tuesday, when she can have him all to herself. Tuesday, when for one precious hour she does not have to pretend that she does not belong to him.

She had not intended for it to happen this way. She has known Jesse Pearson since college and though he had always been a close companion of hers, there were circles drawn around them which kept them apart. She had been a wife. He was the minister who had married them, and baptized their children, and eulogized her father. Though she wanted him with their family for birthdays and parties and holidays, she never imagined he would be hers. There had been late-night conversations through grad school when her insomnia was raging, movie outings and game nights and invitations to barbecues , but she knew he would never cross the line he had carefully laid between them. Even though she thought of him whenever she wanted to tell or be told a good story, or when she saw a funny meme, or when she wanted to discuss a new book she’d read, whenever she needed a friend, Jesse never tested if he could move the line of their friendship. He could not; and even if he had wanted, she could not have accepted anything else from him.

               And then, unexpectedly, her husband had died, killed in a head on collision with a drunk driver. Suddenly, dramatically, she was a widow, with two small children clinging to her legs as the officer on her doorstep explained to her what happened. Jesse had been the first person she had called, ahead of her own mother, because Jesse was a minister, and he knew how to sit with grief. He had sat with her and her grief for two years. Somewhere between the crying and the healing, the shock and the acceptance, she began to wonder. Would he have been as present for another church member had the crash happened to someone else?

               Pursuing that question had led her to where she was currently—which happened to be at the bathroom mirror, running a wand over her lips, the thick gloss oozing over them. She glanced at the clock. It was 11:58. Any minute now she would hear the storm door open, and he would call for her.

               Most Tuesdays, they would not actually eat lunch on their lunch dates. They would stay in the house—in the bed, really—until she was satisfied, and he was spent, and they were both happily drunk with contentment. He would dress lazily afterwards, as if he wanted to stay, and she would make him a peanut butter sandwich to eat in the car on the drive back to the church, tucking it neatly into a brown paper sack with a bag of chips and a granola bar, as if he was another one of her children heading to school. He would kiss her longingly before he went out the door, and she would watch as he got into his car, backed down the driveway and pulled away. That’s when the ache of pretending would always set in, and she would close her front door, as if she could keep it from infecting her.

Sometimes though, they would go out for lunch, because that was nice too, and she enjoyed the precious time with him to herself. She’d sip coffee if they went for brunch, or agua fresca if they went for tacos, or root beer if they went for barbecue. It was time where she didn’t have to hide her smiles or her flirting, time in which she could simply be with him without caring who knew. Time where she didn’t have to wonder what her boys would say if they knew she was thinking about what life would be like if they had a stepdad. Tuesdays were just for her and Jesse. She had the rest of the week to worry about everyone else—including the people at church.

No one at the church knew. They couldn’t. Though she wanted to come out of hiding, it was too scandalous. She had been instrumental in bringing him to the church ten years ago, when they were searching for a new pastor. Their friendship was well known. She was afraid what people might think of her and Jesse—or what they might think of her husband, Alan—if they came out of hiding. Besides, it had been such a long time now that if she did tell someone their secret, the scandal would be how long this relationship had been maintained in secrecy. In the beginning, she had told no one because it had been too soon after her husband’s death, and she was sure it would have cost him his job. They would have said it wasn’t right. That he had taken advantage of her. That he had abused his power. That he was predatory.

No one would have seen it the other way around.

About four months after Alan died, she called Jesse after a particularly difficult day. Her boys were young—only seven and eight—and they were not adjusting well to their new life with just a mother. They missed their dad, and she felt completely ill-equipped to help them through the trauma of losing him. She was ill-equipped to handle it herself. The afternoon had been filled with fighting and tantrums and meltdowns. She had locked herself in the bathroom and cried more than once. At 8 pm, she put on a movie for them, gave them each a melatonin gummy bear, and pulled a beer out of the fridge. She went to the living room, listening to the blessed quiet that had enveloped the house, and drank that first smooth sip from her bottle. She pulled her phone from her back pocket before sinking into the sofa, and before she had time to reconsider, she was calling him.

He picked up after one ring. “Hey Rebecca,” he said smoothly.

“I could really use a friend right now,” she said through a shaky voice.

There was no hesitation on his part. She opened the front door for him, leaving just the storm door between her and the night. When he arrived, he did not knock; he walked right in like he belonged there.

He did belong there, in a way. He had always belonged in her life.

She sat on the couch with him, and he distracted her with his big ideas for sermons that he might one day preach and all the interesting things he’d heard in podcasts that week and places he had been thinking of traveling if he ever had the money. She relaxed easily into his familiar presence, going through the bottles in the fridge with him until it was past midnight. He mentioned the time. She had leaned forward and whispered, “I don’t want you to go.”

She kissed him, and he tasted like the beer they had been drinking. It felt right, but it also felt wrong in the exact same satisfying way. She felt him melt into her, any surprise or resistance replaced with a hunger for her. She had been lonely for four months, but she knew that he had been lonely much longer than that. His kissing hastened, moving down from her mouth to her neck as she tucked her fingers into the front of his jeans, before his hands came around her, pulling her into his lap.

She didn’t listen to his sermon the next day. His words went right over her as she stewed with a mix of shame and excitement in the pew.

That’s when they had decided on Tuesdays. She never had work meetings on Tuesdays. Plus, the scheduled time with him made it easier to live the rest of the week. She had not had anything to look forward to for what felt like a long time. Tuesday gave her a reason to keep going.

She is finished with the lip gloss, and as she leaves the bathroom, she hears the storm door open. Her heartbeat quickens. “Rebecca?” he calls. She hears him move through the house, up the hallway to her office. She moves through the bedroom and out the doorway, towards where she knows he will be standing, peering into the office one room over. He hears her and he turns.

“You look nice,” he says, leaning against the doorframe.

The moment is wonderfully normal, and she almost wishes she didn’t have to destroy it with what she has planned. “I want to show you something,” she says.

“Okay,” he says, coming forward as she backs away from him into the bedroom. He is smiling, knowingly. He is already slipping off his shoes and closing the door as she makes her way around the bed, back to the bathroom door. She glances at him, and almost changes her mind, but she knows she can’t. It has to be done. She can’t wait any longer.

“Just sit here,” she says, patting the edge of the bed, the edge of what she still considers her side, despite sleeping alone in this bed every night since Alan died.

Jesse gives her a questioning look. “Okay,” he drawls, slowly edging his way towards her. He sits in the place she has indicated, folding his hands and placing them in his lap. “Do you have a surprise for me?” He seems so perfectly handsome, his features brightening with happiness as he looks at her.

She feels like a snake. She forces a coy smile to her face. “I’m going to go in here,” she says calmly, pointing at the bathroom doorway, though inside she is raging with anxiety. “I’m going to pee on a stick,” she continues, watching the smile melt from his mouth. “And then after we wait two minutes, we’ll find out if you’re going to be a dad.”

Jesse opens his mouth to answer, to protest, to inquire, but nothing comes forth. She watches as emotions slide through him, as fear finally settles over his features. “Okay,” he whispers.

She leaves the door to the bathroom open so he can hear her, so he’ll know exactly when she’s done. She pulls down her pants and sits on the toilet, spreading her legs to hold the test between them. She’s shaking so badly she gets urine on her hand. When she’s finished, she caps the test, and places it face-down on the bathroom sink. She washes her hands quickly, wishing she could also wash away her nerves. She buttons her pants and returns to the bed.

Jesse is sitting perfectly still, his face like a wall, staring into nothing. She sits beside him, glancing at the clock. It is 12:02. She leans into him, pressing her face against his neck. His posture softens. He takes one of her hands in his own. She squeezes it, and his grip tightens.

She tries to pray, but she doesn’t have any words. She wonders if Jesse is trying to pray, and if he is, what he is asking for.

She looks at the clock. It is still 12:02. She feels like she will burst out of her skin. She wonders if she needs wait the full two minutes. Sometimes an answer will be evident immediately. Wasn’t it almost immediately evident when she had the boys? She can’t remember that long ago. She can barely remember what it was like to be married. All she can think about is the man sitting next to her, clutching her, and how she is certain she has cost him everything. There is no way they can hide this the way they have hidden everything else.

If, she reminds herself. If.

It is 12:03. If this test is positive, then she’ll worry. For now, there is still another minute of not knowing. She spends that minute in silence, thinking of all the other reasons her period might be late. Stress? She’s certainly had enough of that. Maybe she didn’t write down the last date correctly. Maybe she’s having early on set menopause. Maybe she had her period last week and she just forgot. Maybe she’ll stand up and feel the first trickles of it, and then she’ll feel so silly for having worried about it, for taking up part of her Tuesday lunch date with Jesse to force him to sit on her side of the bed and wait for this result. All these things she tells herself because she can’t pray and she can’t think and she can’t face a future in which she is not married to her minister and yet still carrying his baby.

It is 12:04. She stands up. Jesse releases her. She snatches the test off the bathroom counter, but she doesn’t look at it. She covers the result window with her hand as she gingerly sits down on the bed again. Jesse smooths his hair back and she can hear his nervous breathing. She scoots closer to him, wanting to cling to him, wanting him to somehow intervene, wanting a miracle.

“Ready?” she asks. He nods and she uncovers the test.

There is a dark blue cross in the result window. The cross bar is darker than the control line. There is no denying it and there can be no mistaking it either.

She doesn’t say anything. She waits for Jesse to say something, but he is equally silent.

She lays the test on the bedside table. She can’t look at him. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, tears stinging.

“For what?” he asks smoothly, tenderly. He sounds like a fresh batch of cookies singing on the pan—warm and comforting, and deliciously soft.

She looks at him, not understanding. “You’re happy?”

He kisses her. “I’m going to be a dad,” he explains.

“You’re going to get fired,” she counters, in disbelief.

He knows this too. She can see it in his eyes. “Maybe not,” he replies.

Rebecca wants to believe him, but she’s not sure. Maybe there is room for grace and forgiveness, but she has known enough church people to know that sometimes, grace and forgiveness are the last things they want to give. Church is filled with wonderful things, like community and reverence and peace and times when the veil between this world and the next becomes amazingly thin. Yet, it is also filled with moralizing, grudges, bitterness and self-righteousness. She tries to imagine how her friends, her mentors, her family, might react when they find out, but she can’t imagine anything other than disappointment. She fears that shaming and shunning will be the response.

There is one thing she knows for certain though. Tuesdays—and every other day for that matter—are never going to be the same again.