I kneel in the confessional, knees aching against the worn wooden kneeler, palms pressed together so hard my wedding ring cuts into my finger.

The lattice screen is dark, but I know exactly who sits on the other side.

Father Luke Matthews.

Thirty-five.

Broad shoulders that strain his black cassock every time he lifts the chalice.

Hands that have lingered half a second too long when he places the host on my tongue.

Eyes that find me in the third pew every Sunday and hold, just long enough to make my stomach drop.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." My voice doesn't shake. I've practiced this. "It's been four...