I watch one of the Victory Life members hand Mrs. Patterson a brochure, see her smile and nod. “I don’t know.”
We stand there, watching everyone leave, then slowly walk back inside.
The parish council meeting that afternoon feels like a funeral.
Marcus arrives first, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest, his expression grim.
He’s wearing a black button-down that stretches across his shoulders, and I notice Charlie’s eyes linger on him before she catches herself. The way she bites her lower lip makes heat pool in my gut.
“Three families,” Marcus says without preamble. “The Hendersons, the Morales, and the Thompsons. All officially transferred to Victory Life this week.”
The words hit like physical blows. The Hendersons have been parishioners for two generations. The Morales family has five children who were all baptized here. The Thompsons donated the new altar candles last year.
Charlie sits across from me, taking notes in her careful handwriting.
She’s wearing reading glasses today, and the sight of them perched on her nose does something to me.
I watch her teeth worry her bottom lip as she concentrates, and I imagine what that lip would feel like beneath my thumb. Beneath my mouth.
I force my attention back to Marcus, but not before our eyes meet.
His dark gaze holds mine for a beat too long, and I see the understanding there.
He knows exactly what I’m thinking about. What I’m fighting.
He’s probably thinking the same thing.
The door bursts open, and Elijah rushes in, his golden hair disheveled, his blue eyes stormy with emotion.
He’s usually so composed, so angelic in his demeanor. Seeing him upset sends alarm through me.
“Two choir members,” he says, his French accent thickening with distress. “They’re joining Victory Life’s contemporary worship band.” He drops into a chair, running his hands through his hair. “They apologized, said they love our choir, but Victory Life has a full band. Drums, guitars, and professional sound equipment. They want to sing with accompaniment that isn’t just my piano.”
Charlie reaches across the table, her hand covering Elijah’s. The gesture is innocent, comforting, but I watch his fingers curl around hers and feel jealousy burn through my chest.
Her hand is small in his, delicate, and I remember how those fingers felt tangled in my hair, how her nails dug into my shoulders. How she touched his hands as he played the piano.
“We can’t compete with their resources,” Marcus says, his voice rough. “They have a multi-million dollar facility. Professional staff. Marketing budgets that exceed our entire annual income.”
“So what do we do?” Charlie asks, her hazel eyes moving between the three of us. “Just let them take everyone?”
I watch her face as she speaks, the way her eyes shift from green to gold in the afternoon light.
The curve of her throat is visible above her cardigan, and I remember pressing my lips there, feeling her pulse race beneath my tongue.
My hands grip the edge of the table until my knuckles go white.
“We focus on what makes us different,” I say, forcing my voice to remain steady. “We’re not a show. We’re a community. We offer something real, something authentic.”
“Will that be enough?” Elijah asks quietly.
I don’t have an answer.
The meeting drags on, each of us throwing out ideas that feel inadequate against Victory Life’s machine.
Charlie suggests a parish newsletter highlighting community outreach.
Marcus proposes expanding the food pantry.
