Worship (On My Knees Duet 1)

It does keep my attention for a few minutes, but eventually my mind returns to it—my secret. It’s like a weighted barb burrowing deeper. I’ve swallowed something fatal-sharp, but I like how it cuts me.

It’s a problem. I know that. But I can’t seem to stop myself. I don’t know why.

I do know why.

The small talk continues around me, and I try to push those thoughts aside—as if my co-workers can see them on my face. I tell myself they can’t. I’m an expert-level secret keeper, surely.

We’re doing dinner with two senators the second we’re wheels-down, and Rufus has a ten-page agenda for us to leaf through. Reviewing it in detail takes almost three hours, mostly because of Pearl. She’s new, and young—23; this is her second year with me—and she has lots of questions. Which I appreciate.

After we finish the packet, we take a brief break, and I head for the espresso machine.

“Don’t caffeinate, PL. I think you’re better off in zombieland. There’s less anxiety for you there.”

PL. Pearl calls me this—shorthand for Pastor Luke.

“Gotta get some eyelid tacks, PNW.”

Pearl is from Portland—the Pacific North West—and these little funnies get us through long days.

She steps over to me, bug-eyed and round-mouthed as she tugs at her skirt’s hem. “Is this okay, you think? What I’m wearing?”

“Absolutely not.” I give her a pointed scowl. “I thought you’d change before we land.”

Her eyes stretch so wide, they may fall between our feet and roll across the plane’s floor, and I can’t hold back a smirk.

She shakes her head, red pigtails bouncing on her shoulders. “You’re terrible.”

I lift a brow. “So I’m told.”

“Is it true Senator Campbell is a giant sexist? I read that.”

“It’s true I’ve been thinking about changing your job description.”

Her mouth opens. She shuts it. I can tell she’s trying to play cool—not that she can. She blinks rapidly when she asks, “Change it to what?”

I press my lips together, holding back a smile. “Pastoral adviser.”

“Are you kidding me?”

My lips twitch. “Do you think I am?”

She brings her palms together. “Really?!”

“Maybe.”

“Do you want advice?” She’s beaming.

“From you?” I make a face. “Not even a little bit.”

“Will I have different stuff to do?”

“Do you have a body double?”

“No.” She looks crestfallen.

“Clone?”

She shakes her head.

“In that case…my Eight Ball says unlikely. You will get a modest raise, though.”

“And the bragging rights at Christmas! Heck yeah!”

Pearl’s dad gives her crap about being an assistant. I figure “adviser” will get him off her back.

“Thank you, PL! You’re the bestest.”

She does a little jump, and moves in like maybe she wants to hug me. I’m not big on hugs, so I do the side-step thing and pat her back.

“You’re so awkward.” She giggles.

“Pot.”

“I know. I’m totally the pot, you’re the kettle.”

All that gee-golly-feel-good stuff where Pearl tells Ansley and Rufus about her new job descriptor buys me a good ten more minutes.

I take deep breaths and hold them when I think no one is looking at my face, trying to slow my pounding pulse. For a while, I shoot the breeze with Rufus, who explains the strategy behind our plan to work with our friends in the Senate. We’ll indicate our potential financial support of both their re-election campaigns in exchange for their focus on a short but pointed list of humanitarian issues.

Shauna comes back on the speaker, telling us we’re getting near the turbulence, so we all buckle in. Ansley remains in the seat beside mine, and we fall into a conversation about several other senators we need to meet with individually—mostly so we can wear them down. Pearl sits cross-legged in a chair across the aisle, bouncing slightly as she murmurs into her phone. She’s probably triple-checking all our reservations.

One of her cousins lives in D.C., and she’ll be taking the day after tomorrow off to see the girl while I visit a think tank and then have dinner with some college friends. Tomorrow, it’s brunch at the White House, and I know Pearl is stoked for that. She’ll be even more stoked when she sees her name tag. I told them about her job title update last week, so no one talks down to her when she’s with me.

If I’m honest, Pearl has been a godsend. In addition to being very good at her job, she’s like the little sister I never had. Lots of days, she makes me feel a lot less lonely.

Something blunt and heavy aches in my chest. I shut my eyes at the surprise sensation. Ansley nudges my arm, and I open them.

She smiles kindly. “What do you think, Pastor?”

My throat feels too full as I try to swallow. I give an answer, and it sounds like me. My voice, the things I say, sound wholly normal. I feel…off, though—like an automaton version of myself. Like I’ve slipped into a slightly altered universe. I can’t shake the feeling even as we talk.