The air inside St. Jude's Cathedral was thick with the scent of aged frankincense and the low, rhythmic hum of the Rosary. Sunlight cut through the stained glass in violent shards of crimson and gold, illuminating the dust motes that danced around Jim Oliver.
At seventeen, Jim moved with a practiced, solemn grace. Dressed in his crisp white alb, he stood near the altar, a silent sentinel to his father's booming sermon. He was the image of the perfect successor—back straight, eyes focused, hands clasped in a perpetual gesture of peace. To the congregation, he wasn't just a boy; he was a promise of continuity.
Then, the heavy oak doors at the back of the nave groaned open.
The rhythmic clicking of boots against the marble floor broke the sanctity of the silence. One by one, heads began to turn. It started with the younger girls in the back pews, their hushed whispers rippling forward like a wave. Jim's gaze, usually anchored to the crucifix, drifted toward the entrance.
A young man walked down the center aisle. He looked to be about twenty, possessed of a beauty so startling it felt disruptive to the holiness of the space. He wasn't just handsome; he was vibrant, a splash of living color against the gray stone of the cathedral. His presence was magnetic, pulling the eyes of every woman—and more than a few men—away from the pulpit.
Jim felt a strange, sudden tightness in his chest. He watched, frozen, as the stranger navigated the pews with an easy confidence, finally sliding into the front row directly next to Jim's mother.
Instead of the indignant look she usually reserved for latecomers, Jim's mother beamed.
As his father continued to preach about the virtues of a steadfast heart, Jim's own heart betrayed him. He couldn't look away. From his vantage point on the altar, he watched the stranger lean in close to his mother, whispering something that made her chuckle softly. Then, his mother turned, her eyes finding Jim. She pointed a slender finger toward the altar, nodding with pride.
The stranger looked up. His eyes met Jim's for a fleeting, searing second. He offered a small, knowing smirk before turning back to the conversation. Jim nearly dropped the ceremonial thurible. His hands were suddenly slick with sweat, his mind a chaotic blur of scripture and confusion.
The silence of the rectory garden later that afternoon was a sharp contrast to the morning's grandeur. Jim sat on the porch, trying to focus on his Latin studies, but the text felt like gibberish.
"Jim, come inside!" his mother's voice called out, vibrant and excited. "There is someone you must properly meet."
Jim stood, smoothing his shirt, his pulse thrumming in his throat. He stepped into the living room and stopped dead.
There, leaning casually against the mantle of the fireplace, was the man from the church. Up close, his beauty was even more disarming—his skin clear, his eyes bright with an intelligence that seemed to see right through Jim's practiced "altar boy" persona.
"Jim," his mother said, placing a hand on the stranger's shoulder. "I know you saw him during the service, but the timing wasn't right. This is your cousin, Mauwa Gene. He's moved here to attend the University, and he'll be staying with us."
Mauwa stepped forward, extending a hand. His smile was effortless. "So, this is the future priest," he said, his voice a rich, melodic baritone. "I've heard a lot about you, Jim."
Jim looked at the hand, then at Mauwa's face. In that moment, the world felt dangerously small. The "narrow path" his father had spent years building suddenly felt like it was crumbling beneath his feet.
The Oliver family dining room was usually a place of quiet reverence, presided over by Father Oliver. Tonight, however, the atmosphere was charged, crackling with an unfamiliar energy—all courtesy of Mauwa.
Jim sat rigidly beside his younger sister, Cherry, who was barely containing her glee. Cherry, thirteen and usually more interested in her phone than anything else, kept stealing glances at their new cousin. Father Oliver, seated at the head of the table, held court, his eyes shining with paternal pride as he lectured Mauwa on the importance of prioritizing studies over the distractions of campus life.
Mauwa, however, was not intimidated. He listened respectfully, but his eyes danced with amusement, and he occasionally offered thoughtful, complex counter-points that impressed Jim's mother.
"The core lesson, Mauwa," Father Oliver said, spearing a piece of roast, "is discipline. The world is full of temptations. We must train ourselves to recognize the path of service and stick to it. Right, Jim?" He paused, seeking his son's affirmation.
Jim nodded quickly, his gaze fixed on his plate. "Yes, Father."
"Jim is a perfect example," Mrs. Oliver chimed in warmly. "He is already so dedicated to his calling. He doesn't let things sway him, whether it's frivolous sports or… well, anything else."
Jim felt the heat rising in his cheeks. He could feel Mauwa's presence next to his mother, practically radiating warmth. Jim chanced a glance. Mauwa was looking directly at him, a slow, half-smile playing on his lips. It wasn't a mocking smile, but one of genuine, unsettling interest—a look that seemed to challenge Jim to reveal something deeper than his well-rehearsed piety.
"That's a lot of pressure for a young man," Mauwa commented smoothly, addressing the table but focusing his eyes on Jim. "To be so perfect. I wonder what happens when a perfect path gets interrupted."
"It doesn't get interrupted, Mauwa," Father Oliver corrected sternly. "You simply step back onto it. The faith provides the map."
"But what if the map is wrong?" Mauwa persisted, tilting his head slightly. "What if the destination you're walking towards isn't yours? What if it belongs to the mapmaker?"
The room fell silent. Cherry giggled nervously. Mrs. Oliver shifted uncomfortably.
Jim felt a sudden, violent surge of panic. Mauwa's words were a blade cutting through the neat, ordered facade of his life. Everything Jim had tried to bury—the terrifying attraction in the church, the physical discomfort of sitting near this man, the shattering realization that his heart had registered a truth his mind couldn't accept—all boiled to the surface. He felt suffocated, trapped by the starched collar of his shirt and the silent expectations of his family.
He couldn't sit there and be dissected by that knowing gaze. He couldn't be near that beautiful, magnetic force that threatened to unravel seventeen years of careful discipline.
Jim shoved his chair back with a loud, grating scrape that echoed in the silence.
"I'm done," he clipped out, his voice tight and uneven.
Father Oliver frowned. "Jim, that is uncharacteristically rude. You haven't finished your potatoes."
Jim didn't look at his father. He couldn't. He took a staggering step back, his eyes catching Mauwa's one last time. Mauwa wasn't smiling anymore; his expression was one of intense, curious concern.
"I—I have a lot of study prep for tomorrow," Jim stammered, the lie tasting foul. He turned sharply and practically fled the room, leaving the weighty silence and the lingering, confusing presence of his cousin behind him. He didn't stop until he reached the cold, dark sanctuary of his own bedroom, leaning against the locked door, gasping for air as if he had just escaped a fire.
The sanctuary of Jim's bedroom was gone.
As he slammed the door and fumbled for the light switch, the familiar layout of his room—once a sparse, holy cell of textbooks and prayer cards—had been invaded. His desk had been pushed into the corner, and a second bed now sat parallel to his own, neatly made with navy blue linens that looked stark against Jim's own white sheets. A leather duffel bag sat at the foot of the new bed, and a stack of university textbooks lay on the nightstand.
Mauwa wasn't just staying in the house; he was staying in Jim's skin, breathing his air, occupying his only place of peace.
Jim's hands shook with a white-hot fury. He wanted to scream, to storm back downstairs and demand why his privacy had been sacrificed without a word. But the rebellion died in his throat. He was Jim Oliver. He was the "Golden Boy." To complain was to be ungrateful; to be angry was to be prideful. His parents' will was the echo of God's will, and a good son—a future priest—accepted his cross with a smile. He sank onto his own bed, staring at the empty space between the two mattresses as if it were a Great Canyon he could never cross.
Downstairs, the clatter of silverware had ceased. Father Oliver stared at the empty doorway, his brow furrowed in a deep, stony shadow.
"I have never seen him act with such... such petulance," Father Oliver muttered, his voice vibrating with a mix of confusion and disappointment. "To shove a chair? In this house? It's shocking. It's as if a different boy just walked out of this room."
He looked at his wife, then at Mauwa, who remained remarkably calm, swirling the water in his glass.
"Perhaps the pressure of the upcoming exams is weighing on him," Mrs. Oliver said softly, her voice laced with motherly worry. "He's been studying so hard with you, Thomas. Maybe he's reached a breaking point."
"Even in exhaustion, a man must maintain his character," Father Oliver insisted. He turned to his wife, then shifted his gaze to Mauwa. "Go up there, both of you. Check on him. See if there is some hidden burden he is carrying. Mauwa, you're closer to his age—perhaps he'll speak more freely to a peer than to his father right now."
Mauwa stood up, his movements fluid and deliberate. "I'll see what I can do, Uncle."
Upstairs, Jim heard the footsteps on the hardwood—the soft, hurried tread of his mother and the heavier, rhythmic step he already recognized as Mauwa's.
A soft knock came at the door.
"Jim, honey?" his mother's voice called out. "It's me. And Mauwa. We're coming in."
The door creaked open. Jim didn't look up. He sat on the edge of his bed, his head bowed, looking every bit the penitent monk.
"Jim, your father is very concerned," Mrs. Oliver said, walking over to rub his shoulder. "That wasn't like you. Are you feeling ill? Is the schoolwork too much?"
Jim forced his voice to be steady, though his heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "I'm fine, Mother. I just... I had a sudden headache. I shouldn't have been so rude. Please tell Father I am deeply sorry."
"You can tell him yourself in the morning," she sighed, relieved by his quick return to obedience. She looked over at Mauwa, who was leaning against the doorframe, watching Jim with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. "Mauwa, I'll leave you two to get settled. I hope having a roommate isn't too much of a shock for you, Jim."
As his mother left and the door clicked shut, the silence in the room became deafening. Jim finally looked up, meeting Mauwa's eyes.
"A headache?" Mauwa asked, his voice low and skeptical. He stepped further into the room, reclaiming the space that was now legally his. "You're a very good actor, Jim. But your hands are still shaking."