The church was of a particular luminescence that day. A cozy, incandescent light streamed in from the stained glass windows, creating a luminous pattern on the red carpet. The dusted air floated lazily and smelled of wood polish and familiar warmth. For Sister Margaret, these were the days of deep fulfillment and solace for her: alone with her thoughts in her home. Where she could reflect with gratitude, organizing pamphlets, without Sister Agatha complaining about dishwashing duty or Sister Paula’s asthma sniffles during the evening Vespers.
            Margaret placed another pamphlet into the back of the pew and closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. Everything about this day was quiet, she thought. Everything was wonderful and warm and perf-
            “Hey, uh, excuse me? I’m here to assess damage with one of your pews.”
            Margaret opened her eyes. Her mouth dropped.
            “Wesley?”
            Margaret couldn’t believe her eyes. When Wesley Adams walked out of her life, she had slammed the door, installed multiple locks, and set up security cameras to make sure he would never walk back in. But of course, Wesley being Wesley, found a window.
            Now, he stood in her church, gripping a ham sandwich and a toolbox in either hand.
            Talk about paradise shattered. Margaret recoiled, panicked, and examined the familiar stranger standing in front of her. He was mid-bite of his sandwich, and when he talked his mouth was filled with a goopy soggy mess. His breath, she assumed, must’ve been absolutely rancid. Crusty mustard was smeared on his freckled boyish face, especially into his unevenly shaven chin and jawline. He wasn’t nearly as bony and gauntly as when she last saw him, but he still held the same electric, mischievous craziness in his icicle blue eyes. Everything and nothing had changed.
            “Margie. Oh my God.” Wesley spread his arms wide, and a little bit of chest hair peeked out of his unevenly buttoned blue flannel. “How long has it been? Eight years?”
            “Y-yeah.” Nine. She ripped her gaze away to plausibly avoid the implication of a hug.
            “And you’re a… You work here?”
            “I mean” Margaret peered down at her robes, slouching. A moment of embarrassment crossed her mind but was soon squashed by pride. She stiffened up. “Yeah. Yes. I do. I,”
            “You’re a nun.”
            “Yes.” Crossed her arms.
            “How” Wesley had the same disbelieving half-open mouth smile he had a decade ago when he saw Addie Benton slap Matthew Lowe across the face during lunch. “How have I not heard about you working here? I drove, like, 45 minutes from Fairbanks to get here.”
            “I didn’t tell many people from home.”
            “Well, I’ll be. Margie Dunn, the secretive nun.”
            These words hit her square in the chest and crept up her neck hotly.
            “Well, you’re a carpenter.”
            “Yes ma’am.” He took an annoying bow. “Here to fix all your wood.”
            “Wesley.” Margaret hissed automatically. Something familiar and ugly inside of her unearthed. Too familiar. When she found his eyes, she found a mischievous, recognizable twinkle. Her insides flipped like a pancake.
Breaking eye contact, she noticed a red button on his shirt. “Your father’s business.” Before she could resist, she burst out. “How is your father lately?”
Sister Catherine would be disappointed in her remark, but the way Wesley’s face flooded red was priceless. He tossed his tin-foiled ham sandwich onto the floor and bent, his hands oily and stained yellow. Nonetheless, they opened the toolbox and rummaged through. “Fine.”
           “Still the neighborhood firework technician?”
            “That only happened one time.”
            “Oh yeah, I’ll never forget. Was it junior year? We had just gone to that all-night diner and you ordered that disgusting crab sandwich,”
            “It was tuna fish.” Wesley’s thin blonde hair swung carelessly as he picked up a tape measure. Avoiding eye contact, he turned around and started heading over to the pew.
            “Right. I remember you had very fishy breath. When I dropped you off at home, your dad still called you an imbecile for coming home past curfew. But your front yard was literally on fire.”
            Even with Wesley’s back turned, Margaret knew that he rolled his eyes. “It was Fourth of July and he wanted to try being festive. Or whatever. Probably some sort of weird pact he had with my mom in order to make her feel better about their shit marriage.”
            Her face fell. “Are they,”
            “Oh, divorced as can be. Cut the cord after I graduated.”
            “I’m sorry.”
            “Yeah, it’s fine, I don’t care. Sorry if you do. Probably violates your rules or something.”
            “My rules?” Margaret scoffed.
            “Yeah, your Jesus rules or whatever.” Wesley’s tape measure snapped back into place loudly, as if to second his statement.
            “I can’t believe you’re still on this anti-religion vendetta.”
            “Yeah, well, an old dog can’t learn too many new tricks at once, eh?” He pulled out his tape measure and wiggled it in her face, that grin he thought was irresistible smeared onto his face like the mustard. He did a once-over of her, and she felt a need to cover up, even though she had full robes on. “But it seems like you did. When did this happen?”
            Margaret tried swallowing down her reddening face. “I went to St. Catherine’s after high school to do this.”                   
            “And this wasn’t because of me.”
            “No.”
            “And you don’t, like, regret it at all.”
            “No!” The embarrassment quickly turned into anger. “I live a completely fulfilled life. With an incredible community. I’m living out an actual purpose. Unlike other people I know.”
            “Ouch, Sister Margie. Isn’t it unholy to hate thy neighbor?”
            The memories were unwelcomely rushing back now. How he ran over her mom’s gardenias with his car from rushing to attend the high school football game. How he made her wear an itchy polyester hamburger suit for Halloween and forgot to show up as the fries, instead sporting baseball jerseys with his friends. Oh, he infuriated her so much, Margaret’s head felt like it was going to explode. Without another word, she spun her heel and began walking out of the church.
            “Woah, woah. Margie.” First rapid footsteps, then a hand on her elbow. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I thought we were just playing.”
            She ripped it away. “It’s always playing with you, isn’t it, Wesley?” She spun around and pointed a finger. “You never took school seriously. You never took life seriously. You can’t even take this job seriously, or, or, me.” Margaret was so close she could see the overslept redness in the corners of his eyes. “We both know what you couldn’t take seriously nine years ago. And now you walk into my home and you expect me to feel fine about that?”
            A sudden door creak from behind Wesley broke the tension. Margaret frantically brushed out her robes and stiffened up, her hands interlacing each other statuesquely like a porcelain doll. She dared to glimpse at Wesley once, whose widened eyes and smatter of freckles pronounced his boyish guilt.
            “Oh, there you are.” Sister Catherine peeked out from behind the door. She noticed Wesley, a look of surprise crossing her face. “Hello there. Is this the carpenter for the pew?”
            Margaret nodded stiffly with a plastered smile. “Hi. Yes. Are you here to handle him? I was just about to leave.”
            “Oh!” Sister Catherine’s forehead wrinkles appeared. “Is everything alright?”
            “Fantastic!” Margaret moved towards her escape.
            “Sister Margaret, if we have a guest, it would be rude to leave them.” Sister Catherine smiled widely and threateningly like her mother when her brother would make inappropriate jokes at dinner parties.
            Margaret habitually shrunk.
            “Oh, it’s no trouble, ma’am, sister, uh mother,” Wesley struggled, making Margaret snort. “I can just figure it out for myself.”
            “Nonsense,” Sister Catherine waved it off. “Sister Margaret will help you. I apologize for the interruption.” She turned to Margaret. “I just wanted to let you know that we finally got the new blankets for the nursery.”
            “Oh thank goodness.” A cool wave of relief washed over her. “Those other blankets were getting torn to shreds by the daycare’s washing machine.”
            “Will you be around tomorrow afternoon to help distribute them?”
            “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
            With an approving nod, Sister Catherine left.
            “So,” Wesley was innocently rocking back and forth on his feet. “Nurseries?”
            “Yeah.” She immediately turned away from him and placed a pamphlet in the nearest pew, not trusting his curiosity.
            “What do you do for them?”
            The genuineness of his tone was surprising. She continued placing pamphlets, cautiously starting, “Well, it’s been one of my favorite parts of working in ministry. We help in the church daycare. There’s a nursery section. I run our partnership with that program.”
            “I remember you always liked volunteering at those church camps over the summer.”
            Something softened in her like butter. She turned to face him.
            “You remember.”
            “Yeah, I remember you came back one day with… was it paint in your hair?”
            “Slime. It was a slime day.”
            “Right. I remember picking you up one day and that one kid loved you, he wouldn’t stop clinging to your leg.”
            “Brandon Parker. Really sweet kid.”
            A moment passed as Wesley opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
            “I miss that. I miss seeing you around town, kids from your camps running up to you when we’d get ice cream. It was,”
            “Wesley…”
            “It was all just easier. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that. But I just miss,”
            “Wesley,” Tears welled up in Margaret’s eyes. “Stop it.”
            “I know. I’m sorry. I guess I’m just confused, did I, id our last conversation, when we broke up, did it make you…?” He gestured haphazardly around the chapel.
            “No,” Margaret half-lied. A few tears leaked out, and she shakily inhaled. “I mean, not no. But not entirely yes, either. I think, I think after Mom died, I knew that this was something I needed to do. Work in the church. Commit myself to a life of faith. Do good for the world. I knew that I was young to be committing myself to nunnery, but after we graduated… After she was gone and we broke up, or whatever. .Everything fell apart. My father started drinking. My brother left, who knows where he is now. I needed more from the life I was living. And the church stood behind me, completely held me up, when I thought I would never be able to overcome the grief. I got referred to St. Catherine’s; Mom had always told me that I would be great in the church and I just couldn’t imagine a world where I wouldn’t see her again. Now, I have a family again. And I know she’s finally proud of me.”
            “Margaret.” He used her full name. Catching her breath, she looked up to meet Wesley’s blue eyes, flashing dark with remorse. Sincerity. “I’m really, really sorry.”
            “It was a long time ago. You were just a kid.”
            “You were too. You shouldn’t have had to deal with that alone. And I was a complete dipshit of a kid.”
            She laughed, tearfully. “Yeah, you were. When we were breaking up, you literally joked that I didn’t even like my mom that much anyways.”
            “Geez. Yeah, I did.” His white-blonde hair shook with his head. “I am so sorry for that. I, ” He sighed. “I was driven by a lot of things back then. Most of them, insecurities. I was a really hyperactive kid with no respect for boundaries. Things were pretty awful at home.”
            “I know.”
            “And I needed to be the biggest personality in the room in order to feel like I mattered. This came at the expense of everyone else, including you. I put you through a lot. I don’t know how you put up with me, frankly.”
            “You forget I enjoy working with children, Adams. I’ve got a lot of patience.”
            Wesley’s laughter hit her like a warm, lilac summer night.
            “Still a comedian, Dunn.”
            “And you sound like you’re going to therapy, finally.”
            “Oh, tons of it. After high school, I went to community college. Was my only option, really. I was living at home when the folks split up. No one was around anymore, no way high school friends like Brent Rockford would want to stick around and comfort me. Hit rock bottom and realized I couldn’t save myself with stupid jokes anymore.”
            “Wesley,”
            “It’s okay, now, of course. I worked at Rocco’s Cafe for a while and saved up some cash to road trip around the country on a budget. Got really into true crime audiobooks. Came back a better man and ready to patch up my relationship with my father. We’re better now. Obviously.” He patted the red “Adams Carpentry” pin sitting on his left chest pocket.
            “I’m really glad. I really am.”
            “Yeah, me too.”
            The strained tension between them now hung limply, almost confused. When she looked at her ex-boyfriend, she wasn’t exactly sure who she was seeing anymore. The little boy with mischievous electric eyes and mustard-crusted beard had disappeared. Instead, there stood a larger reconstruction of the bits and pieces. Someone who made her feel like everything they just said was okay, that she was with someone who understood.
            Someone who could still feel like home for her, even after all these years.
            “Well,” Wesley’s joking tone was riddled with lingering emotion. “I guess we’re fixing more than that pew today.”
            “The pew.” Margaret had forgotten. “My goodness. Right. Let me show you where it is.”
            Wesley picked up his toolbox, following her lead as a cheesy grin spreading across his face. “So, want to know who Brent Rockford married?”
            “You’re kidding. Jeannie Hart?”
            “Outstandingly nasally voice and all.”
            “Of course he did.”
            They reached the lopsided pew. Among the neatly spaced rows of dark, worn wooden pews, this one stuck out like a singularly toppled bowling pin. Wrapped at least four times around it was bright neon yellow caution tape. The anxious work of Sister Agatha’s, if Margaret had ever seen it.
            He peered down. “What’s it being held up with right now?”
            Margaret winced. “Uh,” A laugh almost bubbled up, then quickly suppressed. When she looked up, Wesley’s face was lit up with a mischievous smile. He lowered himself to his knees and looked under the pew.
            “Is that…did you prop it up with a Bible?”
            “I can explain!” Margaret exclaimed, giggles seeping out.
            “Margie, I don’t know where you are in your ‘spiritual journey’ or all that, but I’m pretty sure you’re breaking at least fifty Bible laws right now.”
            “Elder Bertha sprained her finger when that pew fell! I needed to think fast!”
            Wesley had a look on his face Margaret could vaguely recognize. Disbelief, pride, some sort of confusing mix. Her better judgment begged her to squash the high schooler inside that was laughing madly.
            “Well, God almighty, Margie Dunn. Laughing at fallen and injured church elders. Thy kingdom come and thy will be done on this pew.”
            She feigned shock. “Wesley Adams. Is that a Bible reference?”
            He shrugged. “I’ve been dragged to a few masses in my time.”
            “We have some good ones here, if you’re interested.”
            “It’s a competitive process, how the great Wesley Adams will spend his time, but I’ll consider your application.”
            “Ah, of course, got it.”
            “And if I do come, my time certainly won’t be spent making any more dead mom jokes.”
            Margaret’s head flashed hot briefly. Her body tensed and she crossed her arms, staring at the floor.
            “Shit. I’m sorry.”
            “It’s okay.
            “No, it’s not. I better go.” Wesley awkwardly stop-start-shuffled as he shook his head to himself, passing by. He dropped the tape measure into the toolbox and picked up the rest of his ham sandwich. Without turning around, he started toward the exit.
            Maybe it was the fact that he apologized, multiple times in the last hour, in fact. Maybe it was the way he hung his head and she could hear muttered words like “stupid” and “messed it up again” echoing around the church. Maybe it was the way that she stared her past in the mustard-crusted, unshaven face and laughed with him. But an unfamiliar feeling came over Margaret. A courage, or softness, or something somewhere in between.
            “Wesley.” She called. He stopped, half-turned, his white-blonde hair illuminated by tinted light streaming through the orange stained glass windows. “It… it was good seeing you.”
            Wesley looked up from the red carpet, his face slightly flushed. He looked back up at her. “You too, Margie. Take care of yourself. And don’t be propping up any more pews with Bibles. You can get in trouble for that.”
            “Yeah, well, I learned from the best.”
            A real grin, from both of them.
            “You know, Jesus was a carpenter, too. I think you two could get along.”
            “Highly doubt that. But if you’re implying that I’m Jesus, I wholeheartedly accept.”

Elyse Hsiao is a Los Angeles twenty-something who writes somewhere between the lines of quiet introspective grief and dumpster-fire breakups. She served as a music critic and editor for her newspaper at the University of Southern California.