**She Can’t Lie Under the Steeple**
Ralph was never the best-behaved lad in school, but academically, he was top of the class. Teachers praised his grades but scolded his antics. Handsome and charming, girls flocked to him—and he took full advantage, cycling through them without a second thought.
Emily had been in his class since Year One. By Year Seven, she realised she was “the fat one”—the girl everyone called “Pudgy” or “Lard-Arse.” Though she’d grown numb to the taunts, they stung more as puberty hit and crushes bloomed. While other girls giggled over who’d tugged whose hair or passed secret notes, no boy ever glanced Emily’s way—except to lob another cruel nickname. At home, she sobbed into her pillow.
“Mum, why am I so fat? Why am I the only one?” she’d sniffle.
“Love, you’ll grow out of it,” her mother fibbed, smoothing her hair. Deep down, she knew her daughter’s weight wasn’t just puppy fat.
Ralph was the worst. By secondary school, he’d paired up with Jessica—a sharp-tongued queen bee—and joined her in tormenting Emily. Maybe he was showing off. Either way, Emily endured it silently, tears streaking her round cheeks.
Time passed. School ended. Ralph studied architecture, Jessica went to beauty college, and Emily enrolled in engineering. They never crossed paths again—until one evening, years later.
Ralph was ambling back from Regent’s Park Lake with mates after celebrating a bonus, tipsy and loud. Then he spotted her: a woman alone by the water, tossing bread to ducks. When she looked up, he drowned in her blue eyes—warm, mesmerising. He broke from his friends, swooping in with a grin.
“Ralph. And you are…? Fancy a stroll? Or shall we skip to the wedding? Here’s my card.” He waggled it. She hesitated, frowned, but took it before turning away.
He jogged after her. “Wait! If I offended, blame the pints. Call me? I’d love to make it up to you.”
The next day, Ralph glued himself to his phone. By afternoon, a text arrived—*Emily!*—and his heart leapt. He fired back gratitude and a dinner invite. That evening, clutching roses outside the restaurant, he finally saw her. She was smiling. The date was magic.
Over months, Ralph discovered Emily’s layers: kind, whip-smart, a knitter, a tennis enthusiast. At twenty-eight, with a string of flings (and one failed live-in relationship) behind him, he fell hard. She was different. Only one thing puzzled him: her faith. She attended church fortnightly, but he dodged the topic.
*Maybe it’s trauma. Or secrecy—hence the locked socials,* he mused. *Odd she won’t post couple photos, though.* Still, he respected her boundaries, trusting she’d open up in time.
Six months in, he suggested moving in.
“Sorry, Ralph. Too soon,” Emily said. “And—well, I’m traditional. I’d only live with my husband.”
Instead of annoyance, he admired her principle. Life rolled on—until a work trip whisked them to Bath.
“Four hours by car?” she asked.
“If I behave,” he joked. They chatted the miles away, dined at a cosy café, then—
“Marry me, Em. Let’s buy a ring right now.”
Her brow furrowed. “Ralph, I’ve told you—faith matters. You’ve never stepped foot in church. You’d need to confess, meet my parents…”
He spotted a steeple. “Then let’s start now.” Dragging her inside, he blurted to the vicar, “I’ll confess! Then we’ll wed!”
The vicar chuckled. “Slow down, son. Marriage prep comes first—but I’ll hear your confession.”
It took three minutes. Ralph skimmed his sins, the vicar absolved him—and he dropped to one knee. Emily paled, then walked out.
“Em, what’s wrong?”
“I can’t lie under the steeple.” His confusion deepened. “Ralph… don’t you recognise me? Emily *Sutton*. Your *classmate*.”
His stomach lurched. *No. No.* Memories flooded back: the taunts, Jessica’s sneers… and the day Emily’s dad had yanked him by the collar: *”Bully my girl again, and I’ll toss you down the stairs.”*
She spoke softly. “Forty kilos lighter. Years of therapy, faith, forgiveness… or so I thought.” Her eyes glistened. “In there, I realised I *haven’t* forgiven you. God might. But I… I can’t.”
As she left, Ralph crumpled onto a pew. The vicar found him later, brewed tea, and listened to a *real* confession. That night, staring at the stars, Ralph prayed properly for the first time: *”Please… let her forgive me.”*
He called her. No answer. Only hope remained—and maybe, just maybe, divine intervention.
