Page 41 of Sanctuary

I don’t like the self-directed bitterness in his tone, but I have no idea how to counter it. He’s only speaking the truth. He’s done a lot of things he shouldn’t have done because he was trying not to care.

I might understand him now—feel for him—but it doesn’t take all that away.

“I don’t know,” I mumble at last. “It’s hard to sort out. But I don’t think… like I told you before, I’ve always known there’s more to you than the heartless person you were trying to be.”

“I hope so,” he says in almost a whisper.

The words linger in the silence and the near darkness. Float up to the vaulted ceiling of this sanctuary and vibrate there.

We lie together in silence for a long time.

He’s not asleep anymore than I am when I finally say, “It’s weird to sleep in a church like this.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Was your family religious growing up?”

“No,” he answers easily, the intensity of before shifting into comfortable serenity. “My parents weren’t religious at all. They believed in enjoying themselves and making money.”

I wonder if he even knows if they’re alive right now—if they died before Impact or fled England before the asteroid hit—but I don’t want to shift the mood between us in order to ask. Instead, I ask, “Were you close to them?”

“Fairly close. I loved them and never doubted they loved me. But they were supremely unspiritual. We never went to church or meditated on universal questions or thought about eternity.” He pauses. “What about you?”

“We went to church semi-regularly. My folks were Christians, but they weren’t as devout as some of our friends. I grew up believing in God. Believing that Jesus died to save me.”

“And now?”

I shrug and fight the urge to squirm. “Now, I have no idea about any of it.”

“Maybe not. But maybe that faith has shaped you anyway.”

“What do you mean?” I’m so surprised by the comment that I turn to look at him over my shoulder.

He meets my eyes evenly. “You believe in doing what’s right—no matter how much the world has hurt you. You believe in sacrifice for the people you love.”

I turn back and frown at the empty space in front of me. “Don’t you?”

“I’ve been thinking about that question a lot, and I think my answer is no.”

“You saved my life on the mountain.”

“I know I did. But you helped me too. And I always want to pay my debts. But there’s never been any chasing lost causes for me. No running into brick walls. I’m not sure it’s in me to… to sacrifice.”

He’s being nakedly honest. Frighteningly so.

I don’t know how to answer it, but I want to. I want to comfort him because his self-reflection has clearly pained him. “I’m not sure anyone really knows. Not until they’re in the moment when they have to decide. But sacrifice doesn’t happen in a vacuum. It only happens out of love.”

He shifts behind me. Takes an odd, shaky breath.

“And you know damn well you’re capable of that,” I add.

It feels like he’s smiling almost poignantly. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

We don’t speak again, and eventually I fall asleep.

The next morning, Aidan wants to hike up the mountain by himself and retrieve the wine from the ski resort.

I tell him absolutely not.

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