Page 38 of Savior

She’s been through so much. She doesn’t need me piling onto everything she’s going through.

Nor do I need to have thoughts of her plaguing me when I’m already down a rabbit hole of dissecting my faith. Or lack thereof, lately.

“Come to Mass.” I normally don’t press, but something about having her eyes on me while I give a sermon has my insides coiling into tight snakes.

“Okay.” Her breathy reply shoots through my body like a bolt of awareness.

“Okay.”

She leans in, and I’m helpless, frozen, and wondering what she’ll do next.

Her lips connect with my cheek. She lingers next to it after her kiss is long gone.

“Goodnight, Father.”

“Goodnight, Sloane.” My hand covers the tingling spot where she kissed me long after she’d gone to her room and slipped beneath her covers.

Long after I’ve slipped beneath mine.

The dream that comes after is how I know I’m screwed.

I’m not strong enough to fight the urge to touch that which I shouldn’t. I am not strong enough to resist doing anything in my power to make Sloane happy.

Whatever the cost.

CHAPTER TWELVE

SLOANE

“One such example,” Father Russo says as he looks over the parishioners gathered before him, “is from Psalm 73:26, where the psalmist said this:My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.”

He lets his words settle over the room for effect, and it works. Because my heart warms, and my body vibrates with the sheer power he commands over the room. You could hear a pin drop in here, and there have to be hundreds of people at Mass today.

“So, while your heart and flesh might fail, with God in your heart and soul, you have all the strength you need to go forward. To take that next step. And each of you here today has let him into your hearts and souls. So, whatever you have going on, leave this place today knowing that you have the tools and the light within you to take whatever next step you need to take. Rather, it is a rough day at work that’s upcoming, or healing a past trauma that you have to face head-on…”

As Father Russo’s words fade, and my ears fill with the pounding of my heart, I realize that today’s sermon was more for me than for the parish. Can he do that? Know that someoneamongst his flock is suffering and preach to them solely from his apse?

Is that allowed?

Or am I in such internal turmoil that his words ring true and feel like they’re targeting me?

Either way, a tear brims and falls over my lower lid. I drop my head and swipe it away as Father Russo has the parish bow their heads to close Mass with prayer.

It’s been three weeks since I got here with Dante Ricci, and while Father Russo has been very accommodating and kind, I’m in a world I never thought I’d become a part of.

One with communion and Mass, devout people surrounding me constantly. There are church functions almost daily, and Father Russo leads Mass four times a week, given a break only when the other priests take up the different masses. He lives on the grounds in a small home built off the back of the building. A rectory, he told me.

It’s so that he can be close by if he’s needed. But it makes this place his entire life.

The parish says amen, and I lift my head. The room’s emotion breaks as everyone stands. Some linger and talk, while others head for the doors to rush back to their busy lives.

I remain sitting, catching Father Russo’s eyes only once as he grabs his bible and heads towards the back of the apse for his office.

Breathing in deeply, I look at the steepled roof and the colored lights dancing off people as they pass. The stained glass windows are breathtaking, but I still feel this isn’t the world I belong in.

Usually, while he preaches, I stay in my room. There are ample things to do in his home, and it’s the first time I haven’t been juggling two jobs and dead on my feet.

I’ve caught up on television, watching trashy reality shows that make my soul happy. I’ve almost forgotten that someone’s looking for me. That my life hangs in the balance as the Ricci family battles it out with Matteo Barone over who owns me.

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