Page 35 of Over You
“Ah, thanks, mate. You’re a legend.” His eyes remained locked on my autograph as he walked toward his scooter. “I’ll get David to ink over this.”
“Hey, uh.” I couldn’t believe I was about to ask this stranger if he knew where I could get any blow. Dude definitely wasn’t a cop, and he was a fan which meant, chances were, he wouldn’t be shocked. It was public knowledge I had a bit of a problem. “Do you know where I could find a little. . .” I clucked my tongue.
“Oh. Right. Yeah. Actually.” He thumbed under his nose before pointing down the street. “If you go over to the cathedral.”The cathedral?“Go into the confessional and—”
“Nah, man. I don’t think you understand.”
A sleazy smirk curled his lips. “Trust me, mate. Go into the confessional and tell Father Kingsley you sinned. Make sure you use the word grievous sin. That’s the signal that you want some blow. When he asks you how many Hail Mary’s will rite your soul or whatnot, tell him the number of grams.”
I felt every muscle in my face go lax. This dude was serious. I thought the Latter-day Saints that delivered to your door where messed up, but a drug dealing priest? Talk about issues. “Thanks, man.”
He waved before swinging his leg over the seat of his scooter. The engine whined when he cranked it.
While he puttered around the corner, I headed to the church. I strolled past a clothing boutique, a café, and a candy shop that would give Willy Wonka a hard-on. I wove down the cobblestone streets, underneath a little Union Jack wavering in the breeze, and I eventually stood in front of a gothic, stone cathedral, complete with a clock and bell tower. The Brothers Grimm must have thrown up this city.
Tourists stood on the lawn, snapping janky-angled photos. Kids cartwheeled across the grass. Was I seriously about to go into a church and place an order like it was a narcotic drive-thru?
My feet moved along the sidewalk in answer to my question.
The warmth of the sun disappeared when I stepped into the shadow of the mammoth structure. Incense wafted through the arched doors where a volunteer smiled and passed out pamphlets.
A maze of flying buttresses crisscrossed the rounded ceiling. Daylight poured through rows of windows that flanked each side of the sanctuary. Women stood, whispering prayers in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary while they lit candles. But what really got me to stop and stare was the gigantic, round, stained-glass window over the altar. The sun caught in the panes, casting a kaleidoscope of color across the worn stone floor. A place like this made it hard not to stand in awe. This—thisgave a person a sense of the supernatural. The all-powerful. Of something greater than human comprehension. I found myself stumbling around with my gaze aimed at the colorful window while tourist brushed past.
I’d set foot in a church exactly twice in my life. Once when I was ten and afraid I was on my way to hell for dying my fourth set of foster parents’ poodle blue. The second time was for Bennington, the son we’d lost. Georgia was hell-bent on a church funeral, one that no one outside of Nash, Leo, and I were allowed to attend. The media had no idea we were expecting, and we didn’t need the stress of them finding out and running our misery into the ground. She was twenty weeks along when she went into labor, and I was at a show in Sydney. I left in the middle of the concert and boarded the fourteen-hour flight.
She had dealt with that alone.
And I would never forgive myself. My vision blurred, and I swatted the damning tears from my eyes.
A cold, bony hand touched my arm. “Can I help you, son?”
I turned toward the man beside me “Oh. Um, Father Kingsley?” I needed those thoughts to be buried under a mountain of bliss-inducing snow. “I have sins.”
His thin lips curved in a sympathetic smile. “The confessional’s around the corner.”
I nodded a thank you and took off. My footfalls reverberated into the tall ceilings, like a tattle-tale to God as I booked it toward the confessional. I tried to convince myself the reason it felt like some omniscient power was watching me was thanks to my being on the brink of withdrawal psychosis. . . I ducked into the wooden box, then flung the blood-red curtain closed. A shadow shifted behind the brass lattice divider.
“Um, I’ve never done this.”
“It’s alright my child. God is understanding.”
I wet my lips with my tongue and swiped the sheen of sweat from my brow. “Grievous sins.”
A low chuckle tinged by the scent of cinnamon floated through the divider. “Confess your grievous sins. God’s listening.”
The kink in my stomach almost made me bolt right out of that booth, but my demon tugged at my sleeve, begging me to feed him. “So, forgive me for my sins and shi—” I swallowed the profanity down. “And stuff. I think I need to do some Hail Mary’s.”
“And how many Hail Mary’s will rite your soul?”
“One. Or Two. Maybe three.”
“Three?”
“Yeah, let’s go with three.”
“Place your offering of five hundred pounds in the hymnal of the third pew on the right. Come back in an hour and take the prayer cushion.”
I gripped the velvet curtain, slipped out, and made my payment.
