Page 80 of The Senator: Raphael

“Why didn’t you tell us? We could have helped.” Aaron frowns at my secrecy.

“It was…I honestly don’t know,” I admit. “You don’t flaunt something like this, and I honestly didn’t realize how much I was caught up in the relationship until I lost her. I mean, I care about her but…” I don’t even have the courage to finish the sentence.

“It doesn’t feel fake anymore, does it?” Harrison says.

“No, it doesn’t. It feels pretty fucking real,” I admit.

I’ve already told Matthew that my feelings for Silver go way beyond “pretending,” but I blurted it out in the heat of the moment. Admitting it to my friends a second time makes it really sink in. I don’t know if I can live without her.

“There’s no reason to think they got her, right?” Leonard asks, going back to his usual pragmatism after his initial shock.

“No, there’s not. We dug deep into this, and she walked out on her own will, and we assume she’s hiding somewhere. Probably scared.” I’m certain of it. I would have torn the city apart if I had the slightest doubt that she’s been taken.

“Why walk out? She’s safer with you,” Aaron murmurs and I can’t argue his logic.

“When you’ve been running from your past your entire life, it’s hard to know what’s the right thing to do. You just get stuck in your own head, and you’re not objective enough to know what’s best for you,” Harrison explains, and I totally get it. We’re all running from that damned day in one way or another.

“So, what will you do if she doesn’t want to come home? If she disappears and leaves the city entirely. You can’t force her to come back.” Leonard voices my worst fear.

I’ve thought about it a lot since yesterday, and the terror that grips me every time I imagine that outcome is physically painful.

“I don’t know. I’ll die inside, I guess.”

I wake up to the sound of gentle knocking at the door. Every single part of my body hurts from spending the night on a wooden bench, but at least my exhaustion made me sleep. In the split second between opening my eyes and reality sinking in, I feel at peace. A real, deep peace that lightens my chest despite my aching muscles. It’s fleeting, but I cling to it as long as I can. I can’t explain where it comes from, but it’s probably my mind giving me a bit of relief from the turmoil of the last few days.

A second knock on the door pulls me away from the comfortable feeling once and for all.

“Coming,” I answer groggily as I sit up.

I open the door to find the old priest smiling and raising a paper bag from Starbucks. The image is so unexpected that I don’t even know what to say.

“I thought you might be hungry, so I sent one of my catechists to get you something,” he explains at my puzzlement.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to…” I take the paper bag and look inside. My stomach growls at the sight of the muffin and the smell of coffee. I blush in gratitude.

“I know, but it’s my pleasure to feed a woman in need.”

I nod and dive into the bag, tearing a piece of muffin and putting it in my mouth. I almost moan when the sweet flavor hits my tastebuds.

“How are you feeling this morning?” he asks and my heart skips a bit.

Can I lie to a priest? No, I can’t. “Trapped?” It comes out as a question because I don’t know what I really feel.

I want to disappear, to go back in time to when things were easier, but I realize I can’t. I’m not delusional enough to believe that’s a real option, but I take a minute to bask in the comfortable feeling this thought gives me.

“Why don’t we take a walk outside? The sun isn’t scorching hot yet.”

“What time is it?” I ask when I realize I left everything back at the house, including my phone.

“Seven-thirty.”

It’s a mundane detail that somehow puts my mind at ease. At least I know it’s been almost twenty-four hours since I walked out of the house. Not that I’m counting the minutes I’m separated from Raphael, but I’m aware of time passing. It’s a small thing that gives me a sense of control over my life.

I follow the priest through a small door behind the altar, and my breath catches in my throat when I take in the view outside. The small church is perched on top of a hill that looks out over one of Malibu’s many canyons, with its sturdy trees and shrubs accustomed to the drought of this area. The ground is dry and dusty, dotted with rocks of every size that give this place a wild, uninhabited look.

The church is something right out of the movies, painted white with a small bell tower, and has the look of the last refuge for someone on the run.

I take a bite of the muffin and sip at the coffee, walking slowly next to the priest.

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