Page 78 of Heathens
Salem: I’m not a priest yet.
Me: You keep saying that. Every time I mention the word, you say, “I’m not a priest yet.” Why?
His response doesn’t come right away, but when the block of text finally does appear, I know why it took so long.
Salem: I think... it's because I've been in denial. Religion attracts broken people. Do you remember saying that to me? I was broken—in so many ways. I needed a direction, and once I had an end goal, my problems seemed to disappear. No drinking, no women, no drugs. I whittled my life into two focuses: my family, and my faith. For three years, those two things were the only things to occupy my mind. And then you came crashing into that confessional, just as broken as I had once been. I recognized you—I recognized everything about you, like my soul was remembering what it was once like for me. Except, you defied everything I'd built up, everything I believed. I was celibate, I was a man of God, but I broke my promises to Him for you. It was so easy. It felt so right. Being near you felt right. But it was wrong in the eyes of that God—so I didn't want to acknowledge that part of myself around you. Not really, anyway. That's why I kept saying it. I had to remind myself that I still had time to change my mind. It was like my heart had been constructed the day I found God. I had the shell; I had all the parts. But my engine didn't start until I met you.
Jesus. He’s a goddamned poet. I take a breath and hover my thumbs over the phone keyboard, but what am I supposed to say to that?Howcan I respond to that? Salem comes through though and sends another text.
Salem: That was a lot. Sorry.
Salem: What’s your middle name?
Me: Anne. I liked your long text, by the way. I took a screenshot so I have it forever.
Salem: Evidence. ;)
Me: Exactly. Thank you for your honesty, Salem. Really.
Me: To change the subject a bit... what’s your middle name?
Salem: I don't have one. My brothers do though.
Me: Hmm. How come you didn’t get one?
Salem: I was their last child. I think I was slightly overlooked.
Me: Well, you have a pretty badass name. Tempest: a violent, windy storm. It doesn’t even need a middle name.
Salem: You and your name meanings.
Me: I think names can say a lot about a person.
Me: We haven’t really talked about you quitting seminary school. What will you do?
Salem: I don’t know. I like religion. I like helping people.
Salem: Do you think you’ll stay in Paris?
Me: Maybe. Probably. I’m not sure. I’m half-French—I have dual citizenship.
Me: I guess as long as Evelyn is here, I’ll stay here.
Salem: And if she goes home to Massachusetts?
Me: I haven’t really thought about it.
Salem: I see.
I wait a few minutes for him to say something else—to ask another question—but he doesn't. I flip through my Facebook messages and shoot a text to Benedict, but he doesn't respond. My legs are restless, bouncing up and down on the carpet incessantly. An hour later, we begin to pull into Monte Carlo, Monaco. My phone vibrates, and I jump.
Salem: You have your own room at Hotel Hermitage. Please take a taxi from the station. I’ll be up soon.
Me: Okay.
I disembark and follow the crowd through to customs, not looking up or around for Salem and Auguste. Now, more than ever, as I clutch my phone and spring into the air every time I hear a ringtone, I'm focused on the end game. One step at a time. Right now? Take a taxi and go to the hotel. I exit the platform, and all of the passengers are shuffled through to a customs line. I clutch my French passport, looking down at it as the memories wash over me.
The stamp we got when we arrived in Paris almost three years ago.
