Page 32 of Heathens
I laugh. I make a mental note to ask her more about the obituaries another time. “Well, I grew up in a small village about thirty minutes outside of Paris. Two older brothers. Father was a metalsmith—a dying trade, mind you, but we survived. My mother stayed home with us until I was eighteen, when I went off to Paris-Sorbonne University. I studied Philosophy.” I pause. I skip over my mom’s diagnosis. She’s heard all about that. “After college, I couldn’t hold down a job. I started doing drugs, drinking, and sleeping around.”
Lily is silent on the other end, but I can tell I have her rapt attention.
“So, for a little under three years, my life was a string of liquor, parties, and debauchery. As you can imagine, that resulted in a lot of one-night-stands. A lot of one-hour-stands, if I’m being honest.”
“I can’t envision you like that,” she says quietly, searching my face through the phone. With most people, her expression is serious, harsh. Resting bitch face, she once said. But I like how it softens slightly when she’s talking to me. Like the way she looks at me is saved only for me. Like I’m different than everyone else. “I’m trying—but I can’t see it.”
I smile. “Hold on.“ I go to Facebook and pull up a picture of myself from that period. I deleted most of my pictures, but this one... this one I kept. My hair is longer, I have days-old scruff, and I'm wearing a leather jacket, jeans, and boots. I am laughing, leaning against a building with a cigarette dangling from my mouth, and I look... happy. I felt empty at the time, but somehow, whatever was happening at this exact moment... I can't even remember who took it, or when. I was too high, too drunk. But I like to imagine that I was having the time of my life. I send the picture via text. Her phone beeps a second later.
She sits up, and her camera wobbles a bit. Jekyll makes a disgruntled noise and jumps off of the bed. “Shut. Up. This isn’t you.”
“It is. Fortunately or unfortunately, you decide.”
She looks at the screen and then back to the lens. Back to present me. “We would’ve been fast friends, Salem Tempest.”
The way she says my whole name—the way her pupils dilate just a little bit as she glances at the image on her screen again...
“Anyways, that’s the story.” I clear my throat.
“Mmm.” She lies back down. “And you haven’t... since...”
I don’t answer. I barely remember the night, and to be honest, it’s not something I’m proud of. I tried calling the number the woman left in my phone that night, but she never picked up.
It took me two weeks to look Father Monsignor in the eyes again.
“What is that face?” she asks, her voice incredulous. “Have you?”
“Once,” I reply, my voice deep.
Her pupils darken even further, exaggerated by the bright light of her screen. “Was it worth it?”
That wasn’t the question I was expecting. “No. It wasn’t.”
Her face crumbles—just barely. I wouldn’t have noticed it if I hadn’t been paying so much attention. I want to tell her it wasn’t worth it because the woman meant nothing to me.
Nothing.
But I’m scared to admit to her that it might be different with someone I cared about. Lily could make me succumb again. I’m sure of it. Just being around her rocks me almost as hard as losing my mother. With Lily, it’s lust—plain and simple—that could lure and ruin me.
I’m scared to admit that to myself, most of all.
She chews on her lip, and I can tell she wants to ask me something. “Spill,” I order, quirking my eyebrows up. She gives me a sheepish smile.
“I went to Catholic school all twelve years, as you know,” she starts, looking away from the camera. “So I’m very familiar with Catholic guilt, the rules, sin, and all that. But one thing I always wondered about was...” she trails off and looks back at the camera lens. “Why did God make sex so enjoyable if it’s a sin? I’m talking, bend you over and fuck-you-til-the-cows-come-home sex, mind you.” Her cheeks flush, and I close my eyes for a second.
Jesus.
“Why did God make love so fun? Why did God make senses if not to feel? To be touched?”
“That’s the thing. God gave us a choice. He doesn’t expect everyone to be a saint.”
“Just you,” she jokes.
I laugh. “Ha ha. I’m serious, though. We all make those choices for ourselves. So, if you want—” I pause, trying not to visualize it, “bend you over and fuck-you-til-the-cows-come-home sex, then by all means, go for it.”
“Sorry. I’m probably making you uncomfortable.” She pulls her comforter over her head. “Sometimes I forget you’re almost a priest,” she mumbles, her voice barely discernible.
“Me too,” I say solemnly. “Me too.”
