Page 6 of Heathens
I smile as I look down at the book I’m reading through.Advanced Latin. I hope to one day be a polyglot. I’m halfway to my goal, being fluent in English, French, Spanish, and now Latin. If I plan on staying at Notre Dame de Paris, my extracurriculars need to be as perfect as they can be, which is why I’ve worked myself this hard for this long. Three long years. I was always fascinated with religion, so my childhood was spent volunteering and befriending my childhood priest. Without his letter of recommendation, I never would’ve gotten into the selective program here.
Notre Dame de Paris.
The rest of the night is spent studying, in prayer, and helping Father Monsignor with the six fifteen mass. It’s ordinarily crowded—the evening masses are especially popular in late spring—but tonight is unusually sparse. Because I’m not technically a deacon yet, I’m not allowed to help with the ceremony or reconciliation—though I had taken Father Monsignor’s place in the reconciliation booth once, but that’s neither here nor there—so I watch the way he delivers the liturgy from the back pew. Father Monsignor dismisses me for the night around nine. Packing up my books and computer, I check my phone before waving goodbye to the security guard. I use my key to unlock the front door, making sure to lock it on my way out. Tourists still swarm the courtyard, taking selfies and drinking champagne on the famous benches. I adjust the collar of my clerical shirt—something I find supremely itchy. My briefcase taps my knee with each swing as I walk across the bridge toward my studio in the Marais.
Stopping for a quick dinner at L’As du Falafel, I eat quickly. Before heading up, I give the homeless man on the corner a ten euro note. He tips his frayed hat in gratitude and gives me a toothless smile.
I smile and look up just in time to see her standing five feet away.
My Truth for Yours
Lily
Present
I share my cigarette with Benedict. He smiles as he hands it back, and I take a deep puff. The cook at the falafel stand rings the bell and gives us our food, and I stub the Parliament out with the toe of my heeled black boot.
While Benedict chivalrously collects our food, my eyes flick up and meet the sapphire-blue eyes of a man watching me intently from a few feet away. I swallow and look away. I’m used to men staring at me—whether it’s my familiar face, my odd outfits, or the fact that Benedict seems like he could pummel the shit out of anyone who looks at him the wrong way...
When I look up again, the man is still scrutinizing me. I let myself look, just for a second. He’s average height, average build, though he’s wearing a black, button-up shirt and loose, black slacks, so a lot is left to the imagination. His face is clean-shaven, and his reddish-brown hair is swept back from his face. Bold, arched eyebrows slope downward in a serious expression—the kind of intense expression that stops you in your tracks. Well, not me, but perhaps other females. His blue-gray eyes are rimmed with red—he looks exhausted. My mouth opens slightly as I look down at my feet. For the third time, I glance up at him and give him a casual smile. He must be used to that—the sudden pause in a person’s natural expression when they look his way.
“Do you want to find somewhere to sit?” Benedict asks from beside me. He has sauce on his chin, but I won’t tell him. I nod. “I’ll go find a place. Be right back,” he says quickly, smacking his lips and walking away in search of an elusive bench or the stairs of an apartment building.
I try not to look up at the unconventional man. I bite into my pita and look around—everywhere but where he stands. I can feel his gaze. How is that even possible? It’s like the air around us changes, crackling with energy. Leaning against a building, I bend my right knee and prop my foot up. When I finish my wrap in mere seconds, I curl the wrapper into a ball before tossing it toward the public trash can a few feet away.
I miss.
I don’t have to guess who will pick it up.
My eyes travel down as he bends to pick up my trash and throw it away. When he stands, my eyes follow his movements.
“I know you,” he says quietly, his voice rich and velvety. He has a slight, lilting accent—I can’t place it. Something about him—his soul—is old. His eyes. His eyes are melancholy. His presence is almost otherworldly. I’ve never seen him before in my life. I’m sure of it. I meet a lot of people living in this sprawling city, but I’ve never met him. I would’ve remembered.
“You must be mistaken,” I say quickly, shrugging. I make to step away from him, but he moves to block me. I don’t even think he realizes he’s doing it.
“I’m a seminary student at Notre Dame de Paris,” he explains, giving me a kind smile. The creases in his forehead deepen, and I swear his eyes darken as well. “I saw you there this afternoon.”
A seminary student. I glance at his collar, wondering how I didn’t realize before, considering I went to Catholic school. The shirt is black, but the collar has the signature white square. A clerical shirt. He’s carrying a briefcase, and I wonder if he has a copy of the bible in there. I want to ask, but instead, I shake my head and look away.
“Cool,” I say nonchalantly, crossing my arms.
“Is that your boyfriend?” the man asks, nodding in the direction Benedict walked.
“Why do you want to know?” I ask, jutting my chin out.
“Trust me; I have no intention of hitting on you.” He smiles. It’s a great smile.
“Where are you from?” I ask, changing the subject.
“My truth for yours,” he counters, taking a step back. I look down at his briefcase. I don’t know anyone who still carries a briefcase.
“Fine. It’s our first date.” I arch my right eyebrow and wait for his truth.
His expression hardens a bit, but he nods once. “Born in Scotland, moved to France when I was twelve. Hence the weird accent.” His voice cuts into me. It makes me dizzy. A gravelly blessing.
“Why are you talking to me?” It’s the question I’ve been meaning to ask since he walked up to me. We couldn’t be more opposite on the righteous scale. This man before me would run away screaming if he knew what I was up to. What I’d been planning for months.
Years.
