Page 52 of Heathens
Instead, I feel like something about our conversation cracked me open, and everything is spilling out. Like everything I once believed was inadvertently turned upside down. Like some sort of switch got turned on—or turned off, depending on how I looked at it.
Victor Hugo wrote an entire book from one word.
And me?
It was as if I’d found someone whose soul would understand the pain and torture I’ve felt. Mourn the loss that I’ve known.
At that exact moment, a complete stranger revolutionized my life.
At that exact moment, my whole life fell to the wayside, and all I could do was stare blankly—transfixed—at the door as she walked out of the church and away from me forever.
Ire and Wrath
Lily
Present
“That was you?” I whisper, looking up at him and wracking my brain to remember that conversation. Had I said anything incriminating? No, I hadn’t. I’d been vague—in case I was caught, I didn’t want any evidence.
“Let art get you through the dark,” he murmurs.
“Let art get you through the dark,” I repeat, feeling myself smile. “I thought it was Father Monsignor.”
“I told you it was,” he retorts, his eyes gleaming mischievously. “How did I do that day? You were my first ever penitent.”
I feel my body shake with laughter. “You saved my life, Salem. Your words struck a nerve, and I went home, grabbed my camera, and went on a two-day photography bender.”
His face darkens and he tilts his head. “Were you really going to kill yourself?”
I look down at my shoes. “No. I mean—I don’t know for sure, but probably not. But it felt like I was on the brink of being swallowed up. It was eating away at me, and I contemplated it for a few days. When I spoke with you that day, it was particularly bad.”
Salem frowns. “I’m sorry. I wanted to go to you that day. The urge to comfort you was so strong. And then you came back the next week—”
I nod. “It was my weekly therapy. It was food for my soul.”
I should tell him.
I should tell him about Benedict, and Auguste, and my plan to find Evelyn.
“Salem, I need to tell you something.” I pull my lower lip between my lip and look at him.
“This sounds serious,” he says lightly, pulling away. “I still need to grab my keys. How about you meet me at the door and we’ll reconvene at my place over some macarons?”
I quirk my eyebrows. This guy and his fucking desserts. He’s probably going to get diabetes when he’s older.
Also...hisplace. I hadn’t seen it yet, and I was dying to.
“Sure.“ I smile at him. He probably won't want anything to do with me once he finds out how sick I am in the head.
How I can think the things that I do.
Regardless, I follow him down the spiraling steps. It’s almost harder to walk down than up, and by the time we land on the ground floor, my knees are shaking and weak.
“I’ll be right back,” he quips, bending down and kissing me on the forehead before jogging toward the back wall where his office must be.
I look around and swing my arms at my side. It’s so quiet in here—the sounds of Paris are muffled completely, and the only noise is the trickling holy water by the door in the back. Walking along the side of the church, I hear voices coming from up front.
Salem’s office.
