Page 8 of Holly Jolly Heresy
Her eyes narrowed slightly, as though she could hear his thoughts. Or maybe he’d just been staring.
“Molly—
She tilted her chin towards the bundle of silver balloons tied to the end of their booth. “Do you ever think about that night last May?”
His mouth went dry and his lungs burned, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her. Unsure what to do with the restless feeling suddenly coursing through him, he clasped his hands between his thighs.
Last May, Caleb and Molly had found themselves alone after hours at school, decorating the hallway for the tradition of the senior entrance. Tangled in blue and white crepe paper streamers, an ocean of silver balloons at their feet, they’d talked long after the last poster was hung, laughed until they were both drunk with it. It was the only explanation for the way their bodies had gravitated towards each other, for the temporary insanity of turning his face into her hair, the cinnamon and bergamot scent of her so revelatory he still imagined he could smell it late at night when his thoughts drifted to things he could never admit. Their goodbye hug had lingered a little too long, hands skating over backs and waists with a little too much reluctance to withdraw, and she’d looked at him with those big eyes like she could see every part of him.
That night, he’d almost broken his vows mere steps from his own chapel.
“I think about that night a lot,” she continued. “I liked seeing that side of you.”
He forced himself to swallow, bringing moisture back to his mouth, and folded his hands on the table. “What side?”
“You were…different. Relaxed. Sometimes it feels like you’re performing or something, like you’re always aware of people watching you.”
“Because they are.”
She nodded. “But not that night. You were just…Caleb.” His throat constricted around the words he wouldn’t allow himself to say as a sad sort of smile tilted up her lips. “I liked it.”
“I liked it too.”
“I even liked your dance moves.” He barked out a laugh, her sudden teasing releasing the tension building in his chest, and her smile widened. “Very Hugh Grant inLove Actually.”
“Ouch.” He clapped a hand over his heart. “I think I should be offended.”
“You have some impressive hip action.”
“It’s all that ballroom dancing in Mrs. White’s class at the senior center.” He chuckled to himself. “She’s determined to make me the perfect rumba partner. Right now, Gavin puts me to shame.”
“You can’t be outdone by your little brother.”
“Never.” The laughter fell away, replaced by something softer, more truthful. “I liked dancing with you.”
“More than with Mrs. White?” she teased.
“Much more.”
Her lips pressed together, and her eyebrows furrowed, despite her valiant effort to maintain her smile. “Why did you become a priest, Caleb?”
He hesitated, the practiced story of his calling springing to his lips as it had so many times over the last twenty-five years. A story he’d told so often he almost believed it himself.
But that wasn’t the story he wanted to tell her. He wanted her to know the other story—the one he’d only ever told his confessor.
“After my dad died, when I was little, Mom started taking us to church a lot more. She said Dad was with God and we could tell Him what we wanted Dad to know—the baseball games we won or the first time I jumped off the diving board without holdingmy nose. And I never understood. Why did I have to talk to an intermediary? Why couldn’t I just talk to my dad?”
She leaned forward, her fingers inching closer to him across the linoleum tabletop but stopping short of actually making contact with his skin.
“For a while, I stopped going, and I know it broke Mom’s heart. She was so comforted by the Church, and I was just…angry. I was so angry for so long I think I stopped even registering it as an emotion. It was just my state of being. But even through all the anger, I kept praying, hoping someone would talk back someday—God, or my Dad, it didn’t even matter because by that point they were so intertwined in my head.”
“I told my mom God talked to me one day when I was around seven or eight,” Molly said, her fingers mere millimeters from where his hands rested on the table.
“What did He say?”
“To get off his lawn.”
Caleb laughed, loud and deep, and her lips turned up at the corners in response, though her eyes remained soft, focused on him, as though she knew he needed a reprieve from telling his story.
