Page 20 of Caleb
“Were we expecting someone else, Miss Murphy?” Aaron asks.
“Not anymore.” She grabs her purse and stalks away toward the church. I’m sure she means her father. He’s virtually the onlyhein her life. The onlyhethat keeps disappointing her.
Aaron jerks his chin in her direction, letting me know he wants me to go after her, and says he’ll wait by the car since there’s nowhere to park.
She stops right before the main entrance to the spectacular gothic church and turns around to face me. “Will you sit with me?” Her eyes look glazed as she presses her trembling lips tightly against each other, and I can’t help but be pissed at her father.
I nod. “Of course, Miss Murphy.” I motion her to lead the way and follow her inside.
We sit on the third row and wait for mass to begin. The architecture of this church is fascinating. I’m looking around and minding my business when a loud organ starts playing out of nowhere, making me jump to my feet. I curse in Hebrew under my breath and retake my seat.
Miss Murphy’s pinching her nose and looking down at her lap. Her belly’s shaking, and I can see she’s trying her best not to laugh. So I bump my shoulder against hers to let her know I can tell she’s making fun of me. She bumps my arm with her shoulder but refuses to look my way. I’m sure she’s trying her best not to laugh at my expense.
The priest starts walking down the aisle. Miss Murphy stands up and takes a deep breath, her gaze fixed on the altar. I follow her lead and stand up too.
“First time at a Catholic church?” she whispers.
“What makes you think that? I’m a regular.”
She snorts a soft laugh and a woman behind us clears her throat. I turn around and apologize by lifting a hand and dipping my chin. She looks like she means business and will do whatever it takes for us to shut up. And we probably should, so we both keep quiet after that. Even if I feel like the silly banter is helping Miss Murphy relax, this is not the place to encourage it.
Forty-five torturous minutes later of us alternating between standing up and sitting down a few times, shaking hands with strangers at some point, and listening to the priest speaking in French, it’s finally time to go.
People funnel out of the church, but Miss Murphy remains seated, so I do too. I’m here to do whatever she needs me to do.
“Thank you,” she whispers in a shaky voice, “for sitting with me.”
“Of course.” I glance her way, and she’s wiping tears off her cheeks. It’s so frustrating wanting to brush those tears away myself and maybe embrace her and not being able to do so. She seems like she could use a hug, and the one person who could quench that basic need didn’t show up for her.
The church is practically empty now, and at the most, five more people are scattered around the place. Some kneeling, some staring at the altar as if lost in their thoughts.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I tell her. I mean it. I’ve wanted to say that to her from the moment I met her, to let her know thatIknow what it’s like to lose someone too. Even if I’m clueless about what losing a parent feels like, I’m no stranger to grief and trauma. I know I’m consumed by it every single day.
“Thank you.” She looks at me and smiles one of her genuine, warm smiles. I frown because I wonder if anyone she cares about acknowledged this day. I know she would’ve appreciated it. Maybe they did. I’m still trying to understand who these people she cares about might be and where they are. I know her father didn’t have “the time” to be here.
“I lost someone recently, too,” I say impulsively. I don’t know why I said that. Ishouldn’thave said that. There’s just something about her that makes me want to share. I open up to her because I want her to know she’s not alone in her grief and that I get it too.
“You did?” She widens her eyes and looks at me like she’s both sorry and almost desperate to know more. But the look on her face makes me panic and back away from telling her about the attack and Yon’s death. I want to do it, but my stomach feels upset. It’s like a knife has been driven into my core. I’m paralyzed.
“I did.” That’s all I’m able to say. I look away and pretend to fix my attention on the altar, but my senses are still focused on her. I’m listening to the way she’s breathing. I’m seeing how she can’t stop fidgeting her feet, and how she wants to talk about this.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers back.
I capture her gaze for a couple of heartbeats and feel my throat tightening in on me when I say, “Thank you.”
A long moment of heavily charged silence hangs in the air between us. I’ve decided this is not the right moment to talk about Yon or the attack. I don’t want to make this day aboutmygrief, but I thought it was important to let her know that she’s not alone in hers. And that’s assuming she’s interested in ever listening to what I have to say.
“What happened?” she asks. “I understand if you don’t feel like talking about it. I know how it is.”
Fuck me. Those sad, piercing eyes staring into mine make me want to tell hereverything. How can this sixteen-year-old girl make me change my mind three seconds after I’d decided not to discuss this today?
Noa practically begged me countless times to talk to her about Yon’s death, and I never could. Not fully. And it’s not that I didn’t trust her because I did. But, somehow, I guess I just didn’twantto share that with her, or anyone else for that matter. I’d never wanted to because I didn’t think someone could understand my feelings completely, at least not until today.
There’s a possibility, though, that I might be misreading the entire situation. Maybe she’s just being polite in showing interest because that’s who Miss Murphy is—a kind girl with good manners. And I’ve carried these feelings of guilt, sadness—rage even—inside me for months, so it’s not like I don’t know how to keep them to myself. The only difference is that before, I felt like I wanted to lock it up inside me forever. And now … I don’t know. I feel like I can trust her, and I have a feeling she might be starting to trust me back.
Miss Murphy is watching me hesitate, but this girl’s stubborn as an ox. She’s looking at me like she’s waiting for me to start talking, even if she said she understands if I don’t want to.
Her interest is genuine. I know I canfeelthat it is. And the words are practically begging to come out of my mouth. But I don’t want to fuck up or risk my job by being inappropriate.
