Page 46 of Priest (Priest 1)
“You aren’t even supposed to be laying here with me,” she said. “We can’t hold hands in public, we can’t do anything together without it being a sin. You could lose your job and essentially be exiled from the one thing that gives your life meaning, and you’re worried about my ex-boyfriend?”
“Okay, fine. Yes. Yes, I’m jealous of him. I’m jealous that he gets to come back here for you, and I’m jealous that he can do that. He can pursue you. And I can’t.”
My words hung in the air for a long moment.
She dropped her head down. “Tyler…what have we done? What are we doing?”
She was there again. At that thing I didn’t want to think about.
I reached for her and pulled her over me, laying down so that she knelt over my face.
“We should talk about this,” she said, but then I flicked my tongue up and over her clit and she moaned, and I knew that I’d managed to freeze this moment again, push the conversation and all its decisions forward to another time.
Jesus said that what is done in the darkness will be brought into the light. And when I woke up alone in my bed that morning, I knew exactly what He meant. Because everything that I had managed to push away last night crowded back, front and center, and not only did I have to face it, but I had to face it alone.
Where was she? There was no note, no text, no coffee mug in the sink. She’d left without saying goodbye, and that twisted sharp and splintery in my chest.
She’s a layperson, I reminded myself. That was what laypeople did—they met, they fucked, and they moved on. They didn’t fall in love at the drop of a fucking hat.
Last night, she had been about to say it, though. She’d been ready to profess it to me…or had I imagined that? Maybe I had imagined that this spark between us was something mutual, something shared. Maybe I’d been a curiosity to her—the handsome priest—and now that she’d satisfied her curiosity, she was ready to move on.
I had broken my vow for a woman who didn’t even care enough to stick around for breakfast.
I shuffled into the bathroom, and when I looked up in the mirror, I saw two days worth of stubble and hair that had been tugged on and the unmistakable stain of a hickey on my collarbone.
I hated the man in that reflection, and I almost punched the glass, wanting to hear it shatter, wanting to feel the bright pain of a thousand deep cuts. And then I sat down on the edge of the tub and gave in to the urge to cry.
I was a good man. I had worked very hard to be a good man, devoted myself to living my life the way God wanted. I counseled, I comforted, I spent hours upon hours in contemplative prayer and meditation.
I was a good man.
So why had I done this?
Poppy wasn’t at morning Mass and I didn’t hear from her all day, even though I walked by the window more often than necessary to double-check that her light blue Fiat was still in her driveway.
It was.
I checked my phone for a text about once every three minutes, typed several aborted messages, and then berated myself for doing so. I had just cried—like a baby—in my bathroom this morning. Stupid, echoing-off-the-tile, hiccuping cries. It was for the better if we had space from one another. I couldn’t keep my focus when I was around her. I couldn’t keep control. She made me feel like every sin and punishment was worth it just to hear one of her husky little laughs, and what I needed to do right now was triage this mess that I called my life and figure things out. Embracing this distance was prudence and sexual continence and the first scrap of wisdom I’d exhibited since I met her.
My hurt pride over her leaving without saying goodbye had nothing to do with it.
That night was the back-to-school party for the youth group, so I spent it eating pizza and playing Xbox One and trying to keep the boys from making total asses of themselves as they tried to impress the girls. After the last teen left the church, I cleaned the basement and went home, undressing and pulling on a pair of sweats. I stared out my bedroom window at Poppy’s driveway, lost in thought.
The Church said everything about her and me was wrong. It was lust and fornication. It was lying. It was betrayal.
But the Church also talked about the kind of love that transcended any and all boundaries, and the Bible was filled with stories of people who carried out God’s will and had very human desires. I mean, what even was sin? Who was being hurt by Poppy and me loving each other?
It’s a matter of trust, I reminded myself. Because while I wrestled with the epistemological nature of sin like the trained theologian I was, I was also a shepherd and shepherds had to be practical. The issue was that I had come here to build up trust in the church, to undo another man’s wrongs. And no matter how consensual and otherwise unremarkable my relationship was with Poppy, it would still ruin that. My work, my goals, my memorial to Lizzy’s death.
Lizzy.
It had felt so good to talk about her. We didn’t talk about her much in my family. In fact, not at all, unless I was alone with my mother. And talking about it hadn’t taken the pain away, necessarily, but it had made it different. Easier. I moved from the window and went to the bedside table to get the rosary I liked to use, an array of silver and jade beads.
It had been Lizzy’s.
I didn’t pray, but I ran the beads through my fingers as I sat, thinking and fretting and eventually letting my mind collapse into the worn runnels of worry and guilt.
Into the new thorny pain of her absence and all the fears that inspired. All of this to wrestle with, and the thing
