Page 7 of Priest (Priest 1)
“You were so nice the first time I came in. But I feel like I made you mad somehow.” She glanced down at her feet, a move that only highlighted how long and thick her eyelashes were.
Her eyelashes made me hard. That was a new benchmark for me, I had to admit.
“You didn’t make me mad,” I said, relieved to hear that my voice sounded more like normal, in control and kind. “I’m so grateful that you found enough value in your experience to come back to the church.” I was about to follow that up with my request that she find a new place to say her confessions, but she spoke before I could.
“I did find value in it, surprisingly. Actually, I’m glad I ran into you. I saw on the church’s website that you have office hours just to talk, and I was wondering if I could visit sometime? Not for a confession necessarily—”
Thank God for that.
“—but, I don’t know, I guess to talk about other things. I’m trying to start a new phase in my life, but I keep feeling like something is missing. Like the world I’m living in is flattened somehow, de-saturated. And after I spoke to you both times, I felt…lighter. I wonder if religion is what I need—but I honestly don’t know if it’s something I want.”
Her admission awakened the priestly instinct in me. I took a deep breath, telling her something I had told many people, but I still meant it every bit as much as the first time I’d said it. “I believe in God, Poppy, but I also believe that spirituality isn’t for everybody. You may find what you’re looking for in a profession you’re passionate about, or in travel, or in a family, or in any other number of things. Or you may find that another religion fits you better. I don’t want you to feel pressured to explore the Catholic Church for any reason other than genuine interest or curiosity.”
“And what about a crazy hot priest? Is that a sound reason for exploring the Church?”
I must have looked horrified—mostly because her words were nipping at my strained self-control—and she laughed. The sound was almost stupidly bright and pleasant, the kind of laugh bred to echo across ballrooms or next to a pool in the Hamptons.
“Relax,” she said. “I was joking. I mean, you are crazy hot, but it’s not the reason I’m interested. At least,” she gave me another up and down look that made my skin feel like it was covered in flames, “it’s not the only reason.” And then the light changed, and she jogged away with a small wave.
I was so fucked.
I went straight home and took the coldest shower I could stand, staying under the water until my thoughts were clear and my erection finally, finally relented. Although, if recent events were any indication, it would return the moment I saw Poppy again.
Okay, so maybe I couldn’t expunge this desire from myself, but I could exercise more self-control. No more fantasies. No more waking up to find that I’d fucked my mattress dreaming of her. And maybe talking to her would be exactly the thing I needed—I would see her as a person, a lost lamb seeking her God, and not just as sex on legs.
Perfect legs.
I pulled a pair of slacks over my boxer briefs and put on a fresh black shirt, rolling the long sleeves up to the elbows as I usually did. I didn’t hesitate before I reached for the collar. It would be a much-needed reminder. A reminder to practice self-denial and also a reminder of why I practice self-denial in the first place.
I do it for my God.
I do it for my parish.
I do it for my sister.
And that was why Poppy Danforth was so upsetting. I wanted to be the epitome of sexual purity for my congregation. I wanted them to trust the Church again; I wanted to erase the marks made on God’s name by awful men.
And I wanted some way to remember Lizzy without my heart shredding apart with guilt and regret and powerlessness.
You know what? I was making a big deal out of nothing. It was all going to be fine. I ran a hand through my hair, taking a deep breath. One woman, no matter how hot, was not going to unravel everything I held sacred about the priesthood. She was not going to destroy everything I’d worked so hard to create.
I don’t always go home on my Thursdays off, even though my parents live less than an hour away, but I did this week, mentally and physically strained from avoiding Poppy during my morning runs and also from taking approximately twenty cold showers over the space of two days.
I just wanted to go someplace—without th
e collar—and play some Arkham Knight and eat food that my mom had made. I wanted to have a beer (or six or seven) with Dad and listen to my teenage brother mope about whatever girl he was being “friend-zoned” by this month. Someplace where the Church and Poppy and the rest of my life was muffled and I could just relax.
Mom and Dad’s didn’t disappoint. My other two brothers were there as well—even though they all had places and lives of their own—drawn by Mom’s cooking and that unquantifiable comfort that comes with being at home.
After dinner, Sean and Aidan whipped my ass at the latest Call of Duty while Ryan texted the latest girl on his phone, and the house still smelled like lasagna and garlic bread. A picture of Lizzy watched us all from above the television, a pretty girl forever memorialized in 2003 with side bangs and dyed-blonde hair and a wide smile that hid all the things we didn’t know until it was too late.
I stared at that picture for a long time while Sean and Aidan chattered about their jobs—they’re both in investments—and while Mom and Dad played Candy Crush in their side-by-side recliners.
I’m sorry, Lizzy. I’m sorry for everything.
Logically, I knew there’s nothing I could have done back then, but logic didn’t erase the memory of her pale, bluish lips or the blood vessels that had exploded in her eyes.
Of walking into the garage looking for flashlight batteries and instead finding the cold body of my only sister.
