Page 72 of Priest (Priest 1)
And then I shook my head and smiled. This was the woman I had been with last night, in our own chuppah, God all around us. This was the woman who had been my own personal communion on the church altar. The woman God had made for me and brought to me…why did I have doubts? She loved me and I loved her, and of course she was going to say yes.
I realized too late that I was still in my collar, something that I had already officially (sort of) quit, but I was already halfway across the park and I had these flowers in my hand and I didn’t want to turn back for a detail that was now so trivial. Actually, the irony of it made me grin a little bit. A priest proposing in his collar. It sounded like the setup for a bad joke.
Poppy would think it was funny too; I could picture the small smile she got when she was trying not to laugh, her lips pressed together and her cheeks trying not to dimple, her hazel eyes bright. Fuck, she was beautiful, especially when she laughed. She laughed the way I’d always imagined princesses laughed when I was boy—sunnily, airily, the fate of kingdoms ringing in their voice.
I opened the gate into her garden, my stomach flipping backwards and sideways, my cheeks hurting from smiling so much, my hand shaking around my fresh bouquet, which was still wet from the morning’s drizzle.
I walked through the flowers and plants, thinking of Song of Songs, of the bridegroom going to his bride, singing as he goes. I know exactly how he must have felt.
As a lily among brambles, so is my love among women.
I climbed the porch, clutching the flowers tight as I walked towards the back door.
You have captivated my heart, my bride. You have captivated my heart with one glance of your eyes…
I murmured the other verses to myself as I got ready to open the door. Maybe I would murmur them to her later, maybe I would trace them with my fingers on her naked back.
The door was unlocked, and I stepped inside her house, smelling the lavender smell that was all hers but not seeing her in the kitchen or the living room. She must be in her bedroom or the shower, although I hoped she was still in that pretty mint dress. I wanted to peel it off of her later, expose inches and inches of ivory flesh as she murmured yes to me over and over again. I wanted to kick it away from our feet as I took her in my arms and finally made love to her as a free man.
I took a deep breath as I rounded the corner into the hallway, about to announce my presence, and then something made me freeze—instinct maybe, or God himself—but whatever it was, I hesitated, my breath catching in my throat, and that’s when I heard it.
A laugh.
Poppy’s laugh.
It wasn’t just any laugh either. It was low and breathy and a little nervous.
And then a man said, “Poppy, come on. You know you want to.”
I knew that man’s voice. I’d only heard it once before, but I knew it immediately, as if I’d heard it every day of my life, and when I took another step into the hallway, I could finally see into her bedroom, and the entire scene was laid bare.
Sterling. Sterling was here, here in Poppy’s house, here in her bedroom, his suit jacket thrown carelessly over the bed and his tie loosened.
And Poppy was there too, still in that mint dress, but with her shoes off and two spots of color high in her cheeks.
Sterling and Poppy.
Sterling and Poppy together; and now he was gathering Poppy in his arms, his face bending to hers, her hands on his chest.
Push him away, a desperate voice pleaded inside me. Push him away.
And there was a moment where I thought she would, where her face tilted away and she took a single step back. But then something passed over her face—determination maybe or resignation—I couldn’t tell because then the back of his perfectly groomed head was in the way.
And he kissed her. He kissed and she let him. She not only let him, but she kissed him back, parting those sweet vermillion lips, and I was Jonah swallowed by the whale, I was Jonah after the worm had eaten his shade plant—
No, I was Job, Job after he had lost everything and everyone, and there was nothing left for me ever again, because then her hand slid behind his neck, and she sighed into his mouth, and he chuckled a victory chuckle, pressing her into the wall behind them.
And I could taste ashes in my mouth.
The flowers must have fallen from my hand, because when I made it back to the rectory, I didn’t have them, and I didn’t know whether they had fallen inside her house or in her garden or on my way back through the park, I didn’t know because I couldn’t remember a single goddamned detail about how I got back home, whether I was loud when I left, whether they noticed me, whether my lifeblood was actually bleeding out of my chest or whether it only felt that way.
What I did remember was that it had started raining again, a steady sweeping rain, October rain, and I was only able to recall this because I was wet and chilled when I came to myself, standing numbly in my dim kitchen.
I should have been furious in that moment. I should have been devastated. I’ve read the novels, I’ve seen the movies, and this is the moment where the camera would zoom in on my tortured expression, where a two-minute montage would have stood in for months of heartbreak. But I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing, except wet and cold.
I was on the highway.
I wasn’t precisely sure what constellation of decisions had led to this, except the storm had grown stronger and there
