Page 82 of Priest (Priest 1)
“Do you know where she is now?” I asked. “I want to talk to her.”
Of course he did. He went back around his desk, found his phone, and within a few seconds, I was holding a scrap of paper with his neat block handwriting. An address.
“I stopped keeping track of her last year, but this was a property that the Danforth Foundation for the Arts purchased not long after I came back home. It’s a dance studio here in New York.”
I studied the address, then looked up at him. “Thank you.” I meant it.
He shrugged and then drained the last of his glass. “No problem.”
For some reason, I extended my hand, feeling a bit bad about ignoring his gesture earlier. He took it, and we had a brief but courteous handshake. Here was the man who’d ruined my career, who I thought had taken my Poppy away from me, but I was able to walk away without any hatred or ill will, and it wasn’t just because of the $1500 Scotch.
It was because I forgave him. And because I was going to walk out of this door and find Poppy and return this rosary and finally, finally move on with my life.
The dance studio was in Queens, in a colorful but rundown neighborhood, the kind of neighborhood that seemed like it was on the cusp of gentrification, but no developers had moved in yet, only scores of artists and hipsters.
The Little Flower Studio, from what I could tell from the internet search on my phone on the subway there, was a non-profit studio dedicated to giving free dance lessons to the youth in the community, and seemed particularly aimed at young women. There was nothing about Poppy on its website, but the studio had opened only two months after she’d left Weston, and the entire project was funded by her family’s foundation.
It was a tall brick building, three stories, and the front seemed very recently renovated, with tall windows looking into the main dance studio, a view of blond wood and gleaming mirrors.
Unfortunately, since it was the middle of the day, there didn’t seem to be anybody at the studio itself. The lights were off and the door was locked, and no one answered the bell when I rang it. I tried the studio’s phone number too, and then watched the phone on the front desk light up again and again. No one was here to answer it.
I could hang around until someone came back—someone who I hoped desperately would be Poppy—or I could go home, try again some other day. It was bakingly hot, the kind of hot where I worried my shoes might melt if I stood on the sidewalk too long, and there was no shade outside the studio. Was it really the best idea to stay here and turn into a sweaty sunstroke victim?
But the thought of leaving New York without seeing Poppy, without talking to her, was a thought I couldn’t stomach for longer than a few seconds. I’d spent the last ten months in this misery. I couldn’t spend another day more.
God must have heard me.
I turned back toward the subway station—I’d seen a bodega nearby, and I wanted a bottle of water—and I caught a glimpse of a spire between two rows of houses—a church. And my feet turned there without me even thinking about it; I suppose I was hoping there would be air-conditioning inside and maybe a place
to pray until the dance studio reopened, but I was also wishing (hard) that I’d find something else inside.
I did.
The front doors opened into wide foyer studded with stoups full of holy water, and the doors to the sanctuary were propped open, wafting blessedly cool air into the entryway, but that’s not the first thing I noticed.
The first thing I noticed was the woman near the front of the sanctuary, kneeling with her head bowed. Her dark hair was spun up in a tight bun—a dancer’s bun—and her long neck and slender shoulders were exposed by the black camisole she wore. Dance clothes, I realized as I got closer, trying to be quiet, but it didn’t seem to matter. She was so absorbed in her prayer that she didn’t even move as I slid into the pew behind her row.
I could trace every inch of her back from memory, even after all these months. Each freckle, each line of muscle, each curve of her shoulder blade. And the shade of her hair—dark as coffee and just as rich—I’d remembered that perfectly too. And now that she was so close, all of my good intentions and pure thoughts were being subsumed by much, much darker ones. I wanted to unpin that bun and then wrap that silky hair around my hand. I wanted to pull down the front of her top and fondle her tits. I wanted to rub the softness between her legs through the fabric of her stretchy dance pants until it was soaking wet.
No, even now, I wasn’t being honest with myself, because what I really wanted was so much worse. I wanted to hear the sound of my palm against her ass. I wanted to make her crawl, make her beg, I wanted to scrape the skin of her inner thighs raw with my stubble. I wanted to make her erase every minute of pain I’d felt because of her—erase those minutes with her mouth and her fingers and her sweet, hot cunt.
I was tempted to do just that, scoop her up and throw her over my shoulder and find someplace quiet—her studio, a motel, an alley, I didn’t really care—and show her exactly what ten months apart had done to me.
Just because she isn’t with Sterling doesn’t mean she wants to be with you, I reminded myself. You’re here to give her the rosary, and that’s it.
But maybe just one touch, one touch before you give the rosary and say goodbye forever…
I got down on my own kneeler and reached forward, extended one finger, and then, when I was only an inch away from her skin, I murmured my name for her. “Lamb,” I said. “Little lamb.”
She stiffened right as my finger grazed the creamy skin of her neck, and she turned around, her mouth parted in an unbelieving o.
“Tyler,” she whispered.
“Poppy,” I said.
And then her eyes filled with tears.
I should have waited to see how she felt about me, I should have asked for consent to touch her, I know all these things. But she was crying now, crying so hard, and the only place she belonged was in my arms, and so I moved to her pew and pulled her into me.
