Page 16 of Sinner (Priest 2)
“I’m not talking about this with you,” she says. “It’s over with and it’s not happening again…and nothing happened to begin with, anyway. We’re past it.”
I’m not past it! I’m not past the memory of her touch, the memory of wanting her—which isn’t even a memory right now, it’s real, it’s present, wanting her is my current state of being—and how the fuck am I ever supposed to get past the fact that this is Elijah’s little sister? Someone I held as a baby?
Oh my God, I’m going to hell. I don’t even believe in hell and I’m going there, and what’s worse is that she believes in hell, probably; she believes in all this stupid stuff, she’s giving her life to the same church that killed my sister.
How can I still want her after all that? Knowing she’s little Zenny, knowing that she’s choosing the one institution on this earth that I want to see razed to the ground? But God, want her I do.
She gestures again and I finally accept her invitation, catching the smell of something rose-like and delicate as I walk past her.
“I just want you to see the shelter before we talk about anything else,” she says matter-of-factly, closing the door to the waiting room and leading me down a short hallway. We pass a small office with a woman sorting through boxes inside; presumably the same woman Zenny was talking to earlier. “It’s pretty quiet in the summer,” Zenny continues, “unless there’s a run of rainy days or we get another group of women waiting for permanent placement.”
“Zenny.”
She ignores me, leading me into a large room lined with neatly made-up bunk beds. “But in the winter, we’re over capacity. We have a strict separation of families, men and women, but there are times when we have to let overflow guests sleep on the kitchen floor so we don’t have to turn anyone away.”
I glance around the sparse room, which despite its tired blankets and flat pillows, is extremely clean and smells surprisingly homey. A familiar mix of baking bread, fresh flowers and Mr. Clean. Then I look back at the young woman who’s trying very hard not to look at me.
“Zenny.”
She turns on her heel and walks out of the room, talking very quickly now. “And then here’s the cafeteria,” she says, turning into a wide doorway. “As you can see, it’s pretty small for what we do, and the kitchen needs updating, but despite all that, we were able to serve close to two thousand—”
“Zenny.” And this time I touch her. Just a brush along the white, artificial-feeling fabric at her elbow. And she goes still and stiff, like I’ve frozen her to the spot.
“Tell me what last night was all about,” I say, and I know I sound bossy, I know I’m using the same low voice that I would use to tell a woman to open her legs for my mouth. I know it and I don’t care. I don’t think I
can handle living with last night in my mind without some kind of closure, I don’t think I can look at her for another second and not kiss her—I can’t listen to another word without needing her to say my name over and over again. Something has to shift, something has to stop this terrible twist she’s got going in my chest, and this is the only thing I can think of. “The honest guy thing, remember? How about you give me the honest girl thing?”
From behind her, I can see the lift and drop of her slender perfect shoulders as she breathes. I can see the catch of the sunlight through her curls and the tight line of her jaw as she thinks.
“Turn and look at me,” I coax gently, and then oh fuck, that was a mistake, because she does turn, she does look at me, and it’s like every time I forget. I forget how fucking gorgeous she is, I forget what the sight of those pouting lips does to my cock.
“Please,” I say quietly, peering down into her face. “Tell me about last night.”
The bright morning sun makes the copper in her eyes look molten, liquid, like her very soul is bubbling hot and waiting to be cast. She sighs, about to look down, and I don’t let her, I catch my finger under her chin to keep her eyes on me. My touch seems to shock her, and it shocks me too, and in the back of my mind, I think of stained glass and the sharp taste of wine.
“I—I just wanted one last night to myself,” she finally admits. “In a month, I’m professing as a novice, and aside from going to school, I’ll no longer be free to…” she trails off, as if catching herself using words she doesn’t want to use. “Then it will be time to seriously devote myself to the order. To this life.”
“So you were going to ask just any old man you saw to kiss you?”
“You’re not that old.”
“You know what I meant. Answer me, please.”
Another sigh. “No. I just wanted to dress up and drink and have a night that wasn’t homework or cleaning shelter toilets or studying ecumenical texts. But then I saw you, and you didn’t recognize me at all, and it felt terrible but it also felt…safe, I guess. Like I knew you and didn’t know you at the same time. Like I could pretend to be someone else and also know that you would take care of me.”
“That was a dangerous assumption,” I tell her, feeling a spike of retroactive fear. “The things I said to you last night—dammit, that wasn’t okay of me to do.”
She arches an eyebrow. “So it was okay to say those things to me when I was just a stranger, but when you know I’m Elijah’s sister, then it’s not okay?”
“Well, yes. And also you’re so young. And I’m not a good man. If you’d told me you wanted it, I would have spent the rest of the night with my mouth on your cunt.”
Her eyes widen and I remember we’re in a place run by nuns.
Sigh.
“Sorry,” I concede, dropping my finger from under her chin and running a hand through my hair. “But do you see why this is a little weird to me? You’re Elijah’s baby sister and now all of a sudden you’re a nun and the things I wanted to do to you, Zenny, Jesus fuck, you have no idea.”
“Is this the infamous Sean Bell having a conscience?”
