Do You not want me in Your fold anymore? Am I not a vessel for Your Presence? Do You not want me to serve others in Your name? Is this my time to leave, to find out what lies in store for me outside of Your home?
My heart begins to thud in my chest. My pulse pounds at my temples. Sweat beads my forehead. I hold her gaze, and perhaps some of my inner turmoil shows, for she pales. I rise to my feet, turn to leave, and she grabs my hand.
"Wait, Father, will you not hear my confession before you leave?"
I frown. "You’re not Catholic."
"I can still confess, right?"
"So, you’re willing to share your secrets with me?"
She nods.
I scowl. "And what if I use it against you?"
"But you won’t." She sits up. Her color is better, her gaze clear. "You’ll listen and you’ll forgive without judgement because that’s what you do, Father."
"You have so much faith in me?"
"Not in you, but in your faith," she replies. "I know when it comes to your profession, you’d never compromise."
"So much trust." I roll my shoulders. "What if I don’t live up to it?"
"But you will." She rises to her feet and the blanket falls away.Don’t look there, don’t.I take in the curve of her bust, her nipples pointed and outlined against the fabric of her dress. That familiar ache that has become an ever-present sensation since I first saw her intensifies. My groin hardens. I pivot, walk to the door, when she asks, "Don't you need your outfit?"
I turn and she points to where I've draped the frock over a chair. "Your robe, Father," she prompts me.
I stare at the robe then back at her. "I don’t need it to hear your confession. As long as I am ordained—and I am—that is enough."
I head for the door, then pause and glance at her over my shoulder, "Coming?"
15
Ava
He’s going to leave me. He’s going to leave me. He’s going to…leave me and there’s nothing I can do about it. He’s going to choose Him over me, as he always does. He’s going to leave me to return to the Church. I know it just by the tormented look in his eyes. By how he holds my gaze and refuses to look away, how he steels himself as if waiting for the worst that is yet to come…which could be possibly, what? What could be more horrible than him walking away from me a final time, and never looking back?
I can’t let him go.
Not after what just happened. He saved me…metaphorically and literally; he had rescued me from myself. If I had been ready to walk away from him earlier, now… I am not. Now, I am going to fight for him, with every bone in my body. Which is why I’d pulled out the only trick I have. I’d asked him to hear my confession.
Bugger, bugger, bugger.
I stare at the confessional booth. I haven’t been to a confession before, but I’ve seen enough movies to know how it’s done.
He takes his position behind the screen, and I slip into the adjacent cubicle. I kneel, then lock my fingers together; stare through the screen, at the hint of his chin, the angle of his nose, the curve of his beautiful lips that are visible through the lattice work.
"You wanted to confess?" His voice echoes in the enclosed space.
I open my mouth to speak, but my throat is so dry that nothing emerges.
"Ava?" He prompts me, "You said you have something to confess?"
"Y…yes."
Shit, why is it that when I need the powers of conversation most, words fail me? I shuffle my feet, hunch my shoulders, then straighten them. "Um, maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I shouldn’t have suggested it."
"Perhaps your subconscious wants you to open up? Often, speaking what’s on your mind is the best way to gain perspective. At the very least, if you talk, it’ll shut me up."
