“Yes, you do,” Micah says softly, and I relax slightly. “You can talk to me. Don’t keep it in forever.”
My bottom lip trembles, and I trap it between my teeth. I don’t miss the way Micah focuses on it, don’t miss the longing in his eyes. “If I speak it, it becomes real.”
“It’s already real. You wouldn’t be breaking if you weren’t,” he says, and I process that information. Apparently, I take too long because he keeps talking before I can reply. “You’re not alone. Never have been.”
I study him, letting the long, loaded silence linger between us. Then I speak, almost whispering, “Have you ever wanted something you were told would damn you?”
“Every. Single. Day,” he replies, smiling sadly.
I almost tell him. Almost. But instead, I close my journal gently, all the way this time, hiding the page I wrote on for the past hour. “Good night, Micah.”
Micah is quiet for a moment, gaze lingering on me until I feel uncomfortable. “Good night, Elijah.”
The rain keeps falling against the stained glass, this time harder and louder, and Micah gets up and leaves. He shuts the door behind himself, and I exhale roughly. My bed is calling my name, and I give in, turning off the lamp on my desk, then plopping down on the mattress. I bounce slightly, then turn my face toward the wall, closing my eyes and letting sleep take me under.
I’m in the forest within the grounds of the seminary. I’m vaguely aware that this is a dream, but it feels real. I follow the dirt path up to the abandoned chapel ruins, the one I discovered a year ago on one of my runs. No one dares to enter, mostly because they don’t wander that far anyway. But also because there’s no roof, the pews are rotted, and there are plants everywhere. You can see how the elements have taken over the space, and while it’s a mess, there’s also something breathtakingly beautiful about it. Like you’re standing on sacredground. A little slice of heaven, hidden away from prying eyes. Maybe that’s why I feel safe there.
I open the heavy double doors, closing them behind me, then turn around. A gasp escapes my lips at the sight in front of me, and I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t speak. I am but a vessel of heat and desire, and it feels like an earthquake is taking place within me. And that supernatural disaster? Well, it’s destroying everything in its path. All my carefully curated thoughts banish from my mind the moment my eyes land on the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. He looks up at me, his ashen wings expanding behind him, making him look ethereal. I must be hallucinating.
Yes, that’s definitely what this is.
So, why then is he walking toward me? Why is his head cocked to the side when his bare feet touch my running shoes, as if he’s curious about me too? Why is his hand reaching for my face, lightly brushing his knuckles against my cheekbone? And why, if God is merciful, is he looking at me like that? As if he wants me just as much as I crave him.
“You’re worthy, Elijah,” he whispers with a smile, then leans in, pressing his lips to the corner of my mouth. “Beautiful. Wanted. Cherished.”
I know it’s a dream.
So why does it feel so real?
I wake with a start, sitting up in bed and gasping for breath. The sheets are wet, my skin sticking to them, and I run a hand down my face in frustration. I shouldn’t be thinking about him. I shouldn’t be feeling desire for anyone, much less a man.
But what if this isn’t the devil’s doing?
What if it’s love?
No, that’s not possible.
I shake my head, get out of bed, and run to the toilet, kneeling over it as my stomach contracts. But no vomit comesup. I haven’t eaten anything, so there’s nothing to throw up anyway.
I shake my head, gulping for air, and sit back against the wall. I need to get this under control. I can’t keep living this way anymore. Someone will notice. God will notice. But then why is there a tiny part of me that hopes everyone is wrong? Because if God created me in his image, then he wouldn’t make me defective.
Would he?
I’ve been reeling the past few days, mind stuck on everything that happened in my room—from the mind-bending orgasm, to the conversation with Micah, to the dream that left me panting and full of yearning. I’ve kept my distance from my best friend ever since, and as if Father Jacob could tell that I needed a distraction, he assigned me to the library to catalogue the church’s archives. I’ve been here for two hours now, filing my life away.
Gemma, the librarian, has been keeping an eye on me, and she’s now sent me into a small room full of books from top to bottom in search of a first edition of a book I already forgot the name of. But I’m going to pretend I’m looking for it for a little while longer because she’s staring at me. My skin prickles as I pretend to look for the book, fingertips brushing against spines, until one of them catches my attention. This one in particular has a peculiar spine that looks like human skin and angelic script. I retrieve it and press it to my side, hoping she hasn’t seen, but when I turn back around, she’s not there. Relieved, I open the book and look through it. It’s written in Latin.
The pages of the book are weathered and yellowed, crisp, even. Unbendable. I crack the spine, wincing at the sound of it, and flip quickly until a drawing stops me in my tracks. It looks like the man I saw in my dream. Except this is clearly no man, but an angel. I read over it quickly, frowning. It’s a prayer to Azriel, and I don’t know what I’m thinking, but I tear out the page and pocket it. I’m startled by the realization of what I’ve done, but I can’t take it back. The book is now desecrated, and it’s all my fault.
I quickly shove it back into its original spot, then speed walk out of the room, breathing hard. Oh, no. What have I done? This is unforgivable. I just stole something. For the first time in my life too, and it’s at seminary. Of course I’d do that. I’m dirty. Defiled. Wrong. I’m clearly capable of doing despicable things, so I shouldn’t be so shocked that I could go through with something like this.
Right?
Although I’m on the verge of a mental breakdown, I take a deep breath and casually walk past Gemma’s desk. She looks up in that moment and frowns, then gives me a sad smile. A knowing one. I stiffen.
“He doesn’t come for free, Elijah,” she says softly, brown eyes peering into me in a way I find creepy. Like she’s all-knowing. I’ve been discovered, and I gulp. “There’s always a price to pay.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, walking backwards toward the library entrance.
