We’re not always welcome here.
Tiernan flips the Zippo closed. “That sounds like loads of fun. How about for tonight,” he offers, easy, “there’s a party at Kavanagh’s we could crash. Or we could do your usual.”
My usual.
I look at the cake. Then at the knife Roisin set next to it. I pick it up. Decide I don’t want any fucking cake.
My hand doesn’t shake when I set the knife back down. “I’m going to church,” I say. “Nobody bothers me for at least an hour.”
Rafferty’s mouth does that almost-smile that never reaches his eyes. “Try not to steal from God, nephew.”
“I don’t steal,” I tell the older man. “I collect what’s owed. Not from the church.”
Roisin bumps my shoulder on her way past, softening the gesture with a hint of a smile. “I know this look,” she says, twirling her hand. “You invite chaos in, and then you wait.” And she does know. She was there when I came back from Colorado with a spine that didn’t bend the same way, and morals that not even a saint could change.
I take another swallow of whiskey and feel the edges line up inside me. My yearly birthday ritual is simple. I find a saint—someone in costume, naturally, because who would ever want to defile a real saint—representative of holiness and salvation and purity. A nun, an angel, a Catholic schoolgirl…whatever. Ioffer them sin—nothing but a fall from grace and a safe place to transgress.
And in the doing, I prove to myself I can’t be shamed with the weapontheyused.
It’s not about purity. It’s about permission.
I start at the church just to remind myself of what I’m doing.
Outside, Southie is already wearing Halloween like a dare to the outside world. My shoes hit the wet pavement as dusk approaches. Around me, kids in capes and masks are cutting across the street while their parents shout from concrete stoops.
I drive slowly down the lane without music, window cracked, the air needle-cold and clean enough to keep me awake. I park three blocks from St. Brigid’s and walk the rest.
Another habit that was cut into my soul. If you can’t walk away fast, don’t go in.
The cathedral breathes around me when I slip through the side door. Old wood greets me with a quiet squeak. Beeswax fills the air, a mix of burning candles and old stone that smells like rain. I stand a minute and let it sink into my soul that this isn’t a barn with a lock on the outside.
I’m free to leave when and how I want.
While my heart rate slows to normal, I take inventory of my surroundings. The front pews are empty. A custodian hums somewhere near the sacristy but out of sight. I mark my goal halfway back. An aisle seat that will put my back to the wall.
I count the panels in the nearest window. Twelve. Again. Twelve.
Finally, I can breathe through the anxiety that’s always present on my birthday.
I let my gaze drift over the sanctuary, the peace of it settling something within me. My eyes catch on someone midway among the pews.
There’s already a saint here.
She’s not dressed like a nun. Not yet. But she’s a saint. I can tell.
Maybe even a real one.
She’s wearing a wool coat over a simple outfit. The kind the students at St. Brigid’s wear. Not too young, though. Maybe a senior, from the look of her.
Dark hair braided like she might need it out of her face for whatever fight comes. She sits like a good daughter and breathes like someone holding up the ceiling with every lungful.
I watch her count the same window I was just riveted on. My gaze narrows. No…she’s not counting the windows or even numbers—she’s counting decisions hidden behind the distance in her eyes.
“Perfection looks heavy,” I hear myself say. I’m surprised to realize it’s not a line. It’s a mirror I’m offering in case she wants to set some of her weight down.
Normally, I wouldn’t bother, but there’s something about her…
This woman… she’s something else.
