She doesn’t try to talk me into a bar first. She gives a small sigh, slips her hand into mine, squeezes, then lets go. “Okay. Church so you can beg preliminary forgiveness. Then a drink. Then we ghost this shit.”
The cathedral presides over the neighborhood, regal and unchanging. Candlelight spills in rectangles on stone. A few tourists hover near the side chapels, whispering over votives. I feel the old wood and cold air roll over us as I open one of the huge double doors, the kind of hush that makes laughter sound like sin and sin sound like prayer.
“I’ll be outside because you know me and church. Text me if you even blink and something’s weird,” Pru says peering inside suspiciously.
Ever since a nun whipped her hands with a ruler when she was a kid, she hates churches, says they piss her off. She does everything she can to stay out of them now. “And if you’re more than ten minutes, I’m coming in like the wrath of God.” She pauses. “Okay, so maybe I won’t come all the way in. I’ll stand in the back and yell.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in God.”
“I believe in wrath, and she’s a petty see-you-next-Tuesday.”
I slip into the nave and let the door hush itself closed behind me. The church is empty this time of night—no tour groups, nomurmured prayers—just the tick of the old radiators and the candle rack breathing its little halos. Halloween presses against the stained glass from the street, all orange and blue and too-loud laughter, but in here it’s dim and still and smelling faintly of incense and lemon oil.
The habit rustles when I move. The veil is pinned high and tight, and my rosary taps my thigh with each step like it’s counting what I owe. I cross myself out of muscle memory and slide into the confessional on the penitent side.
I’m silent for a few moments, just breathing in memories of prayer and penitence and sorrow. The wood is warm from centuries of hands. I leave the door cracked for air, because sweat is already slicking the backs of my knees.
Why did I feel the urge to come here…the need to beg forgiveness for something I haven’t even done yet? Because I’m about to sin. Drink, dance, probably. Maybe kiss a boy…do a little more if I’m brave enough.
Then clarity hits, in a lightning strike burst of realness that makes me squeeze my eyes closed.
No. It’s more than that. I’m here because Idon’t wantto dedicate my life to God. And I feel guilty for that.
“Bless me, Father, for I have—” I start, my voice thick but the words steady because the script holds you up when your own truth won’t.
“—come to practice the feeling before the leap?” a man says, low, from the other side of the screen.
I jerk, knocking into the bench. The rosary clacks against the wood.
For a second my heart strangles itself. I wasn’t expecting anyone. No priest. No anyone. The mesh turns the man into fragments: the slope of a shoulder, the shadow of a jaw, the faint movement of breath.
“It’s just me,” he adds, and the timbre curves familiar in my ear. Not a priest. Not even trying to sound like one.
I turn the memory over in my mind—earlier this evening, a few pews back from my own. A man too good-looking for church and my peace of mind.
“You—” I begin, my voice smaller than I want.
“From earlier,” he says, saving me the reach. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have answered you. Reflex.” He pauses. “I can leave.”
My pulse thuds in my ears. The smart thing—the good thing—would be to sayyes, go. The problem is that I came here to gain absolution in my own way, and he sounds like he understands the shape of that.
I swallow. “You’re not the priest.”
“No,” he says. “I’m not.”
“Then why are you in there?”
“Ahhh…sanctuary?” he says, as if the word itself is explanation and apology. “I just wandered in, honestly. You might say that on nights like this, I borrow a room with rules so I don’t break any of my own.”
“You have rules?” The scoff slips out before I can check it.
“More than I used to.” He shifts, just enough for me to catch a glint through the screen of those not-quite-green eyes. “I start by asking instead of taking. I keep my hands where they belong. I remember the door is for both of us.”
The knot between my ribs loosens a fraction. There is something careful in him, coiled and controlled, and something tired, too, like restraint has a cost he’s willing to pay. I lean closer, enough that my veil whispers against the lattice.
“Then you should know I’m not…only…here for absolution,” I say. “I’m here to…try the words on before I sign them.”
He’s quiet a heartbeat, two. “Postulate?” he asks softly.
