She cast her eyes back to her feet before pushing through the doors of the church. “I think finding my father is something I have to do, maybe just talking to him could ease some of this crazy feeling in my head. I don’t know how many nights it took with that professor to make me realize no one deserves that treatment—” she shook her head and wiped at a tear, “it made me realize I’ve been cycling through clinging to people and then rejecting their love my entire life because deep down—I didn’t think I deserved it—because the man that was supposed to mean something left me to fend for myself against…” she paused, shoulders beginning a slow shake as she unravelled with her thoughts, “the monster that was supposed to be my mother.”
My heart broke, her quest to finding her father starting right here on the steps of St. Mike’s, at my feet. “I’ve give anything to take this pain away from you, Tressa, I’d risk my life if I thought I could give you the answers your heart needs.” I swallowed her in my arms once we were inside the vestibule, her tears taking over her form then as she truly came apart. The real her shone through for the first time, through all the rivers of pain and tears, she shed them all into my shoulder and released some darkness she’d been carrying on her shoulders for longer than anyone should.
“Please, let me take you back to bed—I’ll throw more logs on your fire—let me take care of you.”
She shook her head. “Everything about you is so light—so angelic—I’m too dark, the longer I stay here, the more likely I’ll drown you.”
“Even a rose needs some darkness to bloom, Tressa. The destruction you’ve caused is real and permanent—you’ve already left your mark on my heart—is there anything more destructive than that?” I caught her face in my palms. “And I don’t think you’re broken because you cry in the rain—that’s the part that makes you human.” I swept my fingers across her cheekbones, wiping away fresh tears, “And that’s what makes me love you.”
ELEVEN
Tressa
Words like temptation and deliverance weighed heavy on my thoughts as I spent the next few days operating on autopilot after Bastien rescued me in the rain and confessed his love. My thoughts still reeling about the course of my life, working alongside Lucy in the daycare with my planner and notebook in hand and making notes and calls to organize a winter festival, a St. Valentine’s sock hop, and a spring fling—all to keep away my thoughts of him.
Instead of Bastien, I thought about the decorations and dancing, the games for kids and adults, organized potluck items for snacking and parish-made pastries. I’d already managed to convince a few sponsors to donate items, and the local community news section agreed to run some ads for us free of charge.
Bastien and St. Michael’s had so much to contribute, I didn’t like seeing its parishioners suffer just because the budget was down. Or because he was busy repenting for every interaction he had with me. I clung to the community St. Mike’s offered: Ms. Watson had even given me a hug after Wednesday night Mass, glowing with words of positivity about the good work I’d been doing for the parish and how lucky they were to have me. Bastien had hovered just out of earshot, lingering and aware of my every move. I was so painstakingly conscious of every heartbeat that passed between us. When he entered the room, the air rushed out of my lungs, my knees shook, and my heart began an annoying, slow gallop in my chest.
Prickling palms and words like love chugged through my brain.
I hated every second.
My resentment for the tender spot I had for him grew by the day.
By avoiding him, I’d managed to make wanting him that much more forbidden.
I’d done the very opposite of what I’d meant to do.
Inwardly, I cursed him and then myself when I’d headed out the nursery doors one morning to pick up diapers and formula for a few of the younger kids and spied Bastien kneeling at the cross, heavy body swallowed by shadows. A play of golden light through one of the stained-glass windows created a halo effect around his head, and bent in pure benediction, lips moving silently, he nearly brought me to my knees.
He prayed with fervor, as if in his own self-inflicted penance.
My Bastien.
I watched, enamored, thinking of what a man like him said to God.
Did he ask for forgiveness for me?
Had I corrupted him?
Was I the siren sent to lead him to the pits of sin?
A vise grip clenched around my heart as he made a silent sign of the cross on his forehead, and then above his lips.
I wiped the tears off of my face with the sleeve of my sweater and turned the other way, escaping out of the door before he could see me.
Heart sinking in my chest.
* * *
Women Who Love Priests
I typed the ominous four words into the world’s favorite search bar.
I sighed when over a million results were returned in less than a millisecond.
I scrolled down the results page, chin in hand, nearly laughing at the pitiful look I must have had about me at that very moment.
