“Always.” I confirmed.
“That’s a talent, to be so honest.”
I shrugged. “Most people hate me.”
“The people of St. Mike’s never would. Join me for Mass in the morning?”
“I never thought I’d go to a Mass again, but for you, Father, I will.” Father Bastien already had me hooked on whatever his particular form of Godliness was. He seemed the epitome of faith, a true living saint—and I couldn’t help the tiny whisper of rebellion that wondered if there was ever a crack in all of his pious moral armor.
THREE
Tressa
Quiet moments fell between us as we sat near his tiny fire later that night. I didn’t really think of Father Bastien Castaneda as anything other than a man of God, but I guess, as a man, he would have desires framed outside of the Church. Bastien narrowed his eyes, leaning into me then. His soft lips parted, he uttered his thoughts anything but chastely. “You know, it’s your fire—that’s what scares people about you. You mistake hate for envy. You are a passionate rebellion, dear Tressa, and everything they want to be.”
His eyes caged me, my fingers twitching before his gaze dropped down to my lips. I pressed them together, fire hurtling through every muscle in my body. Something about the way his eyes sliced through me, seeing to the core of every rebellious thought I’d ever had.
“Are you ready to talk about it?” His voice speared the silence.
“It?” I asked, thinking over the one of a thousand “its” I could confess to.
“Confession.”
My stubborn gaze finally landed on his.
“Hardly. I’m not very good at opening up to people.”
One dark slash of his brow shot up. “I had noticed.”
I swallowed, my fingers itching in equal parts to kiss or maim his beautiful face. To say my nerves were raw was an understatement, I wasn’t sure why he rattled me so much, maybe it was the way he leaned into my space when he listened, acting so damn concerned about my feelings all the time.
“To bear one another's burdens is to fulfill the law of Christ.”His voice always lowered an octave when he quoted scripture, and damn if I didn’t feel every word between my thighs.
“No offense, but Jesus didn’t grow up in North Philly.” The joke didn’t land like I’d hoped, and the sympathy lacing his irises made my heart sink. “I’m not sure what it’s like in Cuba, but where I come from, family dinners and bedtime stories aren’t really a thing. I watched my mom’s best friend overdose on our couch. Asking my mom for a hug after the paramedics cleared out didn’t really feel like the right time.”
“Is there ever?” His head ticked to one side, firelight highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw.
“A right time? Isn’t timing everything? If there’s never a right time, then why are people always saying it’s all about timing?”
“Nice deflection, but I’ll indulge you.” He leaned a little closer, the brush of his shoulder against mine sending a thrill of sparks through me. “Timing may be man-made, but the universe is always orchestrating in your highest interest. Wouldn’t you say it’s fortunate timing that a position opened up at St. Michael’s for the first time in years right after you showed up?”
“Is it fortunate you were here and felt bad enough for the poor college dropout that you created a position for me? Yes. But that wasn’t God or timing. That was your generosity.”
His dark eyes held mine as he worked my words over. “And I couldn’t have done it without God and timing on my side. If you’d been here six months before, I wouldn’t have been able to make the day care work. Timing.”
“Well…” I smirked, bringing our conversation back full circle. “I just don’t think the timing is right for my confession then.”
Bastien’s eyes sparkled. “Maybe by Sunday, you’ll find the timing more suitable.”
I thought of Father Bastien ducking into the confessional, listening to the secrets of all of St. Michael’s parishioners. I couldn’t imagine the weight he must carry on his broad shoulders, listening wholeheartedly to every wayward sin of a community. His level of selflessness in service to his God was inspiring.
I’d never committed to anything as fully as Bastien committed to his faith.
“Confession is a washing away of lingering swords left behind.”
“Swords, huh?” I held his gaze, taking my turn to roll his words over in my mind.
“When we can’t express our deepest fears, they lodge like invisible daggers in our spine.”
