Trying to think of something other than the shelter and the stresses it caused, his mind only thought of another source of stress. Illias. Since Sunday, he’d become a permanent fixture in Cantrell’s mind instead of a brief fantasy he explored late at night when he couldn’t sleep. It concerned him, how often he thought of Illias. Imagined him kneeling for communion with his lips parted, tongue warm and wet beneath Cantrell’s fingers. May God strike him down for the way he yearned to explore Illias’ mouth. Have him choke on blessed fingers that only knew how to sin.
The church doors creaked, making Cantrell jump. His body burned with shame for letting his mind wander into depravity while sitting in church. He sat his binder aside then put his glasses back on. Praying for forgiveness, he stepped into the aisle then looked towards the entrance of the nave. His heart jumped to his throat when he saw Illias.
Dressed in a gray flannel and a cropped band t-shirt that stopped right above his navel, revealing a thick patch of hair that disappeared below a pair of loose, ripped jeans that hung dangerously low on his hips, Illias looked like he belonged in the bar rather than the church. Cantrell couldn’t bring his eyes awayfrom the sliver of skin on display. He could see the top portion of a tattoo above the waistband of Illias’ jeans. Cantrell wondered what other ink Illias hid. Cantrell tore his gaze away from Illias’ waist.
“Illias.” Cantrell prayed for God to fortify his nerves. “How are you?”
“Father Cantrell.” Illias grinned, stopping no less than three feet away. “I’m okay, and yourself?”
“I’m well, thank you. And your parents?”
Illias’ smile fell and he averted his eyes. He rubbed the back of his neck. “They’re fine, I think. I, um, haven’t talked to them recently.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Is everything alright?” Cantrell knew he shouldn’t pry, but he couldn’t help himself. Part of his nature as a priest was to check on the members of his flock.
“Yeah.” Illias twisted one of the many rings he wore. “Yeah. I, um, just don’t talk to them as often as I probably should.”
Cantrell sensed the unease in Illias’ voice. Thinking of a less sensitive topic, he said, “Lauren mentioned that you moved recently. How are you settling?”
“Decent, I’m slowly refamiliarizing myself with the area.” Illias’ shoulders relaxed and he met Cantrell’s eyes again. “Thought I’d swing by the church to refamiliarize myself with the priests.”
“Perhaps you should refamiliarize yourself with confession,” Cantrell replied wryly, clasping his hands.
Illias faltered, casting his eyes back down. He resumed twisting his ring. “I’m honestly not sure if I remember how.”
There it was. A chance to foster the relationship that they were meant to have. Priest and parishioner. Illias would no longer be a lapse in judgement, a moment of weakness, but a member of Cantrell’s flock like he was intended to be.
“It will come back to you no matter how long it’s been.” Cantrell gestured towards the confessional. “Follow me.”
They walked over to the booths then took their respective sides. Cantrell stayed silent for a few breaths, listening to the faint sound of movement on the other side of the thin wall. He removed his rosary, holding it in his lap to give himself something to look at to avoid the urge to look through the lattice screen. Once the shuffling stopped, Cantrell recited the opening line to confession as he had done a hundred times before: “In the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
“Amen,” Illias breathed out. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been…” A pregnant pause consumed the air, pierced by a soft chuckle and a whisperedshitbefore Illias continued. “Ten years since my last confession. I confess to the following sins.” Another pause, more brief and accompanied by the sound of clothes shifting against the wooden bench. “To be honest, I don’t know where to begin. It’s been such a long time since I’ve been to church, let alone inside a confessional booth.”
Cantrell smiled softly, seeing and hearing his younger self in Illias. “Start wherever you feel most comfortable.”
“I’m not sure if this counts but being a bad son.” Illias sighed. “I keep getting into arguments with Henry over stupid shit. My mom hates it, God,Ihate it, but it's like I can’t help myself.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I’m honestly not sure. Just like I don’t know why I lie to my mom about being straight.” Illias let out a mirthless chuckle. “I mean, Christ, I’ve been out since I was eighteen and I’m fucking twenty-five. I’ve been out seven goddamn years and my own mom doesn’t even know.”
“I understand your frustration, but it is a sin to take the Lord’s name in vain so please refrain from doing such.” Cantrell regretted his words the minute they left his mouth. Who washe to chastise someone for the very thing he still did when frustrated?
“I suppose I have that to confess to as well. I’ve used His name in vain more times that I can count. Though I doubt He’s even listening to me anymore.”
Illias’ words hung heavy in the air. Pungent with disdain towards a Father that Cantrell wasn’t even sure was listening half the time himself. He weighed his words carefully. “While it may seem as though He isn’t listening, our Lord walks with us at all times. He is there, watching and listening no matter where or who we are.” He waited for Illias to speak, to rebut, or to simply leave as some had when they heard something that they didn't want to. It remained silent. “Is there anything else you wish to confess?”
“Father, what's said in confession is kept a secret, correct?”
“Everything said here is protected by the seal of confession, yes.”
“Then I guess I should confess to the sin of lust. I’ve never considered myself a lustful person before, but I’ve met someone who I fantasize about daily.”
Arousal, hot and syrupy, pooled in Cantrell’s groin. He clutched his rosary, reminding himself that he was a servant of God first and a man second. “That certainly is a sin,” he forced out, voice weak and tight.
“That’s not the worst part, Father.” Illias’ voice was low and sultry, worsening the ache between Cantrell’s thighs. “I’ve acted on those thoughts on numerous occasions.”
“I—” Cantrell cleared his throat. Sweat slid down the nape of his neck. “I would suggest that in those times where you find that your mind is wandering, put your focus towards the word of God so that you do not risk succumbing to desires of the flesh again.”
