“Smells like…”
I expected her to insult the place—it’s what I would have done—but she inhaled deep and exhaled with a sigh.
“…like hope.”
“Yeah…that’s the mold,” I grumbled, shutting the door behind her to at least try and keep the central AC contained.
June glanced back at me with a smile. “That too.”
I watched as she walked slowly down the center aisle, her fingers grazing the backs of the pews—welcoming them back to life, resurrected. The light from the stained glass didn’t quite reach her, but somehow she was still haloed in gold, an angel walking among us.
“This is where you live?” she asked, pausing.
“I live in the parsonage,” I clarified. “This part is where the ghosts hang out.”
June turned to look at me. “And you left it like this?”
“It’s not like I was expectin’ company.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Not even a little sweeping for the Lord?”
“Pretty sure He stopped takin’ attendance here a long time ago.”
That earned me a quiet laugh, June directing her attention back toward the front of the room. She walked a little farther, than her eyes found mine again.
“You’re wrong, you know.”
I cocked my head, crossing my arms. “About what?”
“About Him not showing up anymore…or Her or Them, whatever God chooses to be here,” she said. “God is still here—They’re just waiting for somebody to open the damn windows.”
I stared at her for a long beat—not because I didn’t believe her, but because I did, and that scared the hell out of me. The idea that some stranger’s God had been here the whole time, waiting for me just to listen…I didn’t like it.
“You always this poetic?” I asked, trying to keep my tone dry.
June grinned. “Only when the Spirit moves me.”
I chuckled. “C’mon. Parsonage is this way. You can put your stuff down there where the ghosts—or God—won’t fuck with it.”
I opened the side door and led her through the old corridor that connected the church to the small living quarters in back. The air changed immediately—less mildew, more pine-scented candle courtesy of Willow. The hallway still had warped yellow wallpaper and one burnt-out sconce, but I’d replaced the rug last year and put up a few old photographs of my family just to keep myself human.
June didn’t comment on the mess. Didn’t ask questions about the faded picture of my parents or the one of Amelia bythe altar in a white dress. She just took it in…soft, quiet, understanding.
The parsonage at the end of the hall wasn’t much—cleaner, sure, but that was about the end of it. A narrow sitting room welcomed us in, featuring only a threadbare armchair and a bookshelf warped by humidity and stocked full of old westerns and the odd book on the occult. To the left was a galley kitchen that barely fit one body, let alone two, the bathroom was just ahead, and my bedroom was on the right, the door open to reveal a neatly made bed.
June stepped inside without hesitation.
And that shouldn’t have rattled me…but it did. Everything about her presence feltloudin my space. Her breath, her boots on the floorboards, the way she looked around like she could read every one of my secrets written on the walls. She set her bag down on the armchair and turned toward me with that half-smile of hers, the one that looked like trouble, so out of place on a priest.
“Nice place,” she deadpanned. “A little less haunted than I expected.”
I shrugged. “Told ya they hang out in the church, not here.”
She chuckled.
I wanted to kiss her.
She had this way of laughing—just a little too full-bodied, a little too unguarded when I always had my shields up. It pierced right through my armor, right down to the heart of me, like light pouring in through a busted window.
