He raised his head. “Inside the church, in the confessional or during Mass, the protocol is Father Jude. But out here, stopping by because you saw I was having a shit awful day you’re no longer a stranger, Ethan. I’m Jude.”
“You remembered my name,” I said, pleased and a bit surprised.
A small smile creased the tear-stained pallor of his face. “I did.” He pushed to his feet and clasped the doorknob to his residence. Before he went inside, he turned his profile to me. “Thank you.”
And then he was gone.
My mouth parted slightly in surprise. Staring at the closed door, I didn’t understand what had just happened… if anything. What I did know was that Jude’s profile was stamped on my brain— honey blond locks over his forehead, a straight nose in proportion to a well-defined jawline. Long, lush eyelashes, and full lips that protruded slightly. What also emblazoned on my mind was the aching sadness that seemed to consume him. I wanted to take his pain away… I wanted to hold the man close to my chest and never let go. But that was a pipe dream for another day.
I didn’t see Jude again until five days later on Friday evening, after my training session at The Ring. The week had gone quicker than anticipated, thanks to a 2003 Maserati Quattroporte V that needed repairs before being auctioned at a charity event in a few weeks. As a consequence, I worked long hours. When I arrived home, I had just enough energy to grab a hot shower to loosen my muscles, eat takeout from the carboard containers, and flop onto the sofa where I fell asleep with the TV on.
And yet, all through my busy days, Jude’s sadness had shadowed me. The night before had been made worse by a rough session with Andrew.
Instead of sleeping, remorse from my past resurfaced, feeling heavy, like a sodden winter coat making my shoulders slump from the weight. Thoughts of Jude in my arms, our mouths touching and testing, added to my self-reproach. Even if I never acted on my desires, they were ever-present.
I’d needed relief. From my imaginings… my thoughts… from myself.
Opening the door to my closet and reaching to the highest shelf, I had grabbed the flogger and placed it on the bed. Then I’d withdrawn, walking backwards until my calves bumped into a chair in the corner of my bedroom and I flopped onto the upholstered padding. I clasped the arms until my knuckles hurt from the tension. I hadn’t flogged myself in eight days. Seven days since Hawk threatened me in order to keep me from self-harming. I’d been so fucking tempted and had sat for an hour, gripping the sides of the chair until my fingers were numb. I’d itched with the sensation of ants crawling up my spine while my brain warred with itself. One side gave me permission.It’s okay, Ethan. Do it. You don’t need Hawk or the Ring.
The opposite argument eventually won out. I needed people like Hawk and the other gym members who’d welcomed me into their tight circle in my life. More than anything, if I acted on my self-destructive behaviors, Jude would be disappointed. Or at the very least, feel bad for me. Pity me.
Pity. That was the consideration that gave me the courage to return the flogger to the closet. As a form of consolation prize, I fatigued myself with a five-mile run on Ocean Road before settling on the sofa and finally drifting to sleep.
Right now, I was ready to run again—the person before me had exited the confessional. I was next.
I did a slow rotation to see who was left in the church. Only a few people, as I’d purposely arrived late when the allotted time for confessions was nearing an end. I didn’t want anyone waitingto go in after me. I rose to my feet, side-stepped out of the pew, opened the door to the confessional, and sat down. Jude didn’t show any surprise. “You saw me. Out there,” I said, tilting my chin in the direction of the pews. There was no question in my tone.
Jude made the sign of the cross. Then when I said and did nothing, he asked, “Ethan, are you here for confession?”
Was I? I hadn’t showed up for confession. I came to lay eyes on the priest But also, I’d been plagued more than usual with guilt. Bowing my head, I made the sign of the cross. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned and it’s been…” I paused to count. “Twenty-three years since my last confession.”
“May I ask what’s prompted you to come today?”
I had to turn away from Jude. Just like the last time, the low lighting cast him in an ethereal glow that was distracting. He was just so beautiful and I mourned the fact that he was a priest. I turned and stared into his rich brown eyes that showed flecks of gold in the lighting. Another long beat until I said in a very low voice, “I ran out last time because I couldn’t bring myself to confess. But now that I’m here, I’m just as scared to say the words out loud.” I took a shaky breath and then said, “Other than the police, I’ve confessed to only one other person—the victim.”
I felt Jude’s studied gaze. When I dared peek up from lowered eyes, I saw nothing but empathy and something else that seemed to make me flinch, as if my words struck a chord in Jude. Not quite sympathy, but an understanding of inner turmoil. Hadn’t I seen proof of that last week when I’d found him with his eyes red-rimmed outside the rectory?
After a few minutes, Jude said softly, “Whatever you tell me is confidential, Ethan. I’m not here to judge you.”
I closed my eyes and clasped my hands on my lap in prayer. In a voice I fought to keep steady, I murmured, “His name wasLuca. Next week is the seven-year anniversary of…”—I had to physically force the words out—“…of when I raped him.” Bile sprang up my throat, clogging my airway and making me hunch over in the small space, gagging for air.
Jude darted out of the confessional. Opening the adjoining door, he placed his arm on me. “Let me take you to the bathroom. You look sick.”
My head was feverish and sweaty. My body jerked involuntarily as my stomach roiled and I feared vomiting. “Please,” I managed, panic growing. But fuck, there wasn’t any room inside me for more guilt… for past actions that would keep me imprisoned forever.
“Come on,” Jude urged, holding me around the waist. He led me from the nave into a corridor with catechism classrooms and where I imagined the bathrooms were.
“I-I can’t…” I slapped my hand on the wall, bent over, and after a violet lurch of my stomach, I vomited.
I couldn’t believe what I’d done but my stomach turned again, and my legs shook, ready to give out on me. “Bathroom,” I whispered, afraid the mere action of speaking would make me hurl whatever small amount was left in me.
Jude guided me around the mess on the floor and into the bathroom. He opened the door to the family stall that had a changing table and a chair. “Sit here for a second.” He propped the door open to the toilet and then taking my arm, he dragged the chair with him. He gently coaxed me inside the cubicle, adjusted the chair in the limited space, then pushed me down onto it. Turning to the sink, he pulled sheets of paper towel from the dispenser and put them on my lap. “Are you okay for a bit? I need to clean up the hallway so no one slips.”
“Fuck, I’m sorry.” I choked back tears as another wave of nausea hit me and I bent forward over the toilet, my hand holding up my head. I waved for Jude to leave.
I didn’t expect the forceful reaction my body had to my confession. After seven years of non-stop therapy, I’d hoped the guilt would have waned. Luca was in a loving polyamorous relationship now, and while he didn’t say more than a few words whenever we happened to see each other at the bakery, he always said hello. When we’d been at the same bar one night right after I’d moved to Long Beach, Luca had confided his own remorse for what had transpired at Napa.
“It was a fucked-up situation all around,”Luca had said to me.“Even so, I can’t regret my time there, since I met the love of my life, my Master and husband.”Luca had looked searchingly into my green eyes, a similar green to his own, then continued.“In ways, what happened to you was so much worse. And in the end, you got nothing out of it but misery.”
