Father Daugherty is in the kitchen when I enter the rectory, nursing a cup of coffee and reading the morning paper. He looks up when I walk in, and his eyebrows rise at my civilian clothes.
"Late night, Cillian?"
"Something like that." I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit across from him, trying to figure out how to have this conversation. "I need to talk to you about something."
"That sounds ominous." He sets down his paper and gives me his full attention. James Daugherty has been at St. Augustin's almost as long as I have. He's kind and uncomplicated in a way I've never managed to be, and right now his steady gaze feels like an anchor.
"I'm leaving the priesthood."
The words hang in the air between us. James doesn't react immediately, just studies my face with that quiet, assessing look he's perfected over decades of hearing confessions.
"I see," he says finally. "Is this about the Sinclair girl?"
I should be surprised that he knows, but I'm not. James notices everything, even the things he pretends not to see. "Partly. But it's also about me. About the fact that I've been hiding behind this collar for eight years instead of actually living."
"That's a significant realization to come to overnight."
"It's been building for longer than that. She just... she made me brave enough to face it."
James nods slowly, and I see something in his eyes that might be understanding. "I won't pretend I didn't notice the way you looked at her during mass. I've been waiting for you to say something." He takes a sip of his coffee. "What's your plan?"
"Laicization. I've already started researching the process. I know it takes time, months probably, but I'm committed."
"And in the meantime?"
"In the meantime, I'll fulfill my duties here. I won't abandon the parish. But I need to start the paperwork, and I wanted you to hear it from me first."
James is quiet for a long moment. Then he reaches across the table and clasps my shoulder. "For what it's worth, I think you're making the right choice. I've known for a long time that your heart wasn't fully in this, Cillian. A man can't serve God when he's running from himself."
The words hit harder than I expected. I've spent so long convincing myself that my dedication was real, that my vocation was genuine. Hearing someone else acknowledge the truth I've been hiding from feels like being seen for the first time.
"Thank you," I manage.
"Don't thank me yet. The diocese won't make this easy on you. And the parish gossip will be brutal." He gives me a pointed look. "Especially if they find out about your young lady."
"I'll protect her from that."
"Can you?"
It's a fair question, and I don't have a good answer. So I just nod, finish my coffee, and head to my study to begin the process of dismantling the life I've built.
The paperwork is complicated. I spend the morning on the phone with the diocese, explaining my situation in careful, vague terms. I draft a letter to the bishop, choosing each word with the precision of a man who knows his future depends on getting this right. I don't mention Waverly. I frame my decision as a crisis of faith, a realization that my vocation was never genuine. It's close enough to the truth.
By afternoon, I've submitted the initial petition. The response will take weeks, and the full process could take six months or more. But the wheels are in motion, and for the first time in years, I feel like I'm moving toward something instead of running away.
I find myself at her door before I consciously decide to go. She answers on the second knock, her hair still damp from the shower, wearing a sundress that makes my mouth go dry.
"You came back," she says, and there's a delicate vulnerability threading through her voice that makes something deep in my chest ache and tighten.
"I told you I would." I step inside and close the door behind me, immediately pulling her into my arms, breathing in the clean,familiar scent of her shampoo—something floral and fresh that I've come to associate with her. "I'm sorry I left so early this morning. I had some important things to handle."
"What kind of things?" she asks, her voice muffled against my shirt.
I lead her to the couch and sit down, pulling her onto my lap so I can look at her face while I explain. "I've started the laicization process. I spoke with Father Daugherty this morning. He knows I'm leaving."
Her eyes go wide, filling with a mixture of disbelief and dawning hope. "Cillian, that's... that's huge. Are you absolutely sure about this?"
"I've never been more sure of anything in my entire life." I reach up and tuck a strand of wet hair behind her ear, my fingers lingering against the soft skin of her neck. "I told you last night—I meant every word. I'm choosing you, choosing us. That wasn't just pillow talk or post-sex sentiment."
