"Waverly." I reach for her arm, my fingers brushing the sleeve of her cardigan, but she takes a deliberate step backward, putting distance between us. "What's wrong? What happened?"
"They're talking about you." Her voice is flat, devoid of its usual warmth and melody. "Inside the church. Mrs. Callahan and Mrs. Patterson—they're saying you submitted an official resignation to the diocese."
"I told you I was starting the process of petitioning Rome..."
"You told me you were starting it. You didn't tell me you'd actually submitted paperwork. You didn't tell me people were already talking about it." She looks at me with an expression that makes my chest ache. "What else haven't you told me?"
"Nothing. I swear, nothing important. I just didn't want to burden you with the details."
"The details?" She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "People are whispering about the priest who's leaving the church, Cillian. How long before they figure out why? How long before they're whispering about me?"
"I'll protect you from that."
"How? You can't control what people say. You can't stop them from looking at me and seeing..." She trails off, pressing her hand to her mouth.
"Seeing what?"
"The woman who corrupted you." Her voice breaks on the word. "That's what they'll say, isn't it? That's what they'll think. And maybe they'll be right."
"That's not true." I step closer, and this time she doesn't retreat. "You didn't corrupt me, Waverly. You saved me."
"Did I? Or did I just give you an excuse to throw away your life?"
The question hits like a blow. I want to argue, to convince her that she's wrong, but she's already walking away, and I'm standing in the shadow of the church I'm about to leave, wondering if I've just ruined everything.
7
WAVERLY
Ican't stop hearing the whispers.
They echo in my head as I walk home from the church, as I climb the stairs to my apartment, as I lock the door behind me and slide down to the floor with my back against the wood. The woman who corrupted the priest. The scandal that drove him away. Such a shame, he was a good man, before her.
The worst part is that they're not wrong. Before I walked into St. Augustin's, Cillian had a life. A purpose. A calling, even if he claims now that it was never real. He had stability and respect and a community that looked up to him. Now he has me, and what am I? A lonely girl with no family, no connections, no ability to give him anything close to what he's giving up.
I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. I've spent the past week in a dream, wrapped up in the warmth of his body and the sweetness of his words, and I let myself believe that this could work. That love would be enough. That we could build something beautiful out of the ashes of everything he's destroying.
But love isn't enough. I know that better than anyone. My parents loved each other, and they still died in a car accident when I was eight. My grandmother loved me more than anything, and she still left me alone in the world. Love doesn't protect you from consequences. Love doesn't stop people from whispering. Love doesn't keep the man you care about from waking up one day and realizing he gave up everything for nothing.
My phone buzzes with a text from Cillian. Where are you? We need to talk.
I don't respond. I'm not ready to face him, not with all these thoughts swirling in my head. Instead, I curl up on my couch and stare at the ceiling, replaying every moment since I first walked into that church.
I think about the confessional, about the way my voice shook when I admitted my sins. I think about his hand on my face in the alcove, the way he said my name like it meant something. I think about waking up in his arms and believing, for one perfect moment, that I'd finally found where I belonged.
And then I think about the whispers. About the way Mrs. Patterson looked at me during mass, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. About the way the congregation will look at me once they figure out the truth, if they haven't already. The homewrecker. The temptress. The girl who seduced a man of God.
Maybe I am those things. Maybe I saw a broken man hiding behind a collar and I pushed until he broke further. Maybe I wanted him so badly that I didn't stop to think about what it would cost him.
My phone buzzes again. Please, Waverly. I'm worried about you.
I turn it off.
The next few days are torture. I go to work, shelve books, smile at customers, and feel absolutely nothing. Odette gives me worried looks but doesn't pry, which I'm grateful for. I can't explain this to her. I can barely explain it to myself.
Cillian comes to my apartment every evening, but I don't let him in. I stand on the other side of the door and listen to him knock, listen to him plead, and I don't open it. I can't. If I see his face, if I feel his arms around me, I'll forget all the reasons why this has to end.
On the third night, he stops knocking altogether and simply talks through the heavy wooden door, his voice muffled but unmistakable.
