After mass, we light a candle for her grandmother at the shrine.
"She would have liked you," Waverly says quietly, watching the flame flicker.
"You think so?"
"I know so." She smiles, and there's a peace in her eyes that I've never seen before. "She always told me that real love is terrifying. That it demands everything from you, changes you in ways you never expected. She would have looked at you and seen a man who was brave enough to change."
I pull her close and press a kiss to her temple. "I wasn't brave. I was just desperate not to lose you."
"Same thing," she says. "At least, that's what Nana would say."
We walk home through streets dappled with autumn sunlight, and I feel something shift in my chest. The weight I've been carrying for eight years, the guilt and grief and self-punishment, finally begins to lift. In its place is something lighter. Something that feels like hope.
"What are you thinking?" Waverly asks, watching my face.
"That I wasted so many years running from this. From life. From the possibility of loving someone and being loved in return." I stop walking and turn to face her. "I'm not going to waste anymore time. I want to build a life with you, Waverly. A real life. With a home and a future and everything I never let myself want before."
Her eyes fill with tears. "Is that a proposal?"
"Not yet." I smile. "When I propose, you'll know. There will be a ring and probably some more kneeling. But this is a promise. A promise that I'm in this for the long haul. That whatever comes next, we face it together."
She rises on her toes and kisses me, right there on the sidewalk, in broad daylight, where anyone could see. When she pulls back, she's smiling.
"Together," she agrees. "That sounds perfect to me."
We walk the rest of the way home hand in hand, and I think about all the years I spent behind a collar, hiding from the world, punishing myself for sins I didn't commit. I think about the confessional where she first admitted her desire, the alcove where I first touched her face, the platform where I dropped to my knees and chose her in front of everyone.
I've spent my whole life serving something I never truly believed in.
Now I've found something worth believing in. Someone worth kneeling for.
And I'm never letting go.
9
WAVERLY
SIX MONTHS LATER
Iwake to the smell of coffee and the sound of rain against the windows. The bed beside me is empty, but the sheets are still warm, and I can hear Cillian moving around in the kitchen, humming something that sounds suspiciously like a hymn.
Our apartment is small but perfect. We found it together three months ago, after his laicization was finalized and he could finally step fully into his new life. It's on the third floor of a brownstone in a quiet neighborhood, with big windows that let in the morning light and a kitchen just large enough for two people to cook together without bumping elbows too often.
I stretch and smile at the ceiling, still not quite able to believe this is my life now.
When I pad into the kitchen, Cillian is standing at the stove in sweatpants and nothing else, flipping pancakes with a concentration that makes me want to kiss the furrow between his brows. The silver at his temples catches the gray morning light, and I think, not for the first time, that he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"Good morning," I say softly, wrapping my arms around his lean torso from behind, my cheek pressing against the warmth of his bare shoulder blade.
He turns in my embrace, the spatula still in one hand, and kisses me—soft and sweet and tasting faintly of the coffee he's already been drinking. "Good morning, love. Sleep well?"
"Always, when you're there beside me." I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. "What's the occasion? You never make pancakes on a weekday."
"I felt like spoiling you today." He guides me gently to a chair at our small kitchen table and sets a plate in front of me, stacked impressively high with golden pancakes and fresh strawberries he must have picked up from the farmer's market yesterday. "Also, I have news I wanted to share."
"Good news or bad news?" I ask, trying to read his expression.
"Good." He sits across from me, cradling his coffee mug in those hands I've watched so many times. "I got a call yesterday from the community center on Maple Street. They want to hire me full-time as a counselor. Starting next month."
