Maybe I should’ve asked him how he did it. Back then and now. That’d give us something to talk about. Somehow I didn’t think he’d be so eager for me to get in the booth with him then.
The familiar taste of age-old bitterness and resentment made a sudden reappearance as I glared through the lattice now, the heartache and pain from a years-old wound turning acrid as I remembered the finality of his words that fateful day as clearly as if he’d spoken them just now.
Was I ready?
I’d been ready forthatdiscussion for years. But that wasn’t what he was asking, and I knew he never would. He’d made a decision for both of us that day. A decision he had never looked back from, one he’d claimed was for the best, but as I sat there in the claustrophobic confines of the confessional, it might as well have been a jail cell because that was what he’d condemned me to that day.
The only difference was, my cell was surrounded by stained-glass windows, wooden pews, and a piece of lattice I wanted to rip out of its wooden grooves.
“Are you ready?”
The steady, sure cadence of his voice had my hands curling into fists as I continued to glare at the all-too-familiar shadow waiting for me to give him something—anything—to work with. But everything I wanted to say, he didn’t want to hear.
He wanted my confession. I wanted his admission.
I wanted him. He wanted God.
How could I compete with that?
We were standing on opposite sides of a cliff and no amount of patience, fortitude, or sacrifice was going to change the fact we both wanted fundamentally different things from each other.
“Alessio…”
My breath caught at the sound of my name rolling off his tongue, and for a second I thought I’d misheard until there was movement on the opposite side of the booth, and then the shadow shifted.
He’d moved closer.
Closer to me.
I, on the other hand, didn’t dare move. This was the closest we’d been in years, the closest I’dallowedhim to be, and the only reason I was allowing it now was the barrier between us. It would’ve been too painful otherwise.
“Alessio—”
“No.” It was the first thing I’d said since stepping inside this upright coffin, and as I continued to stare at the man on the other side of the wall, my hands started to shake.
That was when I saw it, a hand on the booth, a face move closer, as Rafael rested his forehead to the lattice and whispered again, “Alessio.”
I shot to my feet so hard and fast that it was a miracle I didn’t fall on my ass. But the sound of my name in that voice…
My. Name.
It’d been too long.
The blood rang in my ears as I backed away. Backed away from everything I wanted and everything I couldn’t have, and before he could say another word, I turned on my heels and booked it out of there like the hounds of hell were on my ass.
Instead of a holy man offering me absolution for something I didn’t fucking want.
2
RAFAEL
“FATHER JOHN, YOU’VE outdone yourself,” I said as I cut off another slice of freshly made sourdough bread and set it on my plate. Several loaves lined the long wooden table where I sat with my fellow priests after a day of visiting some of our sick and elderly parishioners. I hadn’t stopped to eat, and my stomach growled as I buttered the bread.
“Thank you, I’m enjoying it.” Father John eyed the sheer amount of loaves for the handful of us and arched a brow. “Maybe a little too much.”
“You won’t hear any complaints from us,” Father Ignatio said, dipping his sourdough into his bowl of hearty beef stew, the latter courtesy of one of the parishioners I’d visited today.
The conversation flowed around me as I focused on my meal, the voices of my fellow priests a persistent hum in the background. They were all good men and I enjoyed their company, but my mind kept drifting elsewhere, as it had all day.
