Back to last night.
Back to…Alessio.
“You stayed late last night, Rafael,” Father John said, smiling softly. “Hearing confessions?”
I nodded and wiped my mouth with my napkin. “Yes, father.”
I didn’t elaborate, and I prayed he wouldn’t ask more questions. They all knew I was a night owl, and I’d explained away the late-night visitors I received occasionally—once a month, to be exact—by saying I didn’t mind hearing confessions late for those whose schedules needed accommodating.
But Father John kept looking at me like he expected me to say more, and I calmly took a sip of my water to try to avoid answering. Just thinking about last night made me think of Alessio, and that was not a path I needed to go down.
Definitely not a path I needed my fellow priests to know anything about. Alessio aside, the men who came to see me every month were not our usual parishioners, and I couldn’t imagine any of them confessing to Father John.
The poor man would probably stroke out. Especially if Lachlan opened his mouth.
When I didn’t say anything, Father Ignatio chuckled. “You’ve always been so patient. Archbishop De Vecchi said you were the same even as a boy.”
He meant it as a compliment, and I should’ve taken it as such. But for some reason, his words landed like a weight, and it was all I could do to give a polite smile.
“It’s a privilege to serve,” I said, hoping that would put an end to it, and to my relief, it did. He got caught up in the delicious taste of the stew, wondering out loud if the potatoes were red or Yukon gold.
My gaze drifted away, down to where the tapered candles flickered, and the conversation moved on to parish repairs and upcoming baptisms.
Had I really been so patient as a boy? I supposed compared to others, maybe. Well, compared to one other, in particular. The boy always by my side, through childhood, through the rough teen years. Until we’d gone our separate ways?—
“Rafael?”
I blinked and turned my attention to Father John. “Sorry, what was the question?”
He smiled gently. “I asked if you were all right.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. Maybe just a bit tired.” The lie tasted wrong on my tongue, but I swallowed it down. I couldn’t tell him the truth. I’d never told any of them and I never would. None of it mattered now, anyway. I’d chosen my path long ago, and it had been the right thing to do.
Father John lifted the bread basket and offered it to me. “Carbs will help you sleep.”
“You don’t have to twist my arm,” I said, and helped myself to another slice.
My excuse of being tired worked, and they all carried on conversations without me, giving me the space I craved.
I didn’t want to admit the reason I wanted it, or the way memories came flooding back even as I tried to push them back into the box I’d locked them in.
Alessio.
For years he’d brought his friends to confession every month, though he refused to give his. Wouldn’t even enter the booth with me. Would barely acknowledge me outside of it.
But something had changed in the last few months, and I had a feeling it wasn’t anything good. For a while there he’d lost that spark in his eyes, and dark shadows had appeared beneath them. I wanted to ask what was wrong. What happened? How could I help?
Alessio would refuse, the way he always did when I asked him if he wanted to give confession—until one day when, without saying a word, he entered the booth.
And yet he still hadn’t spoken.
Night and day from the Alessio I knew, back when we were altar boys and he was trying to get me into mischief while we waited to play our parts.
Before I could stop it, the memory took over…
“WHAT IF I drop this candle?” It would’ve been an innocent enough question if it were from anyone other than Alessio, who was grinning at me with that mischievous look in his eyes. “You think God would get mad if I burned down the church?”
It was harder than it should’ve been to hide my smile as I shook my head. “Stop. You’ll get us in trouble.”
