"The parish will survive without Father Gabriel," he says gently. "The question is whether Gabriel will survive without the parish."
The words land harder than he probably intended. Or maybe exactly as hard. Tomás has always seen through my performance.
"I'm all right," I tell him, and for once it might be true.
"Good." A pause. "God doesn't live in a building, Gabriel. Never has."
After we hang up, I look at the collar again. Three years of daily wear has softened the fabric, worn it smooth in places. This thing that defined my entire existence.
I open the nightstand drawer. Place the collar inside. Close it.
The click echoes in the quiet room.
Adrian finds me in the kitchen an hour later, where I’m trying to make coffee with Sera's beans and failing spectacularly. He takes one look at the grounds scattered across the counter and laughs. Not cruel, just delighted.
"A lifetime of instant coffee, and now you're trying to be fancy?" he teases.
"She makes it look easy."
"She makes everything look easy." He commandeers the grinder, movements smooth. "Speaking of which, you know what tonight is?"
"Sunday."
"Sunday ritual." He gets the proportions right on the first try, because of course he does. "Club closes early, eleven. Then we eat. All of us. Together."
"Staff meeting?"
"Family dinner." The distinction matters in how he says it. "Started after you left. Saturday's the big show, Sunday we close early and just exist. No performing. No roles. Just us."
The irony isn't lost on me. Sunday. The day I usually stand at an altar breaking bread, the same day this motley collection of club workers gathers around a different table.
"Sera's been asking about the kitchen," Adrian continues, pouring water steadily. "I told her about family dinner, and her face lit up. She immediately started planning a menu."
Of course she has. Give Sera a kitchen and a group to feed and she builds a home.
By the time I finish the coffee Adrian made, the sun has climbed high enough to turn the Miami streets into shimmering mirages.
By evening, the kitchen at La Sirena is alive, every burner blazing, steam fogging the windows until the outside world disappears. Sera has claimed this space completely. Pots bubbling, onions hitting hot oil with a violent hiss, the wooden spoon cutting through the chaos like a conductor's baton. Garlic perfumes the air, then cumin, then something green and bright that makes my eyes water.
"Stop hovering," she says without turning around. "You're making me nervous."
"I'm trying to help."
"Then wash your hands and grab that knife." She points to a cutting board loaded with onions. "Small dice. And Gabriel? Try not to massacre them."
I position myself at the counter, knife awkward in my grip. She watches my first few chops and sighs. The sound of a woman accepting limitations.
"Smaller. Like you're making confetti, not chopping lumber. And keep your fingers curled. I don't want blood in my sofrito."
The onions fight back immediately. Tears stream down my face as I hack through layers that slip and slide. Adrian wanders through, steals a taste from one of the pots, gets his hand slapped with the wooden spoon. The casual violence of it, the laughter that follows, fills the kitchen with something I haven't felt since my mother cooked.
"How many are we feeding?" I ask, wiping my eyes with my sleeve, probably making it worse.
"Depends who shows." Sera adjusts flame, tastes, adjusts again. "Adrian says usually six or seven. Core."
The word sits different here than it did in Homestead. There, I was Father. Separate, above, apart. Here, I'm just Gabriel trying not to destroy vegetables while my girlfriend creates miracles from nothing.
Girlfriend. The word sits wrong and right at the same time.
