"Uh-huh." He studies me over his coffee cup. Tomás knows me. Really knows me, not the performance everyone else gets. Seminary does that. Five years of shared formation, shared doubt, shared 2 AM conversations about whether any of this makes sense. He's the only person alive who knows why I really entered the priesthood. Not the details, not her name, but enough. He knows I'm not here because God called. I'm here because I needed a cage.
"Talk to me," he says, and the gentleness in it almost undoes me.
I open my mouth to deflect. To make a joke about parish paperwork or the diocese being demanding. Instead, I sit there with my mouth half-open like an idiot because what wants to come out is:A woman walked into my confessional and I got an erection and I can't stop thinking about her.The words are right there, pressing against my teeth, begging to be said. I almost tell him. Almost confess that something happened this week that's shaking everything loose.
The pause goes on too long. Tomás sees it. Sees me swallow the words, sees the moment where I nearly let something real escape.
"Gabriel," he says quietly. "Whatever it is…"
Alma appears with plates neither of us ordered. Cuban sandwiches, crispy and perfect, the smell making my stomach remember it's capable of wanting things. "You boys are too skinny. Eat."
The moment breaks. I pick up the sandwich. Tomás does the same, but he's still watching me.
"You're not okay," he says. Not a question.
"I'm fine."
"You're a terrible liar." He takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. "You know what your problem is?"
"Please, enlighten me."
"You're not atoning. You're hiding." He says it gently, like that makes it hurt less. "There's a difference, and God knows it."
The sandwich turns to sand in my mouth. "I'm serving the Church. Serving the community."
He just looks at me with those knowing eyes and nods.
Alma refills our coffee. The booth feels smaller, the air thicker. Tomás is still watching me with those gentle eyes that see too much.
"There's something else," he says. "Something new. This week."
I should deny it. Should deflect. Instead, I take another bite of sandwich and say nothing, which is basically a confession in itself.
"You want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Okay." He sits back. "But Gabriel? Whatever it is? Don't let it eat you alive. You're already running on empty. There's not much left to consume."
We finish our sandwiches in silence. When Tomás leaves, he grips my shoulder. Brief, firm, the kind of touch that saysI'm here when you're ready.Then he's gone, and I'm alone in the booth thinking about how he called me a bad liar. He’s wrong. I've been lying so long I've forgotten what truth feels like.
Except I heard it. Wednesday night. In the dark. From her.
Saturday night, I lie in my narrow bed and stare at the ceiling. The rectory is silent. The crucifix on the wall catches the streetlight from outside, Christ's bronze body gleaming in the dark.
Tomorrow is Sunday mass. Next Saturday is the gala. Between those two points, I have to hold myself together, pretend that everything is fine and normal.
My phone buzzes. Marisol:Logan is handling your suit fitting. He'll call this week.
Logan. I haven't thought about Logan Cruz in months. Last I heard, he was managing the family's accounts, keeping the Delgado empire legitimate on paper while the real money flowed through La Sirena. The fact that he's handling my suit means this isn't just a gala. It's a return.
Sera's voice cuts through the thought like a hot knife through snow.I only feel real when things are on the edge of disaster.
My cock is hard. My body wants what it wants and what it wants is embarrassingly specific: a woman I've met twice who saw through me instantly.
I close my eyes. Give up. Give in.
My hand moves under the sheet, the cotton rough against oversensitive skin. The room is too hot suddenly, sweat beading at my temples despite the AC. I stroke myself and think about her voice. Her throat. The way she laughed at Alma's ridiculous questions. I imagine her knowing who I really am, what I really did, and not being afraid. I imagine the collar off. I imagine being seen.
