But worse. I imagine what she'd do if she knew I was behind that screen. Would she run? Slap me? Or worse, look at me with the same recognition I'm drowning in?
I come so hard my vision whites out, back arching off the mattress, her name almost escaping my lips. The pleasure is intense, overwhelming, and then…
The shame is immediate. Crushing. I lie there with my own release cooling on my stomach, the crucifix watching from the wall, and I want to laugh at the absurdity of it. Eight years of cold showers and self-denial, undone by a woman eating pie.
I clean myself up. Take another cold shower. The third today. Stand under the spray and don't pray because what would I say?Sorry, God, I just masturbated to a parishioner's confession, but in my defense, she made this sound when she tasted that pie?
Back in bed, clean and freezing and still wanting. Because the physical release didn't touch the real hunger. The loneliness that sits in my chest like a stone. The exhaustion of trying to please God. The weight of being known by no one.
I'm so fucked.
Sunday morning comes wrapped in October light, the heat finally breaking enough that people aren't sweating through their church clothes. I deliver a homily I barely remember writing, something about grace in ordinary moments that feels like God's personal joke at my expense. Mrs.Somers nods along in the third pew. Alma watches from the back with that expression that says she knows something's off but hasn't figured out what yet.
After mass, I stand at the church doors greeting each parishioner by name. Little Miguel shows me his loose tooth, and I kneel down to his level, making the appropriate sounds of amazement. The Ramirez baby has finally started sleeping through the night; I see it in her mother's less-shadowed eyes.The congregation files past, and despite my inner turmoil, I find genuine comfort in these small connections.
Then I see it. Her car parked at the curb.
She's here.
I spot her in the churchyard talking to Mrs.Herrera, who runs the food pantry sign-ups. Jeans that fit exactly right. Cotton shirt, white, simple. Hair pulled back in a messy knot that makes her look younger, softer. She's holding coffee, probably from Alma's, and laughing at something Mrs.Herrera said.
She stayed.
She looks up. Sees me in the doorway. The priest from the diner, now in vestments, now in my territory. Something crosses her face. Recognition first, then a flicker of what might be vulnerability, remembering maybe what she confessed to a stranger in the dark. Then something warmer. A smile. Not the dare from the diner. This one is soft, almost shy, which seems wrong on a face like hers but is somehow worse because it's undefended.
She walks over. "Morning, Father."
"Good morning." I sound normal. Pastoral. Not like a man who jerked off to her memory twelve hours ago. "It's good to see you again."
"I decided to stay for a while." She gestures vaguely at the town around us. "Rented a cottage on the edge of town. It's quiet. I needed quiet. Your town is… far enough from everything else."
The way she says it,far enough from everything else, sets off every instinct I inherited from the Delgado bloodline. She's running. Hiding. Just like me.
"Homestead is good for that."
"Mrs.Herrera was telling me about the food pantry. I was asking if the church needs any volunteers." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and the gesture is so unconsciously gracefulI have to look away. "I like to keep busy. And I figure, new town, might as well make myself useful."
The smart response would be to direct her back to Mrs.Herrera. Let someone else handle the volunteer coordination. Keep a professional distance. That's what a priest with any sense of self-preservation would do.
"We always need help," I hear myself say. "I can show you what we have going on this week."
Her smile widens. "I'd like that."
"The food pantry is Tuesday mornings. We also have a clothing drive this week, and Thursday we serve dinner at the community center." I'm listing opportunities to see her. Building a schedule of torture. "And of course, there's always filing and organizing in the office if you're looking for something quieter."
"All of it sounds good," she says, and there's something in her voice that makes me wonder if she's as desperate for distraction as I am. "When should I come by?"
"Monday. Ten o'clock. I'll show you around, get you oriented."
"Perfect," she says. Then, softer: "Thank you, Father. I know I'm new here. It's nice to feel welcomed."
"Everyone's welcome here," I say, which is true and also the least true thing I've ever said because what I mean isyou're welcomeand what I really mean isplease don't leaveand what I actually mean is something I can't even think in front of Mrs.Herrera and God and the Sunday congregation.
She heads back to her car. I watch her go because I'm apparently incapable of not watching her. Mrs.Herrera appears at my elbow, all five feet of her vibrating with the energy of a woman who's scented gossip.
"Such a nice young woman," she says, watching me watch Sera. "Widow, she said. So young to be alone."
Widow. The word lands hard. Young widows in Miami usually mean one of three things: car accident, cancer, or someone's husband crossed the wrong people. The way she talked about relief in confession, that's not cancer. Which leaves accident or execution, and women who look like her, who confess to missing danger? Their husbands don't die in accidents.
