Wait, did she just make a joke?
His big laugh echoes around the kitchen. “Ha. Yes, I can actually cook. Who did you think kept him alive during college?” He winks. “If I hadn’t become a doctor, I probably would have become a chef.”
Lies. All lies. I know him very well. He never had a backup plan. Being a doctor was all he ever wanted. I know it came from watching his grandma get sick and feeling like nobody cared. That’s what pushed him to be the best in his field and to give everyone his all. He never wanted anyone else to experience what they went through.
A jab to my ribs brings me back to the conversation.
I’ve been known to zone out on occasion. Not because of boredom or rudeness, my mind just likes to reminisce. And it isn’t always the best memories that pop up.
“I’m sorry sisters. How can I be of service that doesn’t involve food?”
Sister Carrie points toward the sink. “You could do the dishes.”
I nod. “On it.”
Caleb and the nuns prep and cook, getting as much food ready as they can manage. I quickly finish with the dishes. There will be more once they’re finished, and I’ll help with those later.
Clearly not being of much help in here, I head to the main church. I grab a seat in a pew a few from the front. I let my gaze roam like I used to back in college, taking in the old architecture and looking at it all with wonder in my eyes.
Thank you God for gracing me with the task of leading this parish and for life itself.
I sit there until one of the nuns comes to get me. It’s time to feed the community. I can come back later and reflect once I’m alone.
6
DECLAN
This is my chance. I’m going to talk to him.
I’m nervous. What if he recognizes my voice? I didn’t forget his. I haven’t forgotten a single thing about him. Not his taste, not his sounds, not the way his eyes followed my every move.
Yes, I’ve heard his voice recently. I stalk him quite often. Since he’s now local, I have made it a purpose to check on him daily.
Some days it’s watching him gardening the grounds around the church. On Sundays I listen to him during Mass. My favorite, though, is when his day is over and he goes for evening strolls. Just the other day he walked bythealley.Our alley.He stopped and stared down it, almost like he was expecting me to pop out of the shadows.
It seems he hasn’t forgotten that night either. My memory of that perfect evening brings me such joy, but I don’t know his feelings, which is why I’m nervous.
He could have thought of it as rape. Sure, I technically forced his dick in my mouth with a carefully placed knife and a twist of my words.
He could have done the right thing. He could have called the police the second he got home.
But he didn’t.Almost as if he didn’t want to betray me.
Logically I know that’s the furthest thing from the truth. I’d made him an unofficial accomplice by wiping my bloody blade off on his jeans and smearing that bastard’s blood on him. I did it to hopefully prevent my sweet Aingeal from getting any potential diseases Bianchi may have had, but he didn’t know that.
Ewen, even before I learned about who he was as a man, had a pureness to him. It was like an aura or some shit. It makes sense that he became a priest. He was a fallen angel.
I know we will never be anything. I’m a Reaper. I take lives, and I won’t stop. What I do is for life. My duty to my family will always stand.
He is the light to my dark. Right from wrong. We are opposites in every way possible. That’s why, after all these years, I stay close—but from a distance. He doesn’t need me nor do I need him.
It’s why I’m standing in front of this confessional, ready to speak to him. My brain thinks that with just one more hit I’ll be able to finally walk away. That having him talk to me will be what I need so I can stop being his shadow.
The handle to the small door is chilly against my sweaty palm. The inside of the confessional is only meant for a single person. Thankfully the seat is padded. The wooden pews make my ass numb, but I gladly put up with it to watch Ewen.
I clear my throat, partly to let him know I’m here but also because it seems to have tightened up. I’m not a nervous person. It’s impossible with what I do. But, for some reason, the act of talking to him has me on edge, like there’re butterflies in my chest.
The little door between us slides open, and I can make out his silhouette.
