“I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to see that.”
I want to tell her it’s not her fault, that nothing that happened in that house is her fault, but the words jam in my throat. I want to say that she is safe now, but I know better.
Instead, I unlock and open the door for her to slide into the passenger seat. She gets in, sets the duffel at her feet, and stares out the window, eyes unblinking. We drive in silence. The streets are empty, the sky darkens with every looming cloud. Sarah doesn’t cry, but every so often I see her jaw clench, her throat gulp, as if she’s fighting off tears or a scream.
“Do you really believe in God?” she asks, suddenly.
I’m not sure how to answer. “Some days more than others.”
She snorts, not unkindly. “Yeah. Me too.”
Back at my cabin, Sarah sits on the couch, knees drawn up, the blanket swaddling her from shoulders to ankles. She stares into the flames in the fireplace, her eyes reflecting orange and blue in shifting patterns. She hasn’t said much since we came back, and her silence is heavier than words.
I busy myself in the kitchen. I make tea because it’s the only thing I can think to do, and because the ritual helps keep my hands steady. I try not to let my eyes linger on the soft curves of her silhouette, barely disguised under the thin blanket.
I force myself to stand by the window and pretend I am not falling apart.
Sarah settles it by patting the cushion beside her. “I won’t bite, Father.”
I manage a weak smile and take the seat, careful to leave a polite gap between us. The gap feels both enormous and meaningless in a room this small.
She speaks first. “I’m not going back. He’ll hurt Ma. He always does, but she… she won’t leave him. She’ll take the beating, patch him up, and tell me I’m ungrateful. Every time.”
The bitterness in her voice is raw, but not new. I hear years of rehearsed disappointment, the sound of a wound being examined by someone who’s long ago lost hope for a cure.
“I’m sorry,” I say, because it’s all I can offer. And I have heard of similar situations from others in my congregation.
She shrugs. “Not your fault. You did what you could.”
I didn't do enough. I should have put Dade through every wall of this very cabin. I should have beaten him so badly he wouldn't be able to leave the hospital even if he wanted to. I vow that our next meeting will end just like that if he attacks Sarah again.
She turns to me, and in the close light her eyes are impossibly large, rimmed with red but fiercely alive. She’s looking at me, not away, and her face is softer than before.
“I was scared,” she admits. “I thought you’d turn out like every other man in my life. But you didn’t. I truly feel safe with you.”
I want to reach for her, to pull her close and say it will be different this time, but I am still wearing the collar, and the memory of Dade’s voice, 'What kind of girl stays with a man of God?… is a sick echo in my head.
I clasp my hands between my knees, squeezing them tight.
“You’re safe here,” I say. “For as long as you want to stay.”
Sarah’s hand drifts out from under the blanket, the gesture so tentative it nearly breaks my heart. She lays it on top of mine, feather-light, and for a second we both freeze, as if afraid even this contact might shatter something vital.
She doesn’t pull away.
My pulse hammers. I tell myself to move, to stand, to put a boundary between us, but instead I look at her hand, at the constellation of bruises along her wrist, and I want nothing more than to make her believe she is wanted. That she is good.
The pull between us is undeniable. I can't stop myself. I'm not sure if she's moving closer to me or me to her. The world blurs,then narrows to the press of her lips on mine, her hand tangles in the collar of my shirt, my own fingers cup the back of her head.
The kiss is frantic and soft at the same time. Her mouth tastes of tea and salt, and I have to resist the urge to devour her. There is nothing chaste about it, but it's not dirty either. It’s a confession, and a plea for absolution, and maybe a benediction.
I break away first, gasping.
She touches her lips, eyes huge.
“Sorry,” she says, and I know she means it, but there is no regret in her face. Only a hunger and a desperate hope. I stagger to my feet and walk to the window, needing air, needing distance, but there’s nowhere to go in a cabin this size. I seek space where there is none.
My reflection in the glass is a stranger’s. My hair wild, collar askew, mouth wet with her taste. The taste of sin.
