“What have I done?” I whisper.
5
SARAH
Iwake up convinced that I’m back in my childhood bedroom, the one with the chipped pink walls and the snowdrifts of laundry on every surface. I expect to smell Dade’s cigarettes or hear Ma puttering in the kitchen. But reality washes over me with the silence of the bedroom.
The only trace of Michael is the indentation in the blanket where he sat last night, head in hands. I bring my fingers to my lips, half hoping to taste something of what happened, some residue of the frantic and unthinkable. But the skin is smooth, blank, as if I dreamed it all.
My throat is a mess of raw nerves and thirst. I swing my legs to the floor, the boards give a soft protest under my weight. I stand, shuffle to the bathroom, and turn the tap. The water is cold and so clean it tastes like nothing at all. I swallow, then wash my face, staring at the bruises along my arms in the mirror. The purple has darkened overnight, and there’s a fingerprint of yellow just beneath the skin at my wrist, like a secret someone left behind.
I wrap myself in a towel and pad into the kitchen. The coffee pot is already hot. It's strong and almost nutty, and when I drink it. My eyes close, and I try to forget that I have nowhere to go, that last night was a new kind of disaster.
It takes me a full ten minutes to notice that Michael isn’t here. There’s a note on the kitchen counter:
Sarah, I’ll be gone for morning Mass and some parish business. Take anything you need. There’s food in the fridge and more blankets in the trunk by the fireplace. Call if you need me, or if you feel unsafe. I will be back by sunset.
M
I drift toward the fire, which is only embers now, and hug the blanket around myself like a cloak. In the daylight, the room is less mysterious, almost aggressively ordinary, but everywhere I look I find a little evidence of him … the faint smell of his deodorant and last night’s stew.
I think of him, right now, standing in front of a congregation and pretending that he didn’t commit a sin that could unravel his whole life.
Well, I’m not sure. Is a kiss enough to get him banned from the clergy? Is that what it's even called?
I should feel bad about this. But mostly what I feel is cold, hungry, and tired in a way I can’t describe.
I wander. It’s not snooping, I tell myself, but the truth is, I am looking for him. Just some remnant of his life before I crashed into it. I clean up after my coffee and make the bed with athin blue comforter, then fold and put away the three-drawer dresser.
The moment after our kiss flashes through my mind when I sit still on the edge of the bed. Feelings of longing, terror, and shame exhaust and overwhelm me. So I lie down on the bed I just made. I drift to sleep amongst fantasies of what Michael and I might become.
The sound of gravel crunching under Michael’s tires wakes me. It's the kind of noise I’ve trained myself to recognize and dread. It’s usually Dade arriving home.
“Hey,” his voice just a notch above a whisper as he enters his own home.
“Hey,” I answer.
I stand, watching him. He barely acknowledges me. He moves past me, into the kitchen, and sets a grocery bag on the counter.
“You don’t have to act like nothing happened,” I say.
He freezes, a tin of tomatoes in his hand. He sets it down with exaggerated care. He looks directly at me. “I know.”
“I shouldn’t have,“ he starts.
“—kissed me?” I finish. “Or, wanted to?”
His face colors again. “Both,” he says, after a beat. “Mostly the wanting.”
I want to tell him it’s okay, but I’m not sure it is. It felt good, that’s the problem. It felt better than anything I’ve ever had, and I think he knows it. Maybe that’s why he’s so afraid.
I move closer, the kitchen is so small that I can feel the heat from his body even from a foot away. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He looks at me, really looks, and his whole body seems to crumple in relief. “I’m terrible at this,” he admits. “Talking. Or whatever this is.”
I nod. “You’re not the only one. You ever wonder what would happen if you just… let go? Stopped pretending you were okay, or that everything had to make sense?”
He laughs, the sound sharp and a little desperate. “Every day,” he says. “But then I remember who I am. What I’m supposed to be.”
