7
SARAH
We spend the rest of the day in slow, small movements, orbiting each other in the cramped cabin. Michael goes out for groceries, returns, and rebuilds the fire. The air inside is fragrant with cedar. If I listen hard enough, I can almost forget the world outside, the bruises, the way my mother’s voice sounded like a locked door when I walked away.
I'm not ready to leave our bubble, but I know we can't stay like this forever.
“I keep thinking I should be more afraid,” he says. “But I’m not.”
I set the cup down. “Afraid of what?”
He hesitates, then: “Of what comes next. Of you, and me, and all the rules we’re breaking.”
I laugh, sharp and brittle. “I’m way past fear. At this point, I think I’ve lapped the field.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I need you to know something.”
I brace, expecting an apology, or a breakup, or a lecture about sin. Commandments. But he surprises me.
“I’m leaving the priesthood,” he says, matter-of-fact. “I’ve been planning it for months. Before you ever showed up at my door.”
The air leaves my lungs. “You’re serious?”
He nods, once. “It was never the calling. I thought it was. I tried to make it fit. But the truth is, I was always running from something, not toward it.”
“And me?” I say. “Am I just an excuse?” I suddenly feel a little degraded, a convenient trigger.
His eyes widen, almost hurt. “No. You’re the answer. The question was already there.”
He stands and paces the length of the room, three strides and back, over and over. The agitation in his body is kinetic, a tight coil under his skin. He runs a hand through his hair again, and when he sits back down, he’s closer than before; his knee touches mine beneath the table.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits. “Not with you. Not with anyone.”
I reach for his hand before I know what I’m doing. His skin is rough, callused in places, the thumb bent slightly from an old break. He lets me hold it and doesn’t try to pull away.
“You’re doing fine,” I say. “Better than most.”
He laughs, unconvinced.
I blurt out, “If you’re not a priest, what are you?”
The question hangs, absurd and raw.
He considers. “Maybe just a man. Maybe just yours.”
The words slip out so quietly I almost miss them. I close my eyes, let the heat rise in my cheeks, and when I open them again, he’s closer, his face inches from mine.
“I want —” I start, but I have no words.
He leans in, kissing the corner of my mouth, gently. “Tell me.”
“I want you to stay,” I whisper. “I don’t want this to end.”
He kisses me again, firmer. I taste the tea on his lips, his salty skin.
“It doesn’t have to stop,” he says. “Not unless you want it to.”
My heart kicks, hard enough to hurt.
