MARCUS
The envelope slides under my door before dawn, the sound of paper against tile pulling me from restless sleep.
I stare at it from my bed, my heart already hammering before I even see the diocese seal embossed in red wax. Nothing good comes in envelopes like that. Not anymore.
My hands shake as I cross the small room, as I bend to retrieve it. The paper is thick, expensive, the kind the diocese uses for official correspondence.
I turn it over, seeing my name written in formal script:Deacon Marcus Reyes.
I should wait. Make coffee first, pray, do anything except open this alone in the pre-dawn darkness. But my fingers are already breaking the seal, already unfolding the letter inside.
Dear Deacon Reyes,
After careful consideration and consultation with your spiritual director, I am pleased to offer you the opportunity to pursue reinstatement to full priesthood. Your three years of service as a deacon have demonstrated renewed commitment to your vocation...
The words blur as I read them again. Reinstatement. Full priesthood. Everything I thought I wanted three years ago when I left for Isabella, when I was prepared to destroy my vows for a woman I couldn’t have. Father Castellano is offering me redemption, a second chance, the vocation I abandoned.
I sit on the edge of my bed, the letter trembling in my hands. The timeline is outlined in careful detail. Six months of additional formation.
Psychological evaluation.
Spiritual direction.
Then ordination, probably at a different parish to avoid complications.
Father Reyes instead of Deacon Reyes.
The authority to consecrate the Eucharist, to hear confessions, to perform marriages and baptisms.
My chest tightens with something that feels like panic rather than joy.
I imagine it. Standing at the altar in full vestments, my hands raised in consecration. The weight of the priesthood settling over me like armor. The celibacy vows renewed, this time permanent, unbreakable. Never touching Charlie again. Never hearing her whisper my name in the dark. Never feeling her body arch beneath mine while I speak to her in Spanish and English.
The thought is physically painful.
I fold the letter carefully, tucking it into my pocket where it burns against my chest like a brand. I go through my morning routine on autopilot.
Shower. Shave. Black button-down and slacks.
The rosary beads I wrap around my knuckles feel heavier than usual, like they know what I’m hiding.
Mass preparation finds me in the sanctuary, setting out communion vessels with movements I’ve performed thousands of times.
My mind won’t stop spinning through implications.
This is what I’m supposed to want. What every deacon dreams of. The culmination of years of discernment and sacrifice.
So why does it feel like a death sentence?
Charlie enters through the side door, carrying an armful of fresh flowers for the altar arrangements.
She’s wearing her favorite vintage dress that clings to her curves in ways that make my mouth go dry.
Her auburn hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and she’s humming that hymn her grandmother taught her, the melody drifting through the empty sanctuary.
I watch her move between the vases, her hands working with practiced precision.
She bites her lower lip when she’s concentrating on getting the stems just right, and I remember how that lip feels beneath my teeth. The way she gasps when I trace it with my tongue.
