“I don’t know, sugar. You tell me.” Her good hand pats mine. “You’ve got that look about you. Like you’re carrying a secret that’s too big to hold.”
My stomach flips. Does she know? Can she see it written across my face that I’m sleeping with three men of God, that I’ve become exactly the kind of girl she raised me not to be?
“I’m just tired,” I deflect. “Working at the diner and volunteering keeps me busy.”
She hums, unconvinced, but lets it drop.
We talk about her physical therapy, about how every time she’s ready to come home something new happens and she has to stay even longer, so now she’s being transferred to a long-term care unit, how alone I must be at home by myself.
I don’t mention that I’m living above the church rectory now, that I fall asleep most nights tangled between bodies that shouldn’t want me but do.
When visiting hours end, I kiss her forehead and promise to return tomorrow.
As I’m leaving, she calls out, “Charlie? Whatever secret you’re keeping, just remember, love isn’t something to be ashamed of. Even when it’s complicated.”
The words follow me all the way to St. Michael’s.
The parish hall buzzes with activity when I arrive, the annual potluck in full swing.
Long tables groan under the weight of casseroles and salads and desserts that smell like every church basement in America.
I slip in through the side door, my dress swishing around my thighs, carrying the cherry pie I stress-baked at three this morning when sleep wouldn’t come.
Adrian stands near the entrance in his cassock, every button fastened, every line crisp.
He’s shaking hands with Mr. Patterson, nodding at something the elderly man is saying, but Adrian’s gray eyes find me across the room.
The look lasts only a second before he forces his attention back to his conversation, but that second makes my skin burn.
I remember those eyes dark with hunger, remember his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, remember the scripture he quoted between kisses like he was trying to pray away his desire.
I look away first, my pulse hammering.
Mrs. Delacroix holds court near the dessert table, her steel-gray hair pulled into its usual severe bun.
Her lemon meringue pie sits in the center of the display like a crown jewel, perfectly browned peaks catching the fluorescent light. She’s been the parish’s “best baker” for five years running, a title she wears like armor against her loneliness.
I place my pie at the end of the table without fanfare, trying to make myself invisible.
It’s nothing special, just Grandma Rose’s recipe, the one she taught me when I was barely tall enough to reach the counter.
But it looks good, the lattice crust golden and the cherry filling bubbling through in jewel-red promises.
“Charlie!” Mrs. Patterson appears at my elbow, her kind face lighting up. “Did you make this? It’s beautiful!”
“It’s just pie,” I mumble, but warmth spreads through my chest.
Marcus emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray of dinner rolls, his tattooed forearms flexing with the weight.
He’s wearing a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and I watch the way the fabric stretches across his shoulders as he sets the tray down.
His dark eyes find mine, and something electric passes between us. I remember those arms around me in the confessional, his voice rough with Spanish and English, how he marked me as his.
He moves to stand beside Adrian, and I watch them both track my movements as I help set out napkins and utensils.
The weight of their attention makes me hyperaware of my body.
The way my dress clings to my curves, the swell of my breasts above the neckline, the curve of my ass when I bend to retrieve dropped silverware.
