Isabella Moretti kneels in the third pew from the front, exactly where I can’t avoid seeing her during morning Mass.
The black lace mantilla frames her face like something from a Renaissance painting, all classical beauty and practiced devotion.
Her hands are folded in prayer, diamond wedding ring conspicuously absent, replaced by a simple gold band on her right hand.
Everything about her presence screams calculated perfection.
I force my attention back to the liturgy, but I feel her eyes on me like a physical touch.
The weight of her gaze makes my skin crawl even as I maintain my professional demeanor, assisting Adrian at the altar with movements I’ve performed thousands of times.
My hands are steady as I prepare the communion vessels, but inside I’m screaming.
This is what they want to see, I remind myself.
The acceptable choice.
The age-appropriate woman with the right background, the right clothes, the right everything.
Isabella’s tailored navy dress whispers wealth without ostentation. Her heels are designer but understated.
Even her perfume is expensive but subtle, the kind that costs more per ounce than most parishioners spend on groceries in a week.
She’s everything the Bishop and Sister Margaret think a deacon should want. Everything I’m supposed to want.
Except I don’t.Dios, I don’t want her at all.
My eyes find Charlie in her usual spot near the back, and my chest tightens painfully.
She’s wearing a simple floral dress and that worn cardigan she always has, the one that’s slightly too big and makes her look younger than twenty-five.
Her auburn hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and even from this distance I can see the dark circles under her eyes.
She hasn’t been sleeping.
Neither have I.
The forced distance between us is destroying me slowly, like dying of thirst while watching water just out of reach.
Adrian’s voice rises and falls through the familiar prayers, but I catch the strain beneath his careful control.
He’s watching Charlie too, though he’s better at hiding it than I am.
His gray eyes find her for just a moment during the homily, and I see the hunger flash across his face before he buries it behind priestly composure.
We’re all pretending. All performing for an audience that’s watching our every move, cataloging every glance, every gesture, and building a case against us or for us, depending on what they see.
After Mass, Isabella approaches me in the vestry with a covered dish in her hands. “Deacon Reyes, I hope you don’t mind. I made lasagna for you and the fathers. My grandmother’s recipe.” Her smile is warm, genuine, the same smile that used to make my heart race three years ago.
Now it just makes me tired.
“That’s very thoughtful, Mrs. Moretti.” I keep my voice professional, distant, but she steps closer anyway.
“Please, call me Isabella. We’re old friends, aren’t we?” Her hand finds my arm, fingers lingering on my bicep as she laughs at something I don’t remember saying.
She stands close enough that I can smell her perfume, see the fine lines around her eyes that weren’t there three years ago, and notice how her body angles toward mine with practiced ease.
She’s beautiful. I’m not blind.
