The years have been kind to her, and she carries herself with the confidence of someone who’s always been told she’s stunning.
But when I look at her, all I feel is the ghost of what I almost became.
The man who was prepared to destroy his vows, his calling, his entire life for a fantasy that was never real.
“We should catch up properly,” Isabella continues, her voice dropping to something more intimate. “Maybe coffee? I’d love to hear what you’ve been doing all these years.”
Before I can deflect, Bishop Carmine appears in the doorway. His steel-gray eyes take in the scene with unnerving perception, but his expression is approving. “Mrs. Moretti, how wonderful to see you back at St. Michael’s. Your family has been missed.”
Isabella’s face lights up as she turns to greet the Bishop, and I use the moment to step back, putting necessary distance between us.
But the damage is done.
I catch Sister Margaret hovering in the hallway, her sharp blue eyes watching everything, and I know this interaction will be noted, analyzed, and reported.
This is what they want, I think again. The acceptable choice.
“Mrs. Moretti is exactly the kind of devout parishioner every parish needs,” the Bishop says to Adrian, who’s appeared beside me.
His voice carries approval, encouragement, the subtle suggestion that this is the kind of relationship the Church would bless.
Adrian’s jaw clenches almost imperceptibly, but his response is perfectly measured. “We’re blessed to have her back in our community.”
I want to scream and tell them Isabella isn’t what they think is, that what we had three years ago was born from her desperation and my savior complex, that I don’t want the acceptable choice.
I want the girl who steals from collection plates and stress-bakes at midnight and looks at me like I’m worth keeping despite all my failures.
But I can’t say any of that.
So I smile and nod and accept Isabella’s lasagna with appropriate gratitude while my heart bleeds out in my chest.
The food pantry needs organizing, and Isabella volunteers to help. Of course she does.
We work side by side, sorting donated cans and boxes, and she fills the silence with stories about her divorce, her new life, and her return to faith.
Her shoulder brushes mine as she reaches for a box, and I’m hyperaware of how this must look to anyone watching.
“I’ve missed this,” Isabella says softly, her dark eyes finding mine. “Missed you. Missed feeling like I was part of something meaningful.”
“Isabella,” I start, but she cuts me off.
“I know. I know we can’t go back. But maybe we could start fresh? As friends?” Her hand finds mine, squeezes gently. “I’m not the samewoman I was three years ago, Marcus. And I don’t think you’re the same man either.”
She’s right about that, at least. I’m not the same man who almost left the priesthood for her.
That Marcus was running from something.
This Marcus knows exactly what he’s running toward.
The sound of footsteps makes us both turn.
Charlie stands in the doorway, keys in her hand, her face carefully blank.
But I see the hurt flash in her hazel eyes before she hides it, see the way her body goes rigid as she takes in the scene.
Isabella’s hand on mine. Our bodies close together in the small pantry. The easy familiarity between us that comes from shared history.
The contrast between them is stark and brutal. Isabella in her tailored dress and designer heels, every hair in place, the picture of sophisticated elegance.
