Elijah freezes, his hands hovering inches from my face. The pain in his eyes is devastating as he slowly lowers them.
Instead, he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and presses it into my palm, his fingers curling around mine for just a moment.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his French accent thickening with emotion. “I’m so sorry,chérie.”
The bathroom door opens, and Sister Margaret stands there, her sharp blue eyes taking in the scene with unnerving precision.
Elijah and me, standing too close in the small space.
My tear-stained face. His hand still touching mine.
“Brother Moreau,” she says, her voice cold and measured. “The Bishop is looking for you.”
Elijah steps back, putting necessary distance between us. His jaw clenches as he nods. “Of course, Sister. I was just…Miss Davis wasn’t feeling well.”
Sister Margaret’s gaze moves to me, assessing. “Perhaps Miss Davis should rest in her apartment. She looks quite unwell.”
It’s not a suggestion. It’s a dismissal.
Elijah leaves without looking back, and I’m alone with Sister Margaret’s knowing stare.
She doesn’t say anything else, just watches me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing before turning and walking away, her habit swishing with each step.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to erase the evidence of my breakdown.
The girl in the mirror looks young and lost, her hazel eyes red-rimmed, her auburn hair escaping its bun in messy waves.
I look exactly like what I am, desperate and alone and completely out of my depth.
Later, I watch Adrian from across the garden. He stands at his office window, his hand pressed against the glass like he’s trying to reach through it.
Even from this distance, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid set of his jaw.
His gray eyes are fixed on something below, and when I follow his gaze I realize he’s watching me.
Our eyes meet across the space, and for a moment the mask slips. I see the hunger there, the desperate need he’s fighting to suppress.
His hand flexes against the glass, and I imagine those fingers tangling in my hair, gripping my hips, claiming me the way he did in his office.
Then his expression shutters completely, and he turns away from the window. The rejection is physical, a punch to my chest that makes it hard to breathe.
That afternoon, I’m organizing donated clothes in the parish hall, trying to stay busy and useful despite feeling invisible. My hands move mechanically, sorting sweaters by size, folding jeans, hanging coats. The repetitive motion is soothing, mindless, exactly what I need.
The door opens, and a woman walks in.
Bleached blonde hair with dark roots showing, worn in a style too young for her age.
Too-tight jeans that hug hips I recognize because they’re shaped like mine.
A designer knockoff purse slung over one shoulder. She’s attractive in a hard, worn way, like she’s been beautiful once and is desperately clinging to the memory.
When she smiles, I see my own features reflected back like a funhouse mirror.
The same hazel eyes, though hers are harder, more calculating.
The same full lips, though hers are lined with too much lipstick.
The same freckles dusting her nose, though hers are hidden under foundation.
