Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Elias
After a week without Ronan, I already felt empty.
The heavy silence of the church wrapped around me as I stepped into Father Franklin’s office. My footsteps were soft against the stone floor, but my heart hammered in my chest. I’d been here countless times before, seeking solace in the familiar, aged walls.
But tonight?
Tonight was different.
The weight of my collar felt unbearable, like a chain I couldn’t shake, and the burden of my own feelings pressed in on me with a force I didn’t know how to handle.
I paused at the door, unsure whether I should even be here.
But when the door creaked open, I felt a strange sense of relief, as if stepping into his presence could ease the ache in my chest.
Father Franklin looked up from the worn prayer book he’d been reading, his deep-set eyes studying me with the same quiet understanding he’d always offered.
His age had done nothing to dull the wisdom that radiated from him. He was the only one who could hear my confessions without judgment, the only one who had witnessed my struggle and past without ever questioning my resolve.
Today, I wasn’t so sure my resolve would hold.
“Father Cross,” he greeted softly, a knowing look in his eyes. “Come in, my son. Have a seat. It’s been some time since you’ve been in my quarters. Is everything all right?”
I closed the door behind me and slowly made my way to the chair across from him. My hands clenched tightly in my lap, my fingertips leaning against my cage and flaming my cheeks with memories.
The fabric of my robe bunched uncomfortably against my skin, making me feel itchy and overheated.
I could already feel the fire of my own guilt creeping up my neck.
This was wrong.
I knew it was wrong.
But I couldn’t keep pretending. I had gone too far to act that way.
“I don’t know what to do, Father,” I whispered, my voice strained, tears silently streaming down my cheeks without permission. “I feel…torn. Between my vows, my faith, and what I want. What I feel.”
Father Franklin’s gaze never wavered. He leaned forward slightly, his weathered hands folding together on the desk in front of him. He didn’t press me, didn’t rush me. He simply waited, as he always did, for me to speak my truth.
“It’s Ronan,” I said. The name slipping from my mouth felt coated in sin and held the same weight as it always did. “He came back, and after all these years that I have worked to forget about him and the pain, I saw him, and it was like he’d never left. He is back in Monticello, and I can’t stop thinking about him. I…I can’t stop wanting him.”
There was no surprise in Father Franklin’s expression, only a slow, understanding nod. “You’ve loved him for a long time. These feelings and emotions are natural.”
I nodded, unable to say more. The memories of Ronan and us came flooding back in a rush, sharp and painful. Our shared history, the stolen moments, the way our love had burned so brightly, even though it was always a secret.
Father Franklin knew of my past in all its truth.
He’d picked my sorry ass off these very steps ten years ago and accepted me when I was a shell, just a man who wanted to die and rid the burden of my shadow.
He’d heard countless confessions, day after day, year after year. I shed my soul to my dear friend, and his unbiased acceptance of me had me adopting the robes as my own. I’d repented for my years of mindless sex and drugs. He’d helped me sober my body and cleanse my soul.
“Father,” I continued, my voice barely audible, a whisper to my ears. “I thought I’d buried those feelings. I thought I was beyond it. But now, seeing him again…I don’t know what’s happening to me. The temptation is too strong. Every time I’m near him, it’s like all my vows, everything I’ve sworn to God, vanish. I feel like I’m losing myself.”
Father Franklin nodded slowly.
“You’re not losing yourself, Elias,” he said, his gaze was a strong, powerful presence. “You’re only confronting what’s been buried within you for so long. The love you feel for him is real. That’s not something to deny. But you must also remember that you took a vow. You made a promise to God, to yourself, and your flock. The path we’ve chosen is not without its sacrifices.”
His words were measured, but they stung. Sacrifice. Always sacrifice.
“But what if it’s too much?” I said, my voice cracking slightly. “What if I can’t keep sacrificing everything for this life? For the faith, I thought I believed in so fully. How can I even be a true servant of God when my resolve crumbles so easily for him?”
Father Franklin leaned back in his chair, his gaze softening.
“You’re not the first priest to wrestle with temptation, Elias. You’re not the first to question his vows. And you won’t be the last. I know how difficult it can be to reconcile the man you are with the man you’ve sworn to be. But the key is not in suppressing your feelings—it’s in understanding them. In seeking God’s guidance in the midst of your struggle and trusting that He will help you find your way.”
I clenched my hands tighter in my lap, the physical pain a poor distraction from the emotional turmoil. “I don’t know if I can go on like this, Father. Every day, I feel further from God. I don’t know if I’m doing this for Him anymore—or for the life I thought I was meant to live.”
Father Franklin’s eyes softened with compassion.
“That’s the crux of it, isn’t it? You must search your heart, Elias. Are you truly walking this path for God? Or is it for what you’ve convinced yourself is your duty?” His voice was firm. “Sometimes, the path of faith requires us to face our deepest desires and choose whether we are willing to submit them to God’s will. It’s not about denying your humanity but about accepting that in being humans, all our nature is against God’s will. It is up to us to choose. Free will, after all, is God’s gift to us all.”
A gift? Or a curse?
I was silent for a long moment, the weight of his words settling deep in my bones. What he said made sense, all of it made sense, but the conflict inside me felt insurmountable. I loved God. I loved my calling…but I also loved Ronan.
“I feel like I’m being torn in two, Father,” I said, my voice weak with the truth. “One part of me wants to surrender, to give in to him. And another part of me wants to stay true to my vows, to the life I’ve built. But the temptation is so strong. Every time I see him…it is yet another crack in my conviction.”
Father Franklin nodded slowly, his eyes kind but unwavering. “Elias, temptation is not a sin. What matters is how you respond to it. You must seek God’s will, not your own. And in time, He will show you the path you must take. But know this: you are not alone. You have your faith, and you have your community here. You have your vows, but you also have the strength to overcome this, whatever choice you make.”
I closed my eyes, taking in a deep breath. The weight of my choices hung over me like a storm cloud, but there was a small flicker of hope within the darkness. I had faith. And even in the face of my greatest temptation, I would hold on to that. I had to trust that God would give me the answer he implored that I seek.
“Thank you, Father,” I said quietly, my voice steadier now.
Father Franklin offered a small, reassuring smile. “Remember, Elias, faith is not about perfection. It’s about perseverance. And forgiveness. The path you walk—no matter what they may be—you will not be alone.”
Father Franklin’s words lingered in my mind long after I left his office.
The old wooden doors of the church closed behind me with a heavy thud, and I stood in the dimly lit hallway, the silence swallowing me whole. The weight of my collar felt even heavier now, the fabric pressing against my skin as if it could somehow suffocate the ache in my chest. I needed to leave, needed to escape the church and the walls that had become a prison. But my feet refused to move.
Instead, my mind wandered, as it always did, to the one thing I couldn’t escape—Ronan.
I could see him clearly in my mind, standing there before me, his eyes dark with a desire that mirrored my own.
That night in the woods and, the cold air biting at my skin as snowflakes danced around us, the world blanketed in white. It felt like a dream. It was like time had stopped, and there was nothing but the two of us.
Ronan had been so close to me then, so alive.
I could still feel the brush of his breath on my cheek, the warmth of his hands as they cupped my face, drawing me closer. I could see his gray eyes spark when he tasted me, my body unable to resist him even then.
There had been no barriers, no distance between us, just the raw, undeniable pull that had always existed between us. And when his lips touched mine, it felt as though the world itself had ignited in flame.
I had been a priest then, just as I was now, but I wasn’t bound by my vows for those few moments.
I wasn’t Elias, the priest.
I was Elias, the man.
The kiss had started slowly, tentatively, as if neither of us could believe we were finally giving in to the feelings we had both buried for so long.
But it didn’t stay that way.
No, not when the years of restraint and longing broke free.
It was as if a dam had burst, and all the love, the want, the fire we had kept hidden came rushing out in that kiss. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was desperate, hungry, a collision of hearts and bodies that didn’t know how to stop.
I remembered the taste of him, the way his lips pressed against mine like he was trying to pour every feeling he’d ever had into me, every moment he had ever missed. And when I’d kissed him back, I had no question left unanswered. At that moment, there was only him and me on that tree.
But then, just as quickly as it had started, reality had come crashing back, reminding me of the vows I had taken, the collar I wore, the promises I’d made. All of it slammed into me with the weight of a thousand regrets. We had pulled away from each other, our breaths ragged, the cold air no longer comforting but suffocating.
And I ran.
I told him to leave and left him in my parents’ driveway.
I ran so fast, so far from the man I ached for.
Will I ever stop running?
I shut my eyes now, pressing my fingertips to my temples, trying to block out the memories. But they were too vivid. Too real. Ronan’s eyes had burned with something I could never forget.
A longing, a plea that I had never been able to shake. And the way his hands had felt against my skin—God, how could I have let go of that?
I wanted him. I knew I did. The ache in my chest had never gone away, even when I convinced myself I had buried it. But I couldn’t ignore the truth: I was a priest. I had made my choice. I had taken my vows before God.
But the thought of Ronan…of us…the way he had kissed me, held me, made me feel alive in a way I hadn’t felt in years. It was all I could think about now, even after all this time.
It would be so easy to give in and let go of my collar and everything I had worked for. I could walk away and be with him, let the passion consume me until there was nothing left but the two of us together…our own heaven in the hell we created.
But then, what would I be?
What would I be without my faith?
Without my calling?
The questions echoed in my mind, louder now.
What would I be if I gave into temptation?
What kind of man would I become?
Before I was a priest, I was a reckless mess, wild and untamed, broken from the past of the very man that barely held me together now.
I took a slow, steadying breath, trying to calm the storm inside me. The memory of Ronan’s touch, the taste of his kiss, was still there—still burning in the back of my mind like a brand that refused to fade. And in that moment, as I stood alone in the church, I knew that no matter what I chose, the fire between us would never be extinguished.
I couldn’t outrun him. Not completely. Not when I still felt his ghost inside me every second of the day.
Father Franklin had been right. I couldn’t deny what was inside me. I could only pray that, somehow, I would find a way to reconcile this war within my heart. But how? How could I reconcile the love I felt for Ronan with the man I had become?
I reached for the exit, my heart heavy with the uncertainty that clung to every step. But even as I stepped out into the cold night air, I knew one thing for certain: no matter how far I ran or how hard I tried to resist, Ronan would always be a part of me. And sooner or later, I would have to face that truth.
* * *
The trailer park was as rundown as I remembered—faded, dented trailers huddled together like forgotten souls, each one holding secrets I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear.
I hated this place.
I hated the way it felt like the world was suffocating here, the air thick with desperation. But there was no time for hesitation.
I parked my car, my mind racing. The call from my mother came through an hour ago. She said that Missis Saint Clare hadn’t been in good spirits since Ronan left, and for many reasons, it felt like my responsibility to see how I could help her.
I hadn’t seen her since the hospital.
She’d been frail the last time but chipper and talkative. She wasn’t like that. She was a bit too quiet, always too eager to avoid eye contact, as if the bruises on her face weren’t the only ones she was hiding.
I should’ve done something before I left. I should’ve noticed the signs. But there had been so much else on my mind. Ronan. His anger. His pain.
Now, I was here, standing in front of the trailer I barely knew from childhood. Ronan had always hidden this place from me.
I had been here a handful of times to pick him up for a day out or drop him back home from wrestling practice. It looked even worse than I remembered. The grass around the lot was brown and unkempt, and the yard was littered with cans and old tires. The trailer itself was sagging, the paint peeling from the sides like skin falling away from a dying body. I could see the care that Ronan tried to put into this place, but the small amount he did was just enough to keep it standing.
I knocked at the door, the sound sharp against the silence, but there was no response. I knocked again, harder this time, anxiety creeping into my chest.
Where was she?
I reached for the doorknob, hesitated, then pushed the door open. As I stepped inside, the faint scent of stale air, mildew, and a foul smell hit me. The dim light filtered through closed blinds, casting everything in a sickly hue. It was colder than expected, and the silence was so heavy it felt suffocating.
“Missis Saint Clare?” I called, my voice barely louder than a whisper.
No answer.
I moved further into the room, my steps slow and deliberate, my eyes scanning the small space. The living room was sparse—just a battered couch, a table with a few scattered magazines, beer cans, and a TV that looked like it hadn’t worked in years. There was no sign of Missis Saint Clare. My heart began to race. I stepped toward the hallway, the floor creaking beneath me, my palms growing clammy.
I called her name again, but it came out more urgent now, desperate.
“Missis Saint Clare?”
And then, I heard it: a faint sound, a low groan coming from the bedroom.
My stomach twisted, a chill running down my spine. I moved faster now, my breath quickening as I pushed the door open. The room was dark, the broken blinds tilted sideways, but a faint light came through the triangular section of the opening.
And then I saw her.
Missis Saint Clare was lying on the bed, her face turned toward the wall, her body curled into itself as if trying to protect itself from the world. Her clothes were wrinkled and disheveled. Her skin was ashen, almost gray. There were bruises, deep and dark, covering her arms, her face, and her neck.
It was worse than I’d ever imagined, and a needle hung from her arm in a tight tourniquet.
“Oh, Miranda,” I said with a sad sigh as I rushed to her side.
My hands trembled as I placed them on her shoulders, gently turning her toward me. Her eyes were half-lidded and unfocused, her breathing shallow and uneven. The damage wasn’t just from illness. The bruises on her face told a much darker story and were from in the shape of Jack Saint Clare’s hands.
“Missis Saint Clare…what happened?” my voice was tight, strained, as I leaned closer.
Her skin was cold to the touch, and her lips were cracked and bleeding. I could feel the weight of her pain in the air between us, a suffocating silence that screamed of fear.
She blinked slowly, her lips parting as though she was trying to speak through the high, but all she managed was a broken, guttural whisper.
“Elias…”
I held her gaze, trying to focus, trying to understand.
“What happened? Who did this to you? I am getting you help, Miranda.”
Her eyes shifted away toward the corner of the room where boots lay. There was a smell in the room, a lingering stench of whiskey, urine, and cigarettes. I knew instantly who it belonged to…
“Jack…” she whispered, her voice barely audible, cracking.
My blood ran cold.
Jack Saint Clare—Ronan’s stepfather.
He was a man who had a reputation in this town for violence, for anger that boiled just beneath the surface. I’d heard the rumors and whispers of how he treated her, but I never thought it would come to this. I never dreamed it was this bad.
Why didn’t Ronan tell me things were this bad?
I squeezed her hand, panic rising in my chest. “Where is he? Is he here?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached out weakly, grasping my rosary with trembling fingers. The necklace snapped beneath her fingers, and the beads tinkled to the ground as they scattered in different directions.
“Ronan…” she gasped, her breath ragged. “He…left…me. I need my…Ronan. I…”
Me too.
The words died in her throat, but I could feel the desperation in her grasp, the need for me to understand. I nodded, a sad smile displayed on my face as I dialed the emergency line.
“I’ll…I will get your son back, Miranda. Just hold on tight for me, okay?”
She smiled, and I reached down to squeeze her hand in my own. I waited with her until the ambulance arrived. My mother went to the hospital with her, and I walked around the trailer, trying to find signs of Jack.
The coward had run away after using his wife as a punching bag.
Once the police were alerted to the situation and I got the text confirming Missis Saint Clare was okay, I realized I needed to follow him.
Where should I even look?
I didn’t know anything about the life he lived in Las Vegas, much less where he would be in that massive city. Our town was so simple, lame in its predictability, but at least easy to navigate.
I felt awkward walking around in Missis Saint Clare’s bedroom, but I was out of options. I checked everything, from her dresser to piles of dirty laundry strewn across the floor. If Miranda had access to Ronan…where would she hide it?
I was wasting so much time, but there was no way of roaming around Vegas in the hope of randomly coming across him. It was worse than a needle in a haystack.
“C’mon Miranda. Where would you put something special? Where do you hide things from Jack?”
Putting myself in the mind of an abuse victim was strange, but I was hopeful it would help. There were all kinds of cracks in the foundation of the small trailer. Some had been recently fixed, and the edges were much cleaner, leaving a strange mark to show the healing in the foundation.
Ronan had fixed all this. He was always fixing things. Even when they were forever broken, he still managed to find beauty in them.
Finally, my eyes scanned a section of the flooring that had not been fixed like the rest, and I zeroed in on the area.
My fingertips slid over the grimy floor, trying to feel for any type of…
There! A hitch.
The floor came away like a hinge, and a small hole revealed underneath. There wasn’t much there. Her tiny treasure trove was filled with odd herbs and a pipe, but underneath all those was a small stuffed animal. I recalled this from my own childhood.
Ronan had slept with that thing for years.
What was the name?
Captain Carpers.
Seeing that ratted deer, with so many missing appendages and eyeballs, survive all these years gave me a weird sense of hope. I sniffled and continued to search the area. There were baby pictures of Ronan and the rare photo of Miranda in a picture with a true smile on her face.
What a rare find.
I had never seen a single photograph of Ronan’s childhood unless my family had taken them. Even today, my family still had photos of us in our youth, from hunting to bartending non-alcoholic drinks for extra cash.
Finally, the last thing, hidden farther away from the rest, as if it were her most cherished possession of all, was a card. I frowned, turning the card around in my grip. It was a card from Vegas of a…strip club.
What is this, Miranda?
Confusion growing, I read a small written signature that made my heartbeat flutter in my chest.
Ronan.
None of this made sense.
Was Ronan bartending here?
Did he go back to our youthful roots and create a profession out of selling drinks?
Confused and anxious, I put back her little box of secrets and made my way out of the trailer. It wasn’t until I got into my car that I realized I was running after all…
And it was straight back to Ronan.