Chapter 5 Sarah
SARAH
Iwake up convinced that I’m back in my childhood bedroom, the one with the chipped pink walls and the snowdrifts of laundry on every surface. I expect to smell Dade’s cigarettes or hear Ma puttering in the kitchen. But reality washes over me with the silence of the bedroom.
The only trace of Michael is the indentation in the blanket where he sat last night, head in hands. I bring my fingers to my lips, half hoping to taste something of what happened, some residue of the frantic and unthinkable. But the skin is smooth, blank, as if I dreamed it all.
My throat is a mess of raw nerves and thirst. I swing my legs to the floor, the boards give a soft protest under my weight.
I stand, shuffle to the bathroom, and turn the tap.
The water is cold and so clean it tastes like nothing at all.
I swallow, then wash my face, staring at the bruises along my arms in the mirror.
The purple has darkened overnight, and there’s a fingerprint of yellow just beneath the skin at my wrist, like a secret someone left behind.
I wrap myself in a towel and pad into the kitchen. The coffee pot is already hot. It's strong and almost nutty, and when I drink it. My eyes close, and I try to forget that I have nowhere to go, that last night was a new kind of disaster.
It takes me a full ten minutes to notice that Michael isn’t here. There’s a note on the kitchen counter:
Sarah, I’ll be gone for morning Mass and some parish business. Take anything you need. There’s food in the fridge and more blankets in the trunk by the fireplace. Call if you need me, or if you feel unsafe. I will be back by sunset.
M
I drift toward the fire, which is only embers now, and hug the blanket around myself like a cloak. In the daylight, the room is less mysterious, almost aggressively ordinary, but everywhere I look I find a little evidence of him … the faint smell of his deodorant and last night’s stew.
I think of him, right now, standing in front of a congregation and pretending that he didn’t commit a sin that could unravel his whole life.
Well, I’m not sure. Is a kiss enough to get him banned from the clergy? Is that what it's even called?
I should feel bad about this. But mostly what I feel is cold, hungry, and tired in a way I can’t describe.
I wander. It’s not snooping, I tell myself, but the truth is, I am looking for him. Just some remnant of his life before I crashed into it. I clean up after my coffee and make the bed with a thin blue comforter, then fold and put away the three-drawer dresser.
The moment after our kiss flashes through my mind when I sit still on the edge of the bed. Feelings of longing, terror, and shame exhaust and overwhelm me. So I lie down on the bed I just made. I drift to sleep amongst fantasies of what Michael and I might become.
The sound of gravel crunching under Michael’s tires wakes me. It's the kind of noise I’ve trained myself to recognize and dread. It’s usually Dade arriving home.
“Hey,” his voice just a notch above a whisper as he enters his own home.
“Hey,” I answer.
I stand, watching him. He barely acknowledges me. He moves past me, into the kitchen, and sets a grocery bag on the counter.
“You don’t have to act like nothing happened,” I say.
He freezes, a tin of tomatoes in his hand. He sets it down with exaggerated care. He looks directly at me. “I know.”
“I shouldn’t have,“ he starts.
“—kissed me?” I finish. “Or, wanted to?”
His face colors again. “Both,” he says, after a beat. “Mostly the wanting.”
I want to tell him it’s okay, but I’m not sure it is. It felt good, that’s the problem. It felt better than anything I’ve ever had, and I think he knows it. Maybe that’s why he’s so afraid.
I move closer, the kitchen is so small that I can feel the heat from his body even from a foot away. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He looks at me, really looks, and his whole body seems to crumple in relief. “I’m terrible at this,” he admits. “Talking. Or whatever this is.”
I nod. “You’re not the only one. You ever wonder what would happen if you just… let go? Stopped pretending you were okay, or that everything had to make sense?”
He laughs, the sound sharp and a little desperate. “Every day,” he says. “But then I remember who I am. What I’m supposed to be.”
I tilt my head. “And what is that?”
His mouth twists. “A safe place. A shepherd. Someone people can trust, even when they can’t trust themselves.”
“And you think kissing me makes you unsafe?”
He doesn’t answer, but the look on his face says everything. He takes a step closer. His hand twitches, like he wants to reach out but is afraid to touch.
“Less of a shepherd?’
“Sarah,“ he says, and the way he says my name is enough to undo me.
We stand in the middle of the kitchen, both waiting for the other to break first. In the end, it’s me. I close the distance, my hands reach out to the back of his neck, and I pull him down to me.
The kiss is different this time. It's slower, hungrier, and more deliberate. His lips are soft, but his hands grip me hard, his fingers dig into my waist like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. I want to tell him he doesn’t have to be afraid, but instead, I open my mouth and let him in.
He tastes like coffee and something bittersweet, like regret. I run my hands up under his shirt, feel the curve of his spine, the heat of his skin. I want to memorize every inch of him, just in case this is the only time I get.
When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathless. He rests his forehead against mine, eyes closed.
“This isn’t right,” he whispers. “But I don’t want to stop.”
“Then don’t,” I whisper back.
He makes a sound, half-laugh, half-sob, and kisses me again, harder this time. He backs me up against the counter, his body pressing to mine, all restraint gone. I feel the edge of the countertop dig into my hips, and I welcome it, the pain a reminder that I’m real, that this is happening.
He lifts me onto the counter, his hands under my thighs, and I let my legs wrap around his waist. The hoodie slips off my shoulders, and he buries his face in the curve of my neck, breathing me in.
I shiver, not from the cold, but from the intensity of it all.
It's the way he holds me, the way I want him to.
“Are you sure?” he asks, voice ragged.
I nod. “Yes,” I say, and I’ve never meant anything more.
He scoops me up, cradling me against his chest, and carries me down the hall to the bedroom. He lays me down on the narrow bed, careful as if I might break, but I pull him down with me, wanting every part of him at once.
He strokes my hair, his touch so gentle it almost makes me cry, but the apprehension is undeniable.
“I’m sorry,” he says. "You're a virgin and deserve more than the desperate release of my pent-up years of priesthood."
“You don’t have to be sorry,” trying to let him know I'm not upset with us stopping. “There's always tomorrow.”
He laughs, his sound softer now. “What happens tomorrow?”
“Maybe tomorrow we’ll figure it out,” I say. “But for tonight, let’s just be here.”
He kisses me again, sweet and lingering, and for the first time in my life, I believe that maybe, just maybe, I deserve this.
We fall asleep like that, limbs entwined. I close my eyes, and this time my mind is reminded of the virginity he's not taking. I’m not losing.
I can wait, and I will wait.
I wake to the sound of rain against the window and the slow, steady heartbeat of the man beside me. The world outside is cold and gray, but in here, there is only warmth.
Tomorrow will come, and perhaps … so will I.