Chapter 20 #2
I can’t help but think of my own time returning from the convent.
The long, angry silences from my uncle and aunt.
The whispers from my cousins. The stares from the congregation at church.
I always felt like I had to work extra hard to get any scraps of love or attention, and after leaving my order, it got so much worse.
My whole life became a penance for something I wasn’t even sure I regretted doing.
Kissing Cass. Which I guess was actually kissing Wes.
It’s weird; I still can’t fully see them as the same person.
Somehow it feels like Cass is still out there, doodling in prison and daydreaming about me.
Okay, that sounds bad. I don’t want him to be still trapped in prison.
Maybe just on an island somewhere with no women, still pining for me. Is that so much to ask?
Wes feels like an entirely different person from Cass in so many ways. He’s definitely not as dreamy and romantic. But he’s funnier. So much funnier. My sides were aching from laughing the other day on set when I was . . . painting his body while he was standing there in his underwear.
I try not to go back to that memory too much, really.
It feels skeevy, picturing all the guys in their underpants.
But truthfully, it’s not all the guys I’m picturing.
Just one guy. I can glisten the other men’s chests and contour their abs, and I feel absolutely nothing.
But when I am that close to Wes, feeling his warmth, his presence, almost close enough to touch . . .
Lust, I remind myself. It’s just lust! I hear the disapproving voice of my uncle in my mind, warning me that it’s a sin—and one that, apparently, I’m especially susceptible to.
But at the same time, that word feels wrong.
Because lust isn’t what I was feeling for Wes on set.
I wasn’t ogling his torso or arms or any of the rest of his body because they were hot, sexy man parts.
They were hot, sexy man parts, to be clear, but for me, it was mainly because they were Wes’s.
I could see another pair of hands that looked exactly the same but would do nothing for me because they belonged to somebody else.
But as Wes’s hands, they became irresistible.
The allure was not in divorcing the body from the person, trying to take away his worth as an individual; the person imbued the body with worth.
The body meant something to me because it was Wes’s.
So is that still sinful?
I decide to ask Lyle, because apparently he likes me and wants to keep me around, so why not jump into the deep pool of conversations about morality? “Do you think lust is a sin?”
Completely unfazed by the question, Lyle grins back at me. “Only if you’re doing it right.”
I laugh in surprise, reminding myself yet again that not everyone comes from my super religious family or has the same strict outlook on life. And sex, mainly. There’s a whole demographic of people who celebrate sexuality and don’t treat it as something shameful.
Must be nice.
I should probably just drop it there, but I’m too curious, and the topic is weighing too heavily on my mind.
“What if you’re devaluing someone by only seeing them as a body, or .
. . you hurt someone who gets caught in the cross fire?
” I think back to my biggest mistake, the one I’ve spent most of my adult life atoning for, and I swallow heavily.
“What if,” Lyle counters, “I like driving my car. I like that it’s a nice car and runs smoothly and gets me where I need to go. It’s possible I could hurt people with my car if I drive recklessly or don’t pay attention, but I don’t. I’m careful with my car. So why shouldn’t I enjoy it?”
Whoa. I sit back in my seat, impressed. The look on Lyle’s face tells me that he knows he’s wowed me, and I can’t help but laugh at how pleased he is with himself. “Okay. I see your point.” It can’t be that easy though, can it? I search for another loophole. “But what about—”
“Let me ask you this, before you ask that question,” Lyle interrupts, kindly but firmly. “Is the question you’re about to ask me what you think, or is it what your uncle has made you believe you should think?”
Again, whoa. I stare at Lyle, flabbergasted. “Are you a mind reader?”
He grins, keeping his eyes on the road. “No, but I grew up Catholic. Very Catholic.” He waves his hand at me. “I know it’s not quite the same with your uncle’s church—”
“I was a nun for about a year,” I blurt, mostly so he won’t feel the need to try to explain to me the differences in belief systems. And, yes, I was a postulant, not a full-fledged nun, but it’s just easier to explain it this way to laypeople.
Lyle’s eyes widen as he looks over at me. “Shit, really?” He throws back his head in a loud, cackling laugh. “You are the most interesting, random little pixie, aren’t you? Please don’t tell me you’ve also worked for the CIA.”
He has no idea how close to home he just hit with that joke. “Not yet,” I demure.
“Anyway,” Lyle reins the conversation back in. “My point being, there were some great things about growing up religious. I loved the sense of community, the feeling of belonging to something important. But I hated the judgment, the double standards, the hypocrisy.”
I nod in understanding.
“So what do you do with those conflicting feelings?” Lyle continues. “Do you just throw out all the good stuff about your faith, just because it wasn’t perfect? But then, how can you go back to it when parts of it were truly harmful?”
I don’t know the answer. It’s something I’ve struggled with, too, ever since I left the convent.
Living under Uncle Aaron’s roof, I had no choice but to go back to a life that revolved around church—his church, to be more specific.
There are parts of it that resonate with me, and parts that have sometimes made me feel uncomfortable.
There were also aspects to being a postulant that I enjoyed, times that I felt genuinely moved by the spirit, and others where I felt shamed or disconnected.
“What did you do?” I ask, curious to see if Lyle has some answers.
“Construction, destruction, and reconstruction,” he tells me, as if this is something I should already know.
I furrow my brow at him in confusion. “What?”
“Construction, destruction, and reconstruction,” he repeats, then rolls his eyes self-effacingly.
“My hairstylist told me about this guy on TikTok, who I guess heard about it on some podcast, so take what I’m saying with a grain of salt, but the idea is basically this: When you’re a kid, your beliefs are influenced by your family, your teachers, your religious leaders.
That’s the construction phase of your faith.
The structure is probably pretty simple, but it’s steady enough to see you through for a while.
“At some point in your life, though, you start to notice some problems. Leaks in the roof or cracks in the foundation. Things that make you question that original construction and its ability to weather the storms in life. That’s the destruction phase of your faith.
“After that, some people just abandon the building, and that’s fine.
Some people’s buildings have more problems than others.
But if you see potential in the building, you might want to go back and fix some of the problems. Get rid of what wasn’t working, but keep what’s good and sustainable.
Rebuild as needed. That’s the reconstruction phase. ”
I take a minute, absorbing the ideas. “So you’re saying . . . I don’t have to keep the leaky roof, just because that’s what was built for me?”
Lyle grins. “Nope. You can build your own roof, out of whatever material you want to use.”
“I can build my own roof,” I echo quietly, letting that seed take root.
What would that even look like, I wonder?
What roof would I choose for myself, if I could choose anything?
What beliefs would I hold closest to my heart?
Smiling at Lyle, I shake my head. “Wow, your hairstylist’s TikTok guy’s podcaster was really onto something. ”
He nods sagely. “It’s all about finding the right algorithm,” he agrees, winking at me as we pull up to the Lodge.
As he turns his gaze forward again, something catches his eye. “Oh. My. God,” he says, but before I can see what he’s looking at, the car’s front wheel hits the curb, and we go jolting forward.
Lyle quickly steers the car back down onto the street. “Are you okay?” he asks me sheepishly.
“I’m fine.” I’m more frazzled than beaten up, although we did hit the curb pretty hard. I wonder what distracted Lyle so much . . . ? After following his gaze to the front of the hotel, I’m too excited to worry about a minor case of whiplash.
Before I’m even fully unbuckled, I’m already opening the car door and climbing out. “Grady!” I call, rushing forward and launching myself into his arms.