Chapter 26 Charlie
CHARLIE
POV:
The transformation happens overnight, and it destroys me.
Adrian becomes Father Cross again, all austere lines and cold distance, like the man who held me three nights ago never existed.
When I approach him after morning Mass to discuss the parish newsletter schedule, he cuts me off mid-sentence.
“Miss Davis, I’m quite busy. Please leave any questions with Sister Margaret.”
His jaw clenches tight as he walks away, cassock swishing with each deliberate step. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t acknowledge the way my breath catches, the way my hands shake as I clutch the folder against my chest.
Miss Davis. Not Charlie. Not the name he groaned against my throat while his rosary beads pressed into my hip.
I stand frozen in the hallway, watching his broad shoulders disappear around the corner.
My body remembers how those shoulders felt beneath my hands, how the muscles shifted when he moved inside me. Now he won’t even meet my eyes.
Marcus is worse.
During Mass preparation, he keeps physical distance between us like I’m contagious.
When I reach for the communion vessels at the same moment he does, he jerks his hand back like I’ve burned him.
His tattooed arms stay rigidly at his sides, and he won’t look at me. Not once.
Those dark eyes that used to track my every movement now find anything else to focus on, the floor, the altar, the stained glass windows casting jewel tones across the worn pews.
I watch the muscle jump in his jaw, see his hands curl into fists when I pass close enough that my dress brushes his leg.
He wants to touch me.
I can feel it in the tension radiating from his body, in the way his breathing changes when I’m near. But he doesn’t.
He maintains that careful, devastating distance, but he lets his old flame get close and I don’t understand why.
Only Elijah maintains surface warmth, but even that feels wrong.
His crystalline blue eyes hold mine during choir practice, and I see the pain flickering behind them when he thinks no one’s watching.
His angel face smiles at the right moments, makes the appropriate jokes, but there’s a brittleness to it that makes my chest ache.
When he hands me sheet music, his fingers linger on mine for just a second too long. The touch is electric, desperate, then he pulls away like he’s been caught doing something forbidden.
What changed?
The question circles my mind like a vulture.
Three nights ago, they held me between them in Adrian’s bed, their hands and mouths claiming every inch of my skin.
They whispered promises about facing whatever came next together.
Now they treat me like a stranger, like those nights never happened, like I imagined the whole thing.
I know it’s the visiting Bishop, that if we can survive his visit then maybe we can go back to normal.
But my insecurities still eat at me.
Of course this won’t last, the familiar voice in my head whispers. People don’t keep broken things. They always leave.
By mid-morning, I can’t breathe. The walls of St. Michael’s feel like they’re closing in, the beautiful Gothic architecture becoming a prison.
I lock myself in the church bathroom, the one near the parish hall that nobody uses because the lock sticks.
My hands shake as I turn the bolt, and then the tears come.
I slide down the wall, my dress bunching around my thighs, and sob into my hands.
The sound echoes off the tile, ugly and desperate.
I’m twenty-five years old, crying in a church bathroom because three men who aren’t supposed to want me have decided they don’t anymore.
Everyone leaves. Mom left when I was two. Dad never tried to stay. I’m the girl men survive, not the girl they stay for.
The bathroom door rattles. “Charlie?”
Elijah’s voice cuts through my sobs, gentle and worried. I try to muffle the sound, pressing my hands harder against my mouth, but it’s too late. He’s heard me.
“Charlie, please. Let me in.”
I stand on shaking legs and unlock the door. Elijah slips inside, closing it quickly behind him. His golden hair is slightly mussed, and his blue eyes are dark with concern as he takes in my tear-stained face.
He reaches for me instinctively, his hands rising to frame my face, to pull me close. I see the need in his expression, the desperate want to comfort me, to explain.
But footsteps echo in the hallway outside, the distinctive click of Sister Margaret’s sensible shoes against tile.
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.
“Charlie?” Her voice is rough, a smoker’s rasp that cuts through the quiet space. “Baby girl, is that really you?”
The box I’m holding slips from my hands.
Clothes spill across the floor in a cascade of donated fabric, but I can’t move to pick them up.
Can’t do anything except stare at the woman who left me twenty-three years ago and never looked back.
“Diane.” Her name tastes like ash in my mouth.
Not Mom.
Never Mom. Just Diane, the woman who chose a man and a bottle over her two-year-old daughter.
Her smile widens, all teeth and no warmth. “Look at you, all grown up. You look just like I did at your age.” She moves closer, her heels clicking against the floor. “I heard about Rose’s stroke through the family grapevine. Thought I should come see how you’re holding up.”
My voice turns to ice. “Leave.”
“Now, is that any way to greet your mother?” She laughs, the sound sharp and cruel. “I drove all this way to check on you.”
“You’re not my mother.” The words come out steady despite the trembling in my hands. “Grandma Rose is my mother. You’re just the woman who left.”
Diane’s expression flickers, something that might be hurt crossing her face before she buries it. “I had my reasons, Charlie. You were too young to understand.”
“I’m twenty-five now. Still don’t understand how you walk away from a child.”
The door opens again, and Marcus enters. He takes in the scene immediately, his dark eyes moving from the spilled clothes to my pale face to Diane standing too close. His body goes rigid, protective instincts flaring.
“Everything okay here?” His voice is carefully controlled, but I hear the edge underneath.
Diane’s eyes rake over Marcus appreciatively, taking in his tattooed arms, his broad shoulders, the way his black t-shirt stretches across his chest.
Her smile turns predatory as she moves toward him.
“Well, hello.” She touches his arm with practiced familiarity, her fingers trailing over the saints and sinners inked into his skin. “I’m Diane, Charlie’s mother. And you are?”
I move before I can think, physically stepping between them.
My body angles protectively, shielding Marcus from her touch.
The gesture is instinctive, possessive.
Diane’s hand falls away, and her expression shifts from casual interest to sharp calculation.
Her eyes flick between Marcus and me, reading the subtext we’re trying so hard to hide.
The way he positions himself near me despite the careful distance.
The electricity crackling in the space between our bodies.
The protective fury in his dark eyes when he looks at her.
Diane leans in close, her voice dropping low enough that Marcus can’t hear. “Oh, baby girl. You’ve been busy, haven’t you? And here I thought you were just volunteering.”
She pulls back, her knowing look making my stomach drop. Her smile is all calculation now, sharp and dangerous.
“We should catch up. Properly.” Her eyes move to Marcus again then back to me. “I have so many questions about your new…friends.”