Chapter 3 Waverly
WAVERLY
Idrop the same book three times before Odette finally corners me behind the register. Thornbury Books is quiet this morning, just a few browsers drifting through the stacks, and my boss has had plenty of opportunity to watch me fumble through even the simplest tasks.
"Chérie." She leans against the counter with her arms crossed, silver bracelets clinking together.
Odette is somewhere in her sixties, with sharp dark eyes and a French accent that gets thicker when she's annoyed.
Right now, it's practically impenetrable.
"You look like you haven't slept in a week. Man trouble?"
I laugh, but it comes out nervous and too high. "No. Just a lot on my mind."
"Mm-hmm." She doesn't look convinced. "The last time you were this distracted, you'd just lost your grandmother. You tell me if someone is giving you problems, yes? I know people."
The mental image of Odette sending her mysterious "people" after Father Brennan makes me choke on my own breath. "It's nothing like that. I promise. I'm just... processing some things."
She studies me for a long moment, then pats my cheek with a cool hand. "You process. But process while shelving correctly, please. You put the Brontes in horror yesterday."
"To be fair, Wuthering Heights is pretty horrifying."
That earns me a reluctant smile before she drifts off to help a customer, and I turn back to the cart of books that need to be shelved.
My hands are steadier now, but my mind is still spinning in circles around tonight.
The return to confession he demanded. The way he said my name like it meant something.
I check the clock for the third time in an hour. Five more hours until the bookshop closes. Then another two until evening confession. Seven hours to figure out what I'm going to say to him.
A customer approaches the register asking for recommendations on religious texts, and I have to physically bite my tongue to keep from laughing.
The universe has a sick sense of humor. I smile and lead her to the spirituality section, pointing out various options while my pulse beats a rhythm in my throat that sounds suspiciously like his name.
By the time I get home, I'm a wreck. I stand in the shower until the water runs cold, then spend far too long choosing what to wear.
It's confession, not a date. It doesn't matter what I look like.
And yet I try on four different dresses before settling on a simple navy blue one that's modest enough to be appropriate but fitted enough that I feel pretty. Then I hate myself for caring.
The mirror shows me a woman I barely recognize. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes too bright. I look like someone on the verge of doing something reckless.
I touch my grandmother's locket and try to hear her voice in my head.
She always knew what to say when I was lost. When I was twelve and terrified of starting a new school, she held my hands and told me, "Fear is just excitement that hasn't learned to breathe yet.
" When I was eighteen and didn't know what to do with my life, she said, "You don't have to have all the answers, sweetheart. You just have to take the next step."
"What's my next step now, Nana?" I whisper to the empty room. "What do I do about a priest who makes me feel more alive than I've ever felt in my life?"
She doesn't answer, of course. But I remember something else she told me once, late at night when I was sixteen and nursing my first broken heart over a boy who'd never even known I existed. "When it's real," she'd said, stroking my hair as I cried, "it won't feel safe. Real love is terrifying."
I'm terrified. That has to count for something.
St. Augustin's is nearly empty when I arrive. The evening light streams through the stained glass windows, casting patterns of red and gold across the stone floor. An elderly woman lights candles at the shrine to Mary, and a man in a rumpled suit kneels in the back pew, his lips moving silently.
I head toward the confessional, my heels clicking against the floor louder than I'd like. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my fingertips. I open the door to the confessional and step inside, sinking onto the kneeler, and wait.
The silence stretches. One minute. Five. Ten. The confessional on his side remains dark and empty.
He's not coming. Of course he's not coming.
He had time to think about it, time to realize what a terrible idea this is, and he's decided to stay away.
To let me kneel here in the dark until I get the message.
This is over. Whatever strange, charged thing happened between us yesterday was a mistake, and he's not going to let it happen again.
I should feel relieved. Instead, I feel like someone has scooped out my chest and left a hollow space where hope used to be.
I'm about to leave, to gather what's left of my dignity and walk out of this church forever, when I hear footsteps behind me. Not inside the confessional. In the church itself. Coming closer.
I turn, pushing open the confessional door, and there he is.
Father Brennan stands in the nave, not in the confessional where he's supposed to be.
He's in his full cassock, rosary in hand, and he looks terrible.
Dark circles under his eyes, tension in his jaw, his usually composed features drawn tight with something that might be exhaustion or might be torment.
He's watching me with those gray-green eyes that have haunted my dreams for months.
"Not here," he says quietly. His voice is rough, like he hasn't slept either. "Follow me."
I shouldn't. This is already so far past the boundaries of appropriate behavior that I can't even see them anymore. A priest and a parishioner, alone together, meeting in secret. Nothing about this is right.
I follow him anyway.
He leads me to a small alcove off the main sanctuary, a private prayer nook with a statue of Mary looking down on us with serene, unknowing eyes. The space is tiny, barely big enough for two people, and when he turns to face me, we're close enough that I could reach out and touch him if I dared.
"We need to talk about your confession." His voice is barely above a whisper, as if he's afraid someone might hear.
"I'm sorry." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "I shouldn't have said those things. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I can transfer to another parish, or I can just stop coming to mass altogether. Whatever you need. I'll do it."
"Don't." The single word cuts through my rambling like a blade. "Don't apologize for telling me the truth."
He steps closer, and suddenly I'm backed against the cold stone wall with nowhere to go. His hand comes up, almost touching my face, hovering an inch away from my skin. I can feel the heat of him, the barely contained tension in every line of his body.
"I've been thinking about you," he says, and his voice is rough and broken in a way I've never heard from him before. "For weeks. Every mass, every sermon. I preach to the whole congregation, but I'm only talking to you."
My breath catches in my throat. "Father..."
"Cillian." He says his own name like an offering, like a gift. "When we're alone, you can call me Cillian."
His thumb finally makes contact, tracing along my jaw, and the sensation is so overwhelming that I gasp. Such a simple touch, and yet it feels like being struck by lightning. Like every nerve in my body has suddenly come alive.
"This is wrong," I whisper, even as I lean into his touch. "You're a priest."
"I know what I am." His eyes are dark, searching my face like he's trying to memorize every detail. "The question is whether you know what you're asking for."
"I don't know what I'm asking for." My voice shakes, and I feel tears prickling at the corners of my eyes.
Not from sadness. From the sheer overwhelming intensity of standing here, in this sacred space, with his hand on my face and his body so close I can smell the incense that clings to his cassock.
"I just know I can't stop. I've tried, Cillian.
God, I've tried. But every time I close my eyes, you're there. "
His jaw tightens, and for a moment I think he's going to kiss me. Right here in this church, beneath the watchful eyes of the Virgin Mary, he's going to close the distance between us and put his mouth on mine and damn us both.
Instead, he pulls back. His hand drops from my face, and the loss of contact feels like a physical wound. He takes a step backward, then another, putting distance between us that feels insurmountable.
"Go home, Waverly." His voice is strained, controlled in a way that costs him something. "Lock your door. And if you have any sense, don't come back."
He turns and walks away before I can respond, his cassock swirling around his legs, leaving me pressed against the cold stone wall with my heart in my throat and his touch still burning on my skin.
I don't go home.
I go to the evening mass instead. I sit in the front pew, directly in his line of sight, and I watch him approach the altar with the weight of everything unsaid hanging between us.
His eyes find mine as he turns to face the congregation, and something flickers across his face.
Pain. Longing. A hunger that mirrors my own.
He begins to speak about resisting temptation, about the importance of turning away from sin, and his voice is steady and sure. But every few seconds, his gaze drifts to me. His hands grip the edges of the lectern so hard his knuckles go white. He stumbles over a word, catches himself, keeps going.
I sit through the entire service, letting his words wash over me while his eyes tell a different story. Resist temptation, he says, but he looks at me like I'm the only thing he's ever wanted. Turn away from sin, he says, but his voice breaks on the word "sin" and his gaze drops to my mouth.
When mass ends, I don't approach him. I just stand and walk toward the door, feeling his eyes on my back the whole way. At the threshold, I turn and look at him one last time. He's standing at the altar, watching me with an expression that makes my chest ache.
He told me not to come back. But he looked at me during mass like I was the only prayer worth answering.
I have a feeling I'll be back tomorrow.