Chapter 4 Cillian #2
"You're not pathetic," I say fiercely. "And this isn't one-sided.
Do you understand me? I've been watching you for months.
Following you. Learning your schedule, your routines, the times when your light goes on and off.
I stand outside your building at night like some kind of obsessed madman, and the only thing that stops me from coming up those stairs is the knowledge that if I do, I won't be able to stop. "
Her eyes are huge, shining with tears or wonder or both. "You watch me?"
"Every night." The confession should horrify her. Instead, I see something that looks like relief flood across her face. "I know it's wrong. I know what I am. But when I'm not watching over you, I feel like I'm not breathing right."
She makes a sound, half laugh and half sob, and then she's rising up on her toes and pressing her mouth to mine.
The kiss is soft at first, tentative. Like she's testing to see if I'll pull away. I don't. I can't. My hands find her waist, dragging her closer, and the kiss deepens into something desperate and hungry. She tastes like wine and wanting, and I've never felt anything this good in my entire life.
When we finally break apart, we're both gasping for air. Her hands are fisted in the front of my jacket, and my fingers have tangled in her hair, and we're standing on a public street where anyone could see us.
I pull back, putting inches between us that feel like miles. Her lips are swollen, her eyes dazed, and I want nothing more than to kiss her again. To keep kissing her until we both forget why this is supposed to be wrong.
"Invite me in," I say before I can stop myself, the words tumbling out raw and unbidden.
She blinks up at me, her breath still coming in short gasps, her pupils blown wide. "What?"
"Invite me into your apartment." My voice comes out rough, unsteady, barely recognizable as my own.
The street lamp casts shadows across her face, and I can see the pulse jumping in her throat.
"I need to be alone with you. I need to touch you without worrying about who's watching, who might recognize the priest standing on a street corner with his hands in a woman's hair. Please."
For a long moment that stretches into eternity, she just looks at me, her expression unreadable. I can see her chest rising and falling with each breath, can feel the warmth of her still standing close despite the inches I've put between us. Then, slowly, deliberately, she shakes her head.
"No."
The rejection hits like a blow to the chest. I release her and step back, trying to marshal my expression into something that doesn't show how much that single word has devastated me.
"Not until you decide this is what you want," she continues, and I realize she's not refusing me.
She's challenging me. "I won't be your crisis of faith, Father.
I won't be something you regret in the morning.
If you come to me, it has to be because you've chosen this.
Chosen me. Not because you're caught up in a moment and not thinking clearly. "
She slips past me and disappears through the door of her building, leaving me standing on the sidewalk with my heart pounding and her taste still on my lips.
I press my palm against the door after it closes, feeling the wood vibrate with her footsteps as she climbs the stairs. She's right. I know she's right. I can't come to her like this, half-wild with wanting, making choices I'll regret when the sun comes up.
But I also know, with a certainty that goes bone-deep, that I'm not going to be able to stay away.
I don't sleep that night. I pace my study in the rectory, picking up books and putting them down, staring at the crucifix on my wall like it might offer answers. The taste of her is still on my tongue. The feel of her body pressed against mine is burned into my skin.
I pick up my phone. Put it down. Pick it up again. I have her number from the parish directory. I could call her. Text her. Tell her I've made my decision. Tell her I'm coming.
Instead, I type out a message, delete it, type another, delete that too. My fingers hover over the keys as the hours tick by, and by the time the gray light of dawn starts filtering through my window, I know what I have to do.
I shower. I dress, not in my cassock but in civilian clothes. Dark sweater, jeans. She's never seen me without the collar. I wonder what she'll think.
I leave the rectory before Father Daugherty wakes, walking through streets that are just beginning to stir with early morning traffic. The air is cold and damp, and my breath fogs in front of me as I climb the stairs to her building.
I knock on her door.
She answers in sleep-rumpled clothes, her curls tangled, her eyes still soft with dreams. She blinks up at me, clearly confused by my appearance, by the early hour, by everything.
"You said to decide," I tell her. "I've decided."
"What did you decide?"
I reach for her, cupping her face in my hands the way I've been imagining for months. Her skin is warm and soft, and she leans into my touch like she's been starving for it.
"You," I say. "I chose you."
I step inside her apartment. The door closes behind me.