Chapter Thirty-One Paul
Chapter Thirty-One
Paul
October
"I'm so proud of her."
My mom's voice catches my attention as I walk down the hallway.
It's coming from the home office, so I slow down and peek in.
My mom's sitting in the chair, and my dad is hovering next to her, both smiling at something on her laptop.
My mom's eyes shimmer with tears, and my dad leans down to kiss the top of her head, his hand rubbing her shoulder in that quiet way he always used to comfort her.
My curiosity is burning inside of me, especially wondering—and knowing already—who she is.
Sophie. It has to be about Sophie.
But I have no right to know, not anymore. I need to remember that, no matter how many times the question is on the tip of my tongue, to ask about her. I know—I know—from my therapist, from my mother, that the best thing for Sophie right now is for me to keep at a distance. Mentally and physically.
Still, every Tuesday morning when my mom slips out with her boxes of casserole, or when I hear her speaking softly on the phone, laughing in that warm, motherly tone, my stomach knots.
I ache to know anything about Sophie.
How's her treatment going? Is she okay? Has it been working? Is she tired? Is she scared?
Is she still smiling that gorgeous smile that used to bring me to my knees?
Could she ever forgive me?
Do I even deserve to be forgiven?
Clearing my throat of the emotion clogging it, I gently rap on the door to catch their attention.
"I'm heading to therapy," I say, shoving my hands into my jean pockets before they can see how badly they're shaking.
It's not for another hour and a half, but I don't have anything else to do today, so I figured maybe I'd grab a bite to eat on the way to Boston.
I'm sick of sitting in my bedroom, staring at the ceiling or scrolling through social media, seeing my friends' pictures from pumpkin patches, hayrides, and Haunted Houses.
All the things Sophie and I would be doing if I hadn't destroyed everything.
It's been a month since I've been able to come back home, and it's been eye-opening. I've been following all of my mom's rules. Cleaning this house from attic to basement, clearing the gutters, painting the spare bedroom, and being on dish duty every night.
I've been attending church with my mom every Sunday.
I've been going grocery shopping with my mom and then wince when the memory of running into Elise pierces my mind.
I wasn't lying when I said I was going to reach out, but I had hoped to have a couple more therapy sessions under my belt before I did so.
Thankfully, when I told Dr. Forseti what happened, she looked pleased with me and said I handled it correctly.
I set firm boundaries and apologized for my role in putting her in that position of mistress.
For using her as an escape. And while Elise turned out not to be who I thought she was, I do feel sorry for her and for what I did to her.
Now, I hope I never see her ever again.
Also, I have been volunteering down at Wilkins Stables like my mom had set up. Mr. Wilkins' horse farm is a staple in our community—his horses and ponies usually make their appearance at the Harvest Festival for rides for the kids.
The old man has me shoveling manure, mending fences, and doing anything else he needs done.
As shitty—literally—as the job is, I am finding some purpose in it.
Mr. Wilkins is tough as old leather, but fair.
He had never met Sophie, but he, like everyone else in this town, had heard of what I'd done to her.
While he didn't outright judge me, he was still a little cold to me in the beginning. Now he seems to be warming up, slightly, since I show up on time and do whatever he barks at me to do.
And I've found a sense of purpose in this hard work.
If this were any other community, I would think this public shaming was overkill.
But part of the reason I always loved this town was because of how people took care of each other.
When someone in this town falls, the entire community bends to pick them up.
They'll rally, they'll feed you, they'll clothe you, and when you mess up and really want to fix it, they'll forgive you.
I guess I've been away for college for so long that I've just forgotten what it means to be part of a community. I forgot what true belonging meant—that you will be taken care of, but you can't forget to care for others.
"There's a box of canned goods by the door. Can you drop it off at the church?" my mom says, with a decidedly less sharp tone this last week. It's making me think that they see the progress I'm making, the regret I feel every second. That I do want to change. "The food pantry's collecting."
"Yes, Ma," I nod. "Anything else you need?"
"No, Paul," she shakes her head, and the right side of her mouth quirks up, just slightly, as she looks at me. Her eyes look at me with something that looks like softness, and it sparks a tiny bit of hope in my chest. "Thank you for asking, though."
"Drive safe," my dad adds, his voice a little warmer, like he wants to let me know he sees the effort. "Ordering pizza and wings for the game tonight."
"Okay," I smile, just a little, grateful for the small olive branch, and the bit of excitement I feel for such a normal night. "I'll be back in a couple of hours."
My mom's gaze lingers on me again for a long moment before she turns back to the computer. Her lips curve upward again, that proud smile pulling at my chest.
Before I walk out the front door, I grab the box of canned goods and head to my car.
The drive to the church is quick, and when I park, I see Maureen McDonall standing near the side entrance.
Maureen's been a fixture at St. Mary's since my mother was a child.
Her husband is a Deacon, all her kids were altar servers, and she taught me in CCD.
Maureen's demeanor has always been kind but firm.
She's extremely well-connected, well-informed, and well-respected in the town, and she's been eyeing me a little warily since I started attending church again with my mom.
Her salt-and-pepper hair is pulled back into a loose bun, and she's wearing a thick pink cable-knit cardigan over a cream blouse.
When she sees the box in my arms, she waves me over, and I follow her downstairs to the church basement. There are tables stacked with boxes like the one I'm holding, and she directs me to place the box down on one of them.
"Thank your mother for us," she says, and she starts pulling the box's contents out and organizing them.
"Yes, ma'am. I will." I answer respectfully and turn to leave, before her voice stops me.
"When's the last time you've been to confession, Paul?"
"I..." I turn back to her. She's looking at me over her glasses, the same way she looks at a child in her classroom when they won't admit to mischief.
It's that distinct mom look that will have you crumbling in two seconds flat.
I frown when I realize that I can't even remember when I last confessed.
Probably before I even left for college. "I'm not sure."
She nods, taking a deep breath, and gestures upstairs.
"Father Martin is in," she turns back to her organizing. "Go on upstairs. I'll let him know you're here."
I wince and stumble over an excuse, "Mrs. McDonall, I don't know if—"
"Five minutes," she says sternly now, leaving no room for argument. "I think it would help you, Paul."
I exhale, my shoulders slumping in defeat.
"Alright, what the hel—heck," I correct myself under her sharp glare, feeling like a chastised ten-year-old again.
The corners of her mouth twitch upward in an amused grin.
And as I climb the creaking stairs to the church, I find myself smiling too.
It feels good to have that flicker of levity in this pit I've dug for myself.
I open the thick door and enter the empty church, my footsteps muffled on the carpet as I walk to the confessional. What the hell, I've got nothing to lose. The booth is narrow and dim, and I shift on the seat, trying to find a comfortable position.
Moments later, I hear the door on the other side open, the rustle of fabric, the faint creak as Father Martin kneels.
"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen".
Like muscle memory, I make the sign of the cross. Silence stretches, and I realize he's waiting for me to start, so I clear my throat and search my brain for the correct words.
"Uh... Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been..." I blow out a slow breath, trying to remember, but come up empty. "Years... since my last confession."
"Go ahead," his voice gently urges me.
As a kid, I remember sitting in this booth when my mom would drag me to church and to confession each month.
I'd feel so awkward, someone on the other side listening to me confess everything, every petty lie and thing I did wrong in the last month.
Sometimes I would make stuff up, Father would tell me I was forgiven, and I would leave feeling nothing—just happy that I didn't have to do that for another month.
Now, as an adult, I still feel that same discomfort, but the sins that I've committed feel like they could crush me. It's not just silly mischief—I truly hurt so many people with my actions.
I open my mouth, and I just let it out.
"I cheated on my fiancée," I might as well start off with my heaviest sin.
"I... there's no excuse I can say to justify it.
I chose to cheat on Sophie. She found a lump in her breast, and I just..
. I knew it was cancer. I didn't even wait for it to be confirmed.
I just felt the entire world spinning out of control, and I panicked.
So I slept with my coworker, who stroked my ego and made me feel like a man.
Like I was still in control of my life."