Chapter 6 Dorian
“Fathers, provoke not your children to anger, lest they be discouraged.”
— Colossians 3:21 KJV
Dorian slowed his car as the porch light came into view through the half-closed blinds. His mother was waiting up again. He almost smiled at the stubborn glow, the same one she’d left burning every time he’d stormed out as a teenager—mud-caked, furious, certain the world had ended. No matter what, you are always welcome here, she’d said once, picking burrs from his hair while he shivered in a soaked hoodie. He wondered if she still believed that after everything.
The spare key was exactly where he’d hidden it at thirteen, under the corner of the mat. The door opened without a sound. Inside, the living room smelled faintly of the lavender candle she liked and the chamomile tea gone cold on the table. She was curled in her recliner, phone clutched like a lifeline even in sleep. Call me any time you need, I’ll always pick up—she’d promised that too.
He moved quietly, tugging the quilt from the back of the couch to cover her shoulders. Her fingers loosened around the phone; he eased it free and plugged it in to charge. Before leaving, he clicked on the small lamp so she wouldn’t stumble in the dark if she woke, then killed the overhead light. Everything handled. He was almost to the door when the recliner creaked.
“Dorian?” Her voice was thick with sleep. “Is that you?”
He stopped. “Yeah, Mom.”
She sat up slowly, blanket slipping. “Are you okay?”
“I just needed some air.” He turned. The lamplight caught the redness around her eyes. “I came back to say sorry, but—”
“You have nothing to apologize for.” She rubbed her face. “If anyone should apologize, it’s me and Arthur.” Her voice cracked. “I’m sorry, honey. I shouldn’t have pushed you two together like that. I thought… maybe I hoped…” She trailed off, eyes glistening.
Dorian crossed the room and perched on the edge of the couch. He took her hands—thin, cool, the knuckles rough from years of gardening and dishwashing—and rubbed slow circles across them. “It wasn’t your fault. Please don’t do that to yourself.”
She shook her head. “I want you to know I will always love you. No matter what anyone else thinks. You were my miracle, Dorian. After we lost your sister…” She swallowed hard, gaze drifting to the family photos on the mantel. “I prayed for you every single day. Promised God I’d love you without condition if He gave you to me.” A tear slid down her cheek. “All I ever wanted was for you to be happy. And I can see you haven’t been. Not for a long time.”
His throat burned. He tried to answer and couldn’t.
“I never should have asked you to come back for dinner,” she whispered. “I knew you and Arthur didn’t get along. I just… didn’t want to admit how bad it had gotten. I’m sorry I didn’t protect you better.”
The words cracked something open inside him. He slid off the couch onto his knees and wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face against her side. Shoulders shaking, he cried the way he hadn’t since he was small—ugly, helpless sobs that left him gasping. She stroked his hair, murmuring soft shushes the same way she had when nightmares woke him at five, when the world felt too large and he felt too small.
Eventually the storm passed. He stayed there on the floor, breathing in lavender and chamomile and the faint scent of her hand lotion until his chest stopped heaving. When he finally pulled away, she cupped his damp cheeks and kissed his forehead.
“I love you so much, baby. Nothing will ever change that.”
He managed a watery smile. “Just you and me next time, okay?”
“Anything for my boy.”
He left quietly, the porch light still burning behind him.
Sleep didn’t come that night. Or the nights after.
He functioned anyway—smiled at customers, flirted with the cute ones, took a few home when the ache got too sharp. Numbers swapped, bodies pressed together in the dark, quick releases that left him emptier than before. At work he could pretend. On his days off there was nothing to drown out the looping thoughts.
Except one.
When exhaustion finally tugged him toward sleep, his mind offered the same forbidden reel: Callahan shoving him against the confessional door, palm clamped over his mouth to muffle the sounds, the other hand deft and merciless between his legs. Dorian’s breath hitched as he slid his own hand beneath the waistband of his pajama pants. He pictured the priest’s calm voice gone rough with want, imagined those careful fingers teasing, denying, until Dorian was begging against the lattice screen. Slow strokes at first, the way he figured Callahan would draw it out—patient, deliberate, savoring every shudder. Faster. Harder. “Callahan,” he gasped into the pillow, hips jerking as he came with the priest’s name on his tongue.
His phone buzzed, shrill in the quiet. He fumbled for it, squinting at the screen. Elara.
“Hey!” she chirped the second he answered. “You busy today?”
He groaned. “Define busy.”
“Perfect. Want to come with me to Saint Jude’s again? There’s still stuff on the repair list.”
He dragged a hand over his face. Anything to get out of his own head. “Yeah. Give me fifteen.”
“See you!”
Cold shower. Clothes. Keys. He was out the door before the fantasies could restart.
Elara’s car idled at the curb. She glanced up from her phone as he slid in. “New shirt?”
“New to me.” He smirked. “Thrifted.”
“Oh my God, I get it, you thrift.” She rolled her eyes and pulled away from the curb.
The drive was easy—him recounting the latest drama at Nirvana’s, her updating him on nursing school. When they reached Saint Jude’s they split up inside. Dorian headed for the supply closet to grab the tool kit.
Yellow light spilled into the hallway from the open door. He slowed, curious. A black cassock, silver hair bent over a shelf—Callahan.
“Callahan?”
The priest startled, smacking his head on the shelf above. A soft curse escaped him before he could stop it. He turned, face draining of color when he saw who it was.
“Dorian.” His voice came out higher than usual; he cleared his throat. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Dorian leaned against the doorframe. “I’m here with Elara. Question is, what are you doing crawling around a supply closet this early?”
Callahan sighed, rubbing the spot he’d hit. “Trying to keep what’s left of my sanity. Got a call—two teenagers broke in last night. Nothing taken, but protocol is protocol.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
Silence settled, thick and humming. Dorian shifted, suddenly aware of how small the room was, how the faint scent of incense clung to the priest’s clothes.
Callahan broke it first. “Would I be correct in guessing you’re the one who’s been working through my repair list?”
Dorian shrugged, heat creeping up his neck. “Elara mentioned some things needed fixing. Figured I’d help.”
“It’s noticed. And appreciated. The patch in the counseling room is particularly well done.”
Dorian met his eyes. “Guess I’m good with my hands.”
Callahan’s cheeks flushed pink. He adjusted his glasses. “I’m sure.” A beat. “You came with Elara. How do you two know each other?”
“Kindergarten. She stole my crayons, decided we were soulmates. Been stuck together since.”
“That’s a long history.”
“You could say that.” Dorian laughed softly, scuffing one shoe against the other.
Callahan tilted his head. “When did you two start—”
“We’re not dating.” The words came out sharper than intended. “She’s family. Not my type.”
Callahan’s shoulders eased. “My mistake.”
“No worries, Father. Happens all the time.” Dorian let his gaze drift deliberately down the black cassock and back up. “She’s… not exactly where my interests lie.”
Callahan didn’t look away. “And where might those be?”
Dorian crossed his arms, smile slow. “I think you already know, Father. First confession ring any bells?”
Callahan’s throat worked. “Perhaps it’s time for another,” he said, voice steady except for the tiniest crack on the last word. “Confession is available Tuesdays and Fridays.”
“Assuming you’re not playing detective in supply closets?”
Callahan’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. “Usually I’m at the church by now.” He stepped past Dorian, shoulder brushing his in the narrow doorway. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Dorian turned to watch him go, eyes tracing the neat line of his back, the way the fabric pulled across his hips. A damn shame, he thought, heat pooling low in his belly. God really did give the best asses to the wrong profession.
Maybe it was time for confession after all.