Chapter 16 Dorian
“And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you.”
— Ephesians 4:32 KJV
Tuesday looped in his head like a track skipping on a scratched vinyl. No matter how loud the bass thumped at Nirvana’s, no matter how many bodies pressed against the bar clamoring for vodka sodas and cheap drafts, nothing drowned out the memory of Callahan’s voice.
We should keep some… distance.
Dorian slipped into his work armor—the charm, the teeth, the practiced tilt of his head. He flirted with reckless, self-destructive abandon. He let nameless customers undress him with their eyes, leaned into touches that were a little too rough, a little too presumptuous. He served drinks and collected tips and smiled until his face ached, but none of it touched the twisting, thorny knot in his gut. The remorse had its claws hooked deep in his chest, dragging him down every time the adrenaline faded.
To make it worse, his mom wouldn’t let up. After dodging her for weeks, he’d run out of excuses.
The cafe was a small, family-owned spot she’d discovered before she was even pregnant with him. Walking in felt like stepping into a time capsule. The smell of roasted beans and old wood brought back memories of coloring books and crayons at the corner table, back before Sunday mornings turned into hard wooden pews and forced silence. Before he learned the definition of damnation. Before Arthur started looking at him like he was a cockroach in the kitchen.
He spotted her in the back corner.
“Hey, Mom.”
“There you are.” She stood immediately, pulling him into a hug so tight it made his ribs ache. Or maybe that was just his heart. “I’ve missed you.”
“Missed you too.” It wasn’t a lie. He hated the wall he’d built, but he hadn’t been ready to talk about Arthur. He still wasn’t. He pulled back, checking her face for new lines. “How’re you?”
“I’m okay, hon.” She sat, wrapping her hands around a ceramic mug without lifting it. “Things are still rocky at home. But I think Arthur and I are… we’re on the path to getting better.” She offered a sad, thin smile. “It’s been difficult. To say the least. But we’re both trying to move forward.”
Dorian slumped into his chair, the plastic digging into his spine. Guilt, familiar and heavy, settled on his shoulders. “I probably didn’t help any when I came over.”
“Don’t think for a second that any of this is your fault,” she said, her voice sharpening with that specific maternal instinct that brooked no argument. Then she softened. “You were a child, hon. And I was… I was young. And blind to a lot of things. But I promise you, I won’t be blind to those things anymore. That’s why it’s difficult. Not because of you.”
Heat crept up Dorian’s neck. A thick lump formed in his throat, making it hard to swallow. “I was such a pain in the ass growing up, though. Always in some type of trouble—”
“Because that’s what kids do,” she cut in. “Kids are meant to make a mess of things. Just because you were a little rougher around the edges doesn’t mean you were bad.” She reached across the scratched table. Dorian let her take his hand, squeezing back. “You were going through stuff we didn’t know about. Or didn’t understand. But…” She tightened her grip, anchoring him. “I see you now.”
Dorian turned his head toward the window, blinking rapidly against the sting in his eyes. He hated this. Hated how easily he cracked.
“I thought moms weren’t supposed to make you cry unless you were in trouble,” he choked out, the joke flimsy and wet.
“You used to cry a lot when you were little, too.” She rubbed her thumb over his knuckles, a soothing, repetitive motion. “Glad to know some things haven’t changed about my baby.”
He let out a short, watery laugh and shook his head. Of course she’d bring that up. He’d always been a crier, wearing his heart on his sleeve until the world taught him to hide it. He took a shaky breath, wiping his face, and looked back at her. He had to ask.
“So, you’re not mad about the Arthur situation?”
“No. I understand why things are the way they are between you two.” She looked him dead in the eye. “It’s not my place to judge you or push you to have a relationship with him. Not unless it’s something you want. Just know… you’ll always have me on your side.”
He swiped the back of his hand across his eyes, clearing the blur. “You have no idea how much I needed to hear that.”
“I’ll always be there for you, baby. No matter what.” She nodded toward the counter, shifting gears with practiced ease. “Now, go get us something to eat. And get yourself a drink so we can do a proper catch-up.”
Dorian smiled, grateful for the task. He needed a minute to compose himself anyway.
He walked to the counter, the familiar cafe noise washing over him. He ordered a lemon croissant for her—her favorite—and scanned the glass case.
“And a chocolate tart with caramel drizzle,” he told the barista. “And a medium iced hazelnut coffee.”
He waited by the pickup counter, watching the barista foam milk. His mind wandered, unbidden, to the man currently trying to push him away. He wondered if Callahan liked sweets. He could picture it—the stern, rigid priest sitting in that dim office, breaking apart a flaky pastry, maybe getting a smudge of chocolate on his lip.
The urge to buy one for him, to show up at the rectory with a coffee and a peace offering, hit Dorian so hard he nearly tripped over his own feet as he turned from the counter.
His cheeks burned hot. His heart hammered a frantic, terrified rhythm against his ribs. It wasn't just lust. It wasn't just the thrill of the forbidden or the game of cat and mouse. He wanted to share a mundane Tuesday morning coffee with him.
Oh, Dorian thought, gripping the cardboard cup carrier until his knuckles turned white. I am so fucked.