Chapter 20 Dorian
“But whoso hath this world's good, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?”
- 1 John 3:17 KJV
Dorian sat in his car, engine off, fingers drumming a erratic rhythm against the steering wheel. Through the large front window of the cafe, he watched them. It was the same spot he’d met his mom for brunch last time, but the dynamic had shifted. This time, Arthur was there.
Per Dorian’s request. A request he was currently regretting.
He watched them like a silent movie. His mom was talking, gesturing with a croissant. Arthur was listening. Actually listening. There wasn’t a phone in sight, which was a massive change for Arthur. In the old days—the days of shouting matches and slammed doors—Arthur’s phone had been a third diner at every meal. A vibrating, flashing sentinel that always took priority. Sorry, gotta take this. Work. Half their family dinners had ended with an empty chair before the appetizers arrived.
But now? Arthur sat with his hands folded on the table. He nodded. He reached across and squeezed Dorian’s mom’s hand. They looked... happy. Like the faded Polaroids from before Dorian was old enough to understand why the air in the house always felt so thin.
Dorian took a breath, holding it until his lungs burned. It’ll be fine. Don’t be a brat. Just go in there, eat a pastry, and get out.
His mind drifted, seeking a safer anchor. Callahan.
The name alone sent a jolt of electricity straight to his groin. He wondered what the priest was doing right now. Probably praying. Probably feeling guilty about the way he’d looked at Dorian in the office yesterday, or the way his hand had felt wrapped around Dorian’s throat.
I should ask him for coffee.
His stomach lurched. Bad idea. Terrible idea. He probably drinks hot water with lemon or something equally tragic.
Inside the cafe, Arthur turned his head. His eyes locked onto Dorian’s car. For a fraction of a second, Arthur’s expression wavered—a crack in the facade—before he smoothed it over.
Dorian swallowed a knot of anxiety. Showtime.
He forced a smile onto his face, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes, and climbed out. The bell above the door jingled, a cheerful sound that felt mocking. His mom stood up immediately, pulling him into a hug that smelled of vanilla and expensive perfume. Arthur stayed seated. He offered a short, stiff nod.
Dorian sat. He didn’t go to the counter. The thought of food made his stomach turn over.
“Do you want anything, hon? I can go—”
“I’m good, thanks, Mom. Not hungry,” he lied. The knot in his throat was making it hard to breathe, let alone swallow. He twisted the mood ring on his finger—purple, shifting to black. “I’m, uh... glad you could make it, Arthur.”
“Of course.” Arthur’s voice was smooth, practiced. “I can see why you both like this place. The pastries look excellent.” He glanced at Dorian’s mom, checking for approval, then back to Dorian. “If I remember correctly, you like to bake, right? Have you tried recreating any of these?”
The question was innocent. It was an olive branch.
It felt like a slap.
“And I remember how much you used to make fun of me for it,” Dorian mumbled. He stared at his hands, watching his thumb trace the silver band of his ring.
Silence dropped over the table, heavy and suffocating.
His mom sighed. “Dorian—”
“No, it’s okay,” Arthur interrupted. He patted her hand, playing the peacemaker. “He’s right. I did. And I’m sorry, Dorian. I should have never done that to you.”
The apology sat between them, wet and useless. Bitter, acidic anger flooded Dorian’s mouth. It wasn’t just about the baking. It was about the years of dismissal, the way Arthur had looked at him like he was a broken appliance that couldn’t be fixed.
“You say that like it fixes everything,” Dorian said. His voice was quiet, but it carried an edge that could cut glass.
Fuck.
“Can we not do this right now?” Exhaustion bled into his mom’s tone.
“And just pretend that he’s magically changed?” Dorian snapped, his head jerking up.
His mom flinched.
The sight of it—her small recoil—doused Dorian’s anger in a bucket of ice water. Regret followed instantly, sharp and sickening.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, reaching for her free hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—fuck, Mom, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”
“I know,” she said. Her smile was weak, trembling at the edges. She looked from Dorian to Arthur, her eyes sad. “That’s something you two share. That nasty temper.”
Dread shot down Dorian’s spine.
He looked at Arthur. Really looked at him. The set of his jaw, the tightness around his eyes. For a terrifying second, Dorian didn’t see his father. He saw an older version of himself. A man alone, clinging to the wreckage of a marriage he’d destroyed, holding onto the jagged pieces of relationships he’d shattered because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
Is that it? Dorian thought, panic rising in his chest. Is that my future? Just a cycle of exploding and apologizing until there’s no one left to apologize to?
He pressed his lips together, physically sealing the anger inside. He looked at Arthur.
“What I meant to say,” Dorian said, his voice steady but hollow, “was thank you. For apologizing.”
Arthur nodded slowly. “I understand. It’ll take us both time to move forward.”
“But at least this is a start.” His mom squeezed his fingers. “Right, hon?”
“Yeah.” Dorian gave a tight smile. He felt like he was acting in a play he hadn’t rehearsed. “It’s a start.”
Saint Jude’s was the perfect antidote to brunch. It smelled of dirt, exhaust, and stale garbage, and it demanded sweat, not conversation.
The volunteer coordinator had pointed Dorian toward the fenced yard behind the shelter with a vague wave and a plea to "make it less of a hazard." Dorian had attacked the weeds with a vengeance. He pulled thistles and crabgrass until his knuckles ached and his fingernails were packed with black soil. It was therapeutic. Destruction with a purpose.
An hour in, a few teenagers drifted out the back door. The shelter kids. They eyed him with suspicion at first—another do-gooder tourist—but the tension broke when they realized he wasn’t going to lecture them about their language or their posture.
By the second hour, Dorian was leaning on a rake, sweat dripping down his back, listening to a debate about the economics of high school drug dealing.
“Oh, come on, you can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it once,” Lincoln said, rolling his eyes. He was eighteen, lanky, with a chip on his shoulder the size of a Buick. “Everyone at school does it.”
“Look, dude.” Dorian yanked a stubborn dandelion from the dry earth, shaking the dirt off the roots. “All I’m saying is that selling Xanax at school is the fastest way to get expelled. You want to design cars, right?”
Lincoln scowled, kicking at a tuft of grass. “Yeah.”
“Okay. To design cars, you need a degree. To get a degree, you need a diploma or a GED. You get caught dealing, you go to juvie. Again.” Dorian stood up, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist. “That pushes the GED back. Which pushes college back. Which pushes the cars back. Do the math.”
Lincoln huffed, snatching the weed from Dorian’s hand and tossing it onto the pile. “But what if—”
“Dude,” Carter interrupted. He was sixteen and looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. He slapped Lincoln’s shoulder. “Shut up. Dorian has a point. Do you really want to go back to juvie?”
Lincoln chewed his lip. “I guess not.”
“Good. Glad that’s settled.” Dorian glanced around the small group. There were about ten of them now, perched on the rusted playground equipment or leaning against the brick wall. “Are we done for the day? My back is killing me.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the group.
One of the younger kids jogged inside and came back with a flat of warm water bottles. They passed them around. Dorian cracked one open and downed half of it in a single gulp. He looked at them—misfits, outcasts, kids stuck in the awkward purgatory between childhood and adulthood with no safety net. He saw a piece of himself in every single one of them. The anger, the confusion, the feeling of being a puzzle piece that didn't fit the box.
“Wow.”
The voice was low, familiar, and did something complicated to Dorian’s heart rate.
He turned. Callahan was standing at the back door of the shelter. He was wearing his clerical collar, black shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, looking ridiculously composed amidst the grime.
“I haven’t seen the yard look this good in months.” Callahan’s gaze slid from the pile of weeds to Dorian. His eyes lingered on Dorian’s sweat-damp shirt, the tattoos on his arms, the dirt smudged on his cheek. “Did you do this?”
Dorian felt his face heat up, and for once, he couldn't blame the sun. “With some help. I wouldn’t have gotten half of it done without them.” He gestured to the group with his water bottle.
Callahan smiled. It wasn’t his polite, priest smile. It was genuine. It reached his eyes, crinkling the corners behind his glasses.
Dorian’s gut twisted. He was used to seeing Callahan stressed, guilty, or stern. Seeing him happy? And knowing he was the cause? It was a dangerous drug.
“It’s a good thing I made a trip to the grocery store,” Callahan said, addressing the group. “There’s ice cream and popsicles in the kitchen if any of you would like to—”
He didn’t finish the sentence. The teenagers scrambled, a chaotic wave of limbs and laughter pushing toward the door. Within seconds, the yard was empty, save for the two of them.
“Good trick,” Dorian said. He leaned back against the decrepit metal slide, crossing his ankles. “But if you wanted to talk privately, you could’ve just said so.”
Callahan raised an eyebrow, stepping off the concrete pad onto the grass. “Oh, I thought you would be joining them. Since you’re rather close in age.”
Dorian’s jaw dropped, then snapped shut as a laugh escaped him. “Alright. Father’s got jokes today.” He tucked his hands into his pockets, cocking a hip. “Was there something you actually wanted, though?”
Callahan stopped a few feet away. The air between them shifted, thickening with the unspoken things they’d agreed to keep hidden.
“I wanted to thank you,” Callahan said softly. He nodded toward the massive pile of weeds in the corner. “For doing this. And for making those kids smile. I haven’t seen them that happy in... a while.”
He took his glasses off, pulling a small microfiber cloth from his pocket to wipe them. Without the frames, his face looked younger, more vulnerable. “I think the volunteers often forget how to connect with them. They don’t come from the same background. And I rarely have the time to just sit with them.” He slid the glasses back on, the barrier returning. “So, thank you. If you ever have the free time, will you come back? Do whatever it is you did today?”
“Yeah,” Dorian said. His voice was lower now, stripped of the sarcasm. “Absolutely. Schedule varies, but I’ll be here.”
“I’m sure they’ll appreciate it regardless. They can be a handful.”
“I can handle a handful. If it gets too wild, I’ll call in backup.” Dorian pushed off the slide. He picked up his empty water bottle. “Well. I am in desperate need of a shower, so I will see you around, Father.”
He started to walk past Callahan toward the door. He kept his eyes forward, adhering to the rules. Polite. Distant.
Callahan’s hand shot out.
Fingers wrapped around Dorian’s wrist—hard. The grip stopped him mid-step, jerking him to a halt. The contact seared through Dorian’s skin, hot and possessive, completely at odds with the public setting.
Dorian froze, his breath catching. He looked down at the hand on his wrist, then up at Callahan’s face.
“Are you coming Tuesday?” Callahan asked. His voice was rougher than it had been a moment ago.
Dorian’s pulse hammered against Callahan’s thumb. He forced a smirk, leaning in just an inch. “Sorry. Can’t. I’m covering for Bianca.” He paused, letting his eyes drop to Callahan’s mouth, then back up. “But you know how to reach me if you’re that desperate to see me.”
Callahan released him instantly, as if burned. A flush crept up his neck, staining his cheeks pink. He averted his eyes, adjusting his cuffs unnecessarily.
“I will see you on Sunday then,” Callahan murmured.
Dorian hid his disappointment—and his thrill—behind a gentle smile.
“Of course.”