Chapter 29 Callahan
“As in water face answereth to face, so the heart of man to man.”
— Proverbs 27:19 KJV
Callahan pushed himself up from the cold stone floor, knees popping like dry kindling. The ache settled deep, a dull reminder that he was no longer young enough to kneel for an hour without paying for it. He gripped the edge of the nearest pew, steadying himself while he studied the small blackened patch on the nave carpet. Most of the wax had come out, scraped away with careful patience, but the singe remained—a dark scar no amount of scrubbing could erase.
Two small boys had sent the candle rack crashing down while chasing each other between the aisles. He had caught it before the flames spread, thank God, and somehow kept his voice gentle when he asked them to stop. The mother had been mortified; Rier had smoothed it all over with practiced calm. Still, the irritation lingered like smoke in fabric. Damned kids. He rubbed his knee, wincing. Forgive me, Lord. I am tired.
“Were you able to get it all?” Rier’s voice drifted down the center aisle.
Callahan straightened as best he could and walked to meet him. “Most of it. We’ll need someone to patch the carpet.”
Rier sighed through his nose. “I’ll speak to the bishop.”
Callahan nodded, then covered a yawn with the back of his hand. “Pardon me. Rough night.”
Rier’s gaze sharpened. “You look it. Are you sleeping at all?”
“I’m managing.” Callahan removed his glasses, breathed on the lenses, polished them with the edge of his sleeve. “The usual worries.”
“Perhaps you should step back from Saint Jude’s for a while,” Rier said. “Remember where your true duty lies.” His eyes narrowed. “The church should be your only focus. Unless something—or someone—has begun to matter more.”
The words landed like a slap. Cold dread crawled up Callahan’s spine. His mouth went dry. He drew himself taller, shoulders back. “If you have an accusation, brother, make it plainly. I’m too old for riddles.”
“I’m accusing nothing,” Rier answered smoothly. “But if I were, I’d say you’ve let that heathen Koller boy lead you off the path.”
Callahan’s vision tunneled. Heat flooded his face, then drained away just as fast. “To suggest I’m entangled in scandal is beneath you,” he said, voice low and hard. “I have spent years atoning for the man I was. Only God may judge me.”
Wrath coiled hot in his belly. He turned sharply and drove his shoulder into Rier’s as he passed. The contact jarred them both. Rier’s stare burned between Callahan’s shoulder blades, but Callahan kept walking, head high, pulse roaring in his ears.
“You cannot run from it, Callahan!” Rier called after him. “God sees everything. He always brings sin to light.”
The heavy door thudded shut behind him, but the words clung, echoing.
Outside, the evening air felt thin. Callahan strode across the gravel toward his car, breath coming short. He had been careful—God, he had been so careful. No daylight meetings. Texts hidden. Calls whispered after midnight. He had treated Dorian like contraband because that was what he was: forbidden, intoxicating, ruinous.
He slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. “Shit,” he whispered. “Shit.”
Hands shaking, he pulled out his phone and dialed the only number that mattered. It rang twice and went to voicemail. His stomach dropped. He was about to throw the phone aside when it buzzed.
“Hey,” Dorian said, voice low with worry. “You okay?”
“I think—” Callahan swallowed. “I think Rier knows something.”
A soft curse on the other end. Then muffled commotion—Bianca’s voice, teasing, demanding. Dorian hissed something away from the receiver. “Sorry. I’m at work. You can come here and wait till I’m off, or go to my place. Emergency key’s under the ugly gnome by the door. I’ll text you.”
The thought of stepping inside Dorian’s apartment alone—of breathing his air, touching his things—sent a helpless flutter through Callahan’s chest. “I’ll come to Nirvana’s,” he said. “Might help settle me.”
“See you soon.” Dorian’s relief was plain even through the crackle of the line. Then a sharp “Bianca, fuck off—” before it cut out.
Callahan exhaled slowly. He looked at the dashboard, at the little plastic Virgin Mary dangling from the rearview mirror. Her painted smile never changed.
He was tired of the weight. Tired of measuring every heartbeat against vows he’d once believed unbreakable.
Slowly, deliberately, he reached up and unfastened the stiff white collar insert. The fabric resisted, then gave. He held it in his fist a moment, feeling the creases bite into his palm. Pulse loud in his ears. Chest tight with shame. Then he opened his hand and laid the collar on the dashboard like an offering—or a surrender.
Forgive me, he thought, staring at Mary’s serene face. But I choose myself.
He tucked the rosary beneath his shirt, stepped out, and walked toward the neon glow of Nirvana’s.
Inside, the bar hummed with Friday-night life. Country music twanged beneath the clack of pool balls and easy laughter. Grease and beer and warm bodies. Callahan slipped through the crowd, shoulders hunched, eyes scanning for familiar parish faces. None tonight, thank God.
He found his usual spot at the far end of the bar, half hidden in shadow. From there he could watch Dorian move—fluid, confident, turning the simple act of pouring drinks into something almost graceful. Bianca danced around him, trading jabs and glasses with practiced rhythm. Callahan’s chest loosened a fraction just looking at him.
Dorian’s gaze swept the room and landed on Callahan instantly. A quick, private smile flashed across his face, eyes bright. A subtle tilt of his head directed Callahan to stay put.
“Hey.” Dorian appeared in front of him minutes later, wiping his hands on a towel. “Jumpier than usual.”
“You shouldn’t sneak up on the elderly,” Callahan muttered. “My heart might quit.”
Dorian snorted. “Sorry.” Concern lingered behind the humor. “You holding up?”
Callahan folded his arms on the scarred wood. “Well enough.” He managed half a smile. “And I’m not that old.”
Dorian leaned back against the inside of the bar, polishing a glass with slow circles. He glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. “Tell that to the silver at your temples.”
A dark warmth stirred low in Callahan’s gut. “Someone’s bold tonight.”
Dorian turned fully, grin sharp. “You said you needed distraction.” He reached across the counter as if to wipe a nonexistent spill beside Callahan’s elbow, voice dropping. “And you’ve never been able to resist a brat.”
Callahan watched those long fingers drum once against the wood. “Do you keep toys at home?”
Dorian went very still. “Might. Why?”
Callahan shrugged, face carefully neutral. “Curiosity.” He met Dorian’s eyes over the rims of his glasses. “Now be a good boy and tend your customers.”
Dorian’s lips parted, but a shout from down the bar summoned him. He pointed a finger at Callahan. “This isn’t over.”
Callahan exhaled as Dorian moved away, tension easing into something warmer, anticipatory.
He didn’t notice the stool beside him being taken until a throat cleared.
“You and Dorian seem close,” Maverick said quietly, eyes on the bottles lining the back wall.
Ice flooded Callahan’s veins. “I’ve been mentoring him.”
Maverick gave a soft chuckle. “With respect, Father, I know flirting when I see it.”
Callahan’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. “I—you’re mistaken—”
“Look.” Maverick turned his head, expression kind but serious. “What you two do off the clock is your business. You’re adults. Just… be careful.” He paused. “You’re a good man, Callahan. I’d hate to see you hurt.”
The sincerity undid him more than any accusation could have. “Thank you,” he said, voice rough. “That means a great deal.”
Maverick clapped his shoulder once, firm and brief. “Us old dogs gotta watch each other’s backs.” Then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.
Callahan sat a moment, steadying his breathing. When he looked up again, Dorian was leaning across the bar toward a customer—a young man with dark hair and an easy grin. Dorian laughed at something the man said, head tilted, hand resting light on the polished wood between them. The smile he gave was bright, flirtatious, utterly natural.
Callahan’s stomach twisted, slow and cold.