If only. It might have helped.
“No. I’m the only one with a calling.”
“What about your parents?”
“My mother is…still shocked I became a priest.”
“And your father?”
“He’s not devout.”
“No?”
“He has no fear of Hell.”
I thought I hid the dark spite in my words, but Honor flinched nevertheless.
Since when was I such a terrible priest? An angel like her had nothing to fear.
Except me, apparently.
The silence ached through me. I hated this.
“I don’t often talk about myself,” I said.
“Maybe you should.” She leaned against the pew. Her arms crossed again, but not to hide. She turned…almost playful. “It might alleviate some of your mystery.”
“I’m no mystery, Honor.”
“Are you so sure?”
“I am a priest. That is who I am.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
She didn’t look away. “Why are you a priest?”
“I ask myself that question every day.”
She didn’t understand. I arched an eyebrow.
“I wouldn’t be a good priest if I didn’t meditate, pray, and reconfirm my faith every day.”
“Have you ever…”
“Regretted it?” I answered for her. No need for hesitations, not when I knew why she asked. “No.”
“Not even once, not even for a moment?”
Was it another temptation? Or was it honesty? In her, I was served a vision of sensuality and wicked ambitions. I’d overcome those desires in the past. What made her so different?
I’d never regretted becoming a priest. The clergy, my vocation, my faith was the barrier I had and the only protection I possessed that granted me the strength to overcome my own monstrous self.
But footsteps echoed from the hall—high heels clacking along the linoleum.
I stood, heart racing. I jerked away from the pew in a sudden movement.
There was my regret.
I knew I wasn’t supposed to be here. When I’d stepped into the adoration chapel, I feared we’d repeat the same sins.
But that was the wrong fear. I should have worried for my own guilt.
We flinched away and tensed—as if whoever walked the halls might have peeked inside and witnessed our sins. Honor leapt up, stubbing her toe on the pew. A small penance to pay for the guilt which raced in my heart.
Except I hadn’t surrendered to any desire. I didn’t touch her, hadn’t indulged in what wasn’t mine. My vow remained unbroken, and Honor’s lips untasted.
We had done nothing wrong.
But for how long?
The footsteps hurried across the hall and into the sanctuary. The wooden door banged closed.
Honor spoke first. She clutched her phone and braced as if to run. “I have to go.”
“Honor.”
“No,” she said. “Don’t. Don’t say anything. Please. Can we just forget what happened that night?”
How could a simple comfort become such a dangerous lie?
“No.” I hated to hurt her. “We need to remember what happened.”
She lowered her eyes. “So it doesn’t happen again?”
Yes. And no. That memory was a moment of joy and sin, utter infatuation and great weakness. “We need to confront this. Hiding from that night will damn us. It’d be too easy for that desire to take hold in our minds. We can’t let it steal our thoughts, invade our dreams…fuel our fantasies.”
Honor bit her lip. “I’m trying not to think like that, Father.”
“As am I.”
“Is it working?”
No. “You did not take the Eucharist during the evening Mass.”
She shook her head. “It didn’t feel right.”
“It would have been.”
“How can you forgive this?”
“Why would you punish yourself? Everyone…everyone has desire, Honor.”
“It was more than desire.”
“Lust then. Attraction. That…” The hardness returned, persistent and demanding and almost painful in its beauty. “Need.”
Her body trembled with mine.
One touch, and I’d be scarred with sin.
One precious moment, and I’d rend through her soul.
One forbidden night…and we’d be lost in each other, damned for eternity but blessed for this lifetime.
“How are we supposed to protect ourselves, Father?” Honor’s voice haunted like a hymn and scourged like a flogger. “I have to go. That’s the only way.”
“No.”
“No?”
Selfish, terrible desire. It addled my brain, blurred my thoughts, and hardened every irresponsible part of me.
“I want you to stay,” I said. “I want you to become more involved with the church.”