Teach Me(3)

Looks like I’ve lost my tolerance.

I set my remaining punch on the ledge beside my seat and lean my head back against the headrest with a groan. The wooden walls around me seem to close in, hug me close, comforting in their familiarity. I sat inside confessionals just like this as a kid, back when Mom and Dad still made us go to Sunday mass. Someone should’ve warned them that convincing me and Tara to be good Christian girls would never work.

But I always did like this part. Closing myself into a secret dark place, unburdening my secrets to someone who actually cared to listen.

I breathe out a sigh. I need to distract myself, so I start talking. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It’s probably been . . . I don’t know, ten years since my last confession.”

I’m speaking to myself, of course. So when a sigh answers me from the neighboring confessional, I nearly fall off the pew.

“You’ve got me beat by five,” says a deep, masculine voice.

My face flames red-hot. Good thing it’s dark in here. “Oh god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know anyone else was in here. I’ll go, I’m sorry,” I babble at the wooden separator.

He laughs softly. “Relax. I don’t own the place.”

Now that my heart isn’t pounding from surprise, it starts to pound all over again for a different reason. Dear lord, that accent. He sounds nothing like the Cockney boys down in London, or even the guys leading my orientation group, with their posh upper-class enunciation. His voice is more natural, smooth on the ears.

I can’t place it, and I’m good at accents. It makes me want to stay and tease it out of him.

“I’m not sure if I should be relieved or disappointed,” I reply, smiling even though I know he can’t see me in the shadows of the booth. “This lovely abode isn’t yours?” I glance through a crack in the booth door. On the worn and torn sofa, which sits directly opposite me, a girl in a schoolgirl miniskirt undoes the stark white collar of a guy in full priest garb. Okay, it’s cheesy, but I’ve got to hand it to them, now that my initial shock and embarrassment has started to wane—the party guests really went all-out with their outfits.

“Alas, no.” He still sounds like he’s laughing. “This, ah . . . abode belongs to a pair of my very good friends. Who decided it would be hilarious to lure me over with the promise of, and I quote, a ‘quiet start of term dinner.’ ”

I snort. “Oh, so you were an unwitting participant as well? I wish I’d known the dress code was going to be so . . . specific.”

“Let me guess: a friend of yours played dupe the unwitting American?”

So he’s listening to my accent too. For some reason that makes my breath hitch, even as the rest of me flares at the accusation. “I am not unwitting.”

“Shh, I’m still guessing. You’re studying abroad, your friends texted you an invite to a fancy dress bash or something similarly obscure, and then they all pulled innocent faces when you arrived. Happens every semester. Just be glad they didn’t invite you to a formal dinner and tell you it was tarts and vicars party—I’ve seen that happen too.”

Something about his easy manner, the fact that he’s so sure he’s right (never mind that he is) makes me want to prove him wrong. What’s the harm? I’ll never see him again.

“Actually,” I say, enunciating the word so sharply I almost sound British myself. “I live in London. I’m just up for the weekend to visit a friend who works here. She sent me the wrong address.”

There’s a pause from the adjoining booth. “So you decided to stick around this party solo? You’re braver than I’d be.” He sounds impressed, which makes me bolder.

“There were free drinks. Why not?” Never mind that I apparently couldn’t even handle 1.5 of those drinks. If I’m making up a whole new persona, I might as well run with it. I lower my voice, inject a little sultry sting. “Besides, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a chance to flirt with a vicar.”

I expect him to laugh again. I’m starting to like his laugh, a sharp, surprised exhale of air like he’s not used to the sound, but he enjoys it when it bursts free.

Instead of that laugh, I hear a rustle from the adjoining booth. When he speaks again, he’s closer and quieter. His shadow leans right up against the wooden curlicue divider. “Is that so, my child?” His tone has turned playful, but there’s something else under it. Something that sounds an awful lot like desire. “It has, I admit, been a very long time since I’ve been flirted with.”