It all made sense, and it made her mad—at herself, the world, the Church, Patrick for being so enticing. It even made her angry at Nathan for being too perfect. Maybe if he had a hint of bad boy, she would want to touch his bathing suit parts.
“What do I do?”
Pam shrugged like she always did when Sasha asked her that question. After the tenth time she’d asked, the confounding woman had stopped saying, That’s not what therapy is for.
Sasha wished it was more like a rule book. Even if her unruly desires were running rampant, Sasha could follow rules. She understood rules. Dark lines between good and bad and right and wrong. She wished there was a list of steps she could take to root out the things her body wanted and put her brain back in charge. Or a list of ten easy ways to forget how it felt to have Patrick’s body pressing hers to the ground. Maybe a handy guide to aphrodisiacs to get her motor running for a guy who wore pleated-front pants.
She giggled, forgetting where she was a for a second because dealing with her therapist looking at her and waiting for her to have a breakthrough was a little bit too much for her.
“What’s funny?”
“I wish I could just be fixed, you know? Like, I wish I could wake up one day soon and just love the right people.”
“You love some of the right people.”
That was true. She loved Hannah and Kelly and Bridget and their other friends. She loved her family as long as they kept their distance. “I wish I could fall in love with the right man.”
“There’s no right or wrong with who you love, just what you do with it.”
“I can’t do anything with the feelings I have for Patrick.” She wouldn’t call those feelings love; that would make them too urgent. “And I can gin up feelings for Nathan.”
“Are you going to see him again?”
It was pointless, and yet . . .
“Of course I am.”
“Are you going to talk to the actual object of your affections about how you feel about him?”
Also pointless, and yet . . .
“Of course I’m not.”
CHAPTER NINE
ST. BARTHOLOMEW’S WAS AN old church in an old building. It was the kind of place people imagined when they thought about a Catholic Church if they hadn’t been inside a sanctuary for several decades.
Although the sacraments that took place inside the church had modernized, all of the original architecture—that had survived the fire—was intact. The confessionals were only there in the name of architectural preservation. But if someone wanted to confess one-on-one, Patrick usually sat next to them in a pew.
The confessionals, akin to wooden, stand-up coffins, were a great place to hide, though. Today, Patrick was hiding in the confessional, reading a book of poetry by Seamus Heaney, which he hoped would inform his homily this Sunday, because Mrs. O’Toole, the president of the parish council, was on the hunt for him.
She’d been the sole dissenter at this month’s meeting, where they discussed the plan to save the pre-K program. She represented the contingent of the congregation that didn’t like change and wasn’t particularly welcoming to outsiders. She grew up in a period during which the Church didn’t have to try to get butts into pews on Sunday.
Mrs. O’Toole had decided that the parishioners should provide the baked goods for the bake sale. To prove her point, she’d been bringing over baked goods every day. Patrick had as much of a sweet tooth as the next guy, but there was a limit. And his limit was a loaf of lemon bread and a dozen rhubarb muffins the day after she’d brought over mini blueberry loaves.
If he ate any more sugar, he’d go into a flat-out food coma.
He wasn’t expecting Sasha to be the person who found him.
“What are you doing in here?” She looked so pretty and fresh in jeans and a sweater. Her eyes were shiny and her pink lipstick made her teeth look impossibly white. Although the gloomy dregs of winter were holding spring off for the moment, she was like fresh air.
“Did anyone see you come in?”
She glanced around behind her, smirking when she looked back at him. “No. Why do you ask?”
He inclined his head toward the other side of the confessional. “Get in.” He wouldn’t be able to see her, but they could talk, and she wouldn’t blow his cover.
Sasha followed his instructions, which he liked even though he shouldn’t. He didn’t have a whole lot to say for a long beat. Maybe a joke? “Anything you want to confess?”
She laughed. “I thought we established the fact that I don’t believe in God the other night.”
That had been such a dumb thing to ask. “Sorry about that.”
“Oh, it’s totally fine.” He heard her clothes rustling as she shifted her body. The shadow at the other side of the screen seemed like it was closer to him, and he could smell her shampoo. Being this close to her was more intimate than he would otherwise be allowed to be, and it was a terrible idea. “Why did you ask?”
He wasn’t going to tell her the real reason—that he felt guilty about his prurient interest in her, and he would feel better about it if she wasn’t one of the faithful. “I was . . . curious. We’ve known each other for a while, but we don’t really know each other that well.”
“Hmmm.”
“What are you doing here today?” That sounded less welcoming than he wanted it to sound. Not that he welcomed her surprise visit more than any other surprise visit. He didn’t like her or anything. “I mean, is there something you need from me?”
“You sound like you’re afraid that I need something.”
Patrick scrubbed a hand over his face. He was tired. It wasn’t just the work; it was the work that went into making the work look easy. “A lot of people need a lot of things, but I can always make time for a friend.”
“Even if I’m a heathen nonbeliever?” Somehow, her teasing him made him feel better. It filled him with energy.
“You were still baptized, right? So, you’re still Catholic.” He might sound like he was trying to be helpful, but he was so selfish. He wanted to see inside her head and know what made her tick. And he couldn’t let himself think about the reasons why.
“But I’m not a good Catholic.” Was she trying to kill him? Saying that she wasn’t a good Catholic to him was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Because, thing was, Patrick adored sinners. He loved how interesting they were, and how they tested his faith.
“What do you mean by that?” She paused and he caught the glimmer of movement through the screen, as though she was brushing her hair behind her ear. He didn’t like that he made her nervous. “You went to Catholic schools long enough to know that you’re not a bad person. You’re a child of God.”