Sasha flushed, and Patrick pointed at her. “See? You’re blushing because I brought up that you did something wonderful, and you can’t take it in.”
She didn’t deny it because it was the truth. Somehow, he’d said in fifteen minutes what it had taken years of therapy for her to admit out loud.
“You have me pegged, I guess.” Sasha felt vulnerable and exposed, and it made her want to strike back at Patrick. “But I still don’t understand why you’d become a priest.”
“You’re thinking about the sex thing, aren’t you?”
“Another way in which you have me pegged.”
“I’m going to need you to stop saying ‘pegged.’ ” Her eyes got wide when she got the double entendre. And her eyes got even bigger when he said, “It’s not usually hard.”
“I’m going to need you to stop saying ‘hard.’ ”
Patrick laughed and held up his empty glass. “Another?”
That was a terrible idea. “Only if you tell me the whole story.”
“Not tonight.”
Fair enough. Someone who didn’t get the option of unburdening himself very often probably wouldn’t want to rip off the bandage all at once. And they’d devolved into middle school teasing. Probably not condoned for priests.
“Thanks for the drink.” She stood up and smoothed her skirt.
He got up from his chair and rounded the table so that he was far too close to her. “I’m glad to know you, Sasha Finerghty.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SASHA HAD NO IDEA how she got home, but somehow she got out of a Lyft in front of her condo building with her purse and not looking like she’d almost jumped a priest in his own rectory with the likely salacious addition of a nun being able to hear.
Although she’d always been more of a cultural Catholic, there had to be some higher power that had allowed her not to fall on Patrick’s baloney rocket like her mother after coming back from juice fasting in the desert on anything with simple carbs.
She was so off-balance after the intimacy of her—encounter—with Patrick that she didn’t notice the light coming through where her door was open or the fact that her doorknob was hanging out of place on one side until she was on the top step.
She didn’t often miss the actual presence of a husband or significant man in her life, other than when she had to snake a pipe—and now when her apartment was potentially mid–break in was the only other time.
She should have gone outside and called the police. But she was exhausted and horny and confused. Instead of doing the smart thing, she opened the door as quietly as she could and grabbed a long umbrella from the container next to the door. She choked up on it like a bat.
The light and noise were coming from the kitchen, so Sasha walked that way after she slipped out of her shoes. Only when she saw who was rifling through her cupboards did she relax and put the umbrella down.
“What are you doing here?”
Her sister Madison turned around and shrieked, dropping a bag of quinoa that spilled all over the floor. “You scared me.”
“So I see.” Sasha looked at the thousands of pieces of pseudo-grain that her mother had purchased the last time that she was in town. “What are you doing here?”
Her sister composed herself and put the greatly diminished bag on the counter. “Why don’t you have any snacks without gluten?”
“I don’t have a gluten allergy.” Seeing that—as per usual—her sister wasn’t going to offer to clean up after herself, Sasha went to the closet where she kept the vacuum.
“Everyone has a gluten allerg—” It was a lot more satisfying than it should have been to turn on the vacuum and drown her sister out. It also gave her a few seconds to come to grips with the fact that she wasn’t going to be able to retire to the bathtub to rub thoughts of Patrick Dooley right out of her clitoris and to prepare for the onslaught of drama.
If Sasha’s great sin was that she always wanted what she couldn’t have, her sister’s was that she always got what she wanted and was never happy when she got it.
By the time that Sasha had triaged the floor/quinoa situation, she was ready to listen and nod and fix whatever was fucked up in her sister’s perfect life without rolling her eyes or complaining—within view or earshot of her sister.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m leaving Tucker.”
They hadn’t been married that long—two years—and this was the third or fourth time that her sister had made the declaration. It was, however, the first time that she had made it all the way to Chicago, so Sasha couldn’t discount the fact that this time might be for real.
She’d never liked her brother-in-law that much, but she hadn’t disliked him. It seemed almost unfair to dislike someone that dull. Their mother had been delighted when Madison had “snagged such a catch” (eye roll), and Madison had seemed as happy as she ever was—about two steps above miserable—at the time. So Sasha had kept her mouth shut until their mother had started hinting at the eligibility of Tucker’s younger brother. Then she’d sort of noped out in the most gracious way possible.
“What happened?” Sasha had some ideas. The first time she’d left him, he’d suggested that they go birdwatching on their six-month anniversary. The second time she’d walked out, he hadn’t told her that he was bringing his boss home for dinner. Sasha had never seen such fifties-housewife bullshit, but it was none of her business. Honestly, Sasha would have slipped the boss a hundred if she was married to Tucker—less time listening to him prattle on about painting miniatures.
Then again, Sasha would have burned all of Tucker’s pleated-front pants before the wedding and then denied all knowledge or culpability. But her sister had more fortitude than that. She’d married for security, and she was at peace with that. Or so Sasha had thought.
“Did Tucker give all of your money to a fin domme?”
“What’s a fin domme?”
Sasha shouldn’t have brought it up. This was going to be worse than the time she’d had to explain pegging to her sister to talk her out of leaving Tucker after Madison had found a strap-on in his drawer. And she definitely wasn’t going to think about pegging when she could still hear Patrick saying the word with a wry smile in his voice.
“That doesn’t matter. Did he lose all his money?”
“Of course not.” Her sister turned and started rifling through the liquor cabinet. Much more likely to find something gluten-free in there. When she found a bottle of red and two glasses, she turned back to Sasha.