“Don’t call him that,” I defend. “He just left a message wishing me a happy birthday. He’s kept his distance as promised, okay?”
“You’re still defending him even after he broke your heart.”
“Yes, MJ. I am.” I bite my lip to keep my usually nonexistent temper in check. “I’m the one who broke up with him, remember? I knew what he and I were doing was wrong. We’re both at fault.”
Remorse fills her features. “I’m sorry. I know you loved him—”
“Love him,” I correct in a loud voice. “I can’t unlove him. Just because we’re not together anymore doesn’t mean what I feel will automatically go away.” I close my eyes and inhale deeply, then exhale. “I’m sorry I shouted at you. But I need you to understand that whatever you say about him hurts me too.”
“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I’ve been a bitch about it, haven’t I?”
“Just a little.” I smile, relieved when she returns it. I stand and wrap my arms around her in a hug. “I’d probably be the same if I were in your shoes, though. That’s what best friends are for, right?”
She pulls back, nodding. “And as your best friend, I declare it’s time to party. Maybe find someone to flirt with . . .”
I grab my purse and jacket from my bed and face her. “You have a boyfriend.”
“I won’t be doing the flirting. You will.” She winks.
I laugh while slipping on my jacket and sing, “It’s my party, and I’ll flirt if I want to, flirt if I want to . . .”
We leave the hotel room five minutes later. Though my heart aches from missing Sol, my mood soars as his voice replays in my head.
April
My phone pings with an alert. I grab it from the nightstand and scroll through my notifications, zeroing in on one that has my heart picking a fast beat.
My finger lingers on the screen for a few seconds, but then against my better judgment, I tap it quickly and hold my breath.
Grace and MJ are front and center as they smile wide into the camera. It’s been a while since Grace posted anything on her profile page, so I relish the new photos tagged in Prague. My gaze studies Grace, and my breath leaves my lungs. My eyes can’t take her in fast enough; splashes of blue in her curly hair, her beautiful, big brown eyes, and that gap between her two upper teeth.
God, I miss her.
In the solace of my room, I allow myself to just look at her for a few minutes, scrolling up and down, enlarging the photos to look closer and memorizing every little thing about her. I still can’t decide if calling her to wish her a happy birthday was a good idea. All I know is that my phone pinged with a reminder that I set back in the summer and I missed her. I wanted to hear her voice. Before I knew what I was doing, my fingers were scrolling my contacts and within seconds, the call went to voicemail.
Probably not one of my best decisions, but what else is new. When it comes to Grace, all common sense flies out the window.
Finally, I’ve had my fill, and I’m about to close the window when I notice a YouTube link on the post. Curious, I click on it. The video opens in a new window, showing Grace and MJ sightseeing. She looks so happy, such a contrast from when I last saw her.
I tap the name “Gracie” below the video, and it opens to her channel. Two more videos load, and watching them makes me miss her even more. I save them into a private folder to watch later, then close the window.
After leaving the seminary, I’d spent a few weeks at the house in Boston before driving back to Portland. I’d had enough time to think, and my first priority was to make amends. The first person on my long list was Grace. My intention had been to beg her to meet me, but that plan was quickly shot down.
I’ve avoided going to church and avoided Seth. How do I face him after knowing I let him down? He looked up to me, and I let him down. After what happened to his brother back in Baltimore, seeing me is the last thing he needs.
Rolling onto my back on the bed, I cover my eyes with my arm, blocking the glaring light from the ceiling fan. My nose flares in irritation as the now familiar stench of body odor slaps my face.
I need to get up and take a shower and grab something to eat, but I have zero motivation. I feel so empty, the hollowness in my chest swallowing me whole.
Who am I? What’s my purpose in this life?
These questions haunt me every single second of the day. I have no answers. How did I get—
“Do I have to drag you to the bathroom?” My uncle’s voice slices through my thoughts.
I peek through my arm and see him glowering in the doorway. The past few weeks have been hard on him, too.
Guilt burns my chest. I did this to him.
He sighs and rubs the nape of his neck with his hand and says, “In case you’re interested, Mass starts soon.”
The thought of standing in front of God with all my sins weighing down on my shoulders terrifies me. Every Thursday I go for confession, hoping this heaviness will fade. Hoping, after doing my penance, God will have mercy on me and point me in the right direction.
But it never works. I nod, sitting up on the bed. “Luke—”
He waves a hand in the air, interrupting me. “If you apologize one more time, I’m going to kick your ass.”
I chuckle and swing my legs from the bed, dragging my fingers through my unkempt hair.
“Sol?”
I drop my hands to my thighs and look up at him.
“It’s not the end of the world, you know. You’ll figure this out. You always do.”
I don’t tell him that this is different than any situation I’ve been in before. In the past, when I’ve had to figure things out, I knew what my end game was.
He shoots me a stern look. “Shower. Now.”
I drag my body off the bed and stand. “Yes, sir.”
I take a shower and get dressed. Fifteen minutes later, I leave the rectory. Snow crunches under my boots as I make my way to St. Peter’s with my shoulders hunched forward to ward off the chilly breeze.
My steps falter as one thought punches me in my gut. From the second I stepped foot in Portland, I’ve been avoiding Grace’s mother when, in fact, she should have been the first person I talked to.
No amount of confession or penance would purify my soul. Unless I seek forgiveness for the collateral damage I caused, I have zero chance of forgiving myself and moving on. Last night, Luke told me word had gotten around at church about everything that went down at the seminary. The thought of facing the congregation, people who’d trusted me to guide their children and be a good example in the youth group, makes me cringe.
Switching directions, I hurry back to my truck. Within minutes, I’m pulling out of the parking spot and driving to the diner.
The tiny bell above the door jingles, announcing my entry. I cringe as the sound ricochets inside the room, reverberating above the diner’s usual hubbub. Debra’s head swings in my direction, and her hand freezes mid-wipe on the counter. Her fingers fist around the cloth as her eyes narrow into slits and her lips form a flat line.
She’s pissed. Not that I blame her.
For just a second, the thought of turning around and fleeing the building flashes through my mind.
My fingers curl into fists, and I force my racing heart to slow down by taking deep breaths. I’m not a coward. Plus, it’s not like I can avoid this forever.