After connecting my phone to the charger, I power it on. Several messages pop up on the screen, but none are from Grace. Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I open one of Ivan’s texts.
Ivan: Dude, call me.
Ivan: Haven’t heard from you. I’m needy. Call me.
A reluctant chuckle leaves my lips and I shake my head, then type, ‘Haha. What else is new?’ I send it, then start typing again.
Me: Things went to shit last night. Will call you later.
I hit send, then power off the phone and toss it on my desk. I go about my usual routine: shower, join my fellow seminarians for morning prayer at the chapel, then head to the dining hall for breakfast. I stare down at the toast, scrambled eggs and bacon on my plate and my stomach revolts, already rejecting the food.
“Hey,” a familiar voice greets, causing me to jump. I glance up and see Gerry carrying with a food tray. He sets it on the table and pulls out the chair across from me to sit down. He studies me with a frown, then asks, “Breakfast that bad?”
Averting my gaze, I lift the coffee to my lips and take a sip.
“Want to talk about it?” His voice is low, only meant for my ears.
My head swings up, and our gazes lock. Why is he here? And why is he suddenly interested in my business? “Look, I don’t know you and you don’t know me. Why are you here?”
Picking up the fork on his tray, he scoops eggs into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. Calmly. He swallows, then says, “You don’t have to talk about it. Just thought I’d offer. Look, I know we tend to keep to ourselves, but from what I’ve seen, you seem like a nice guy. It’s hard to know who you can talk to because you’re afraid of being judged. We’re aspiring to be priests, after all. I’m speaking for myself when I say I don’t want anyone to think I’m having a crisis of faith.”
This catches my attention. “Are you?”
“Am I what?”
I look around to make sure no one is listening before asking, “Having a crisis of faith?”
“Well, aren’t you?” He puts down his fork, then picks up his coffee and takes a sip. “It takes one to know one.”
I glance at my watch for the time. It’s almost eight o’clock. I need to see my spiritual director before classes start. I’m nervous, and my stomach feels like it’s about to bottom out from under me. Talking to him might help ease my nerves. I mean, what’s the harm, right? It’s not like not telling him is going to change my circumstances.
I down my coffee before facing Gerry. “Want to walk with me? We can talk on my way to Father McLean’s office.”
His brows shoot up. “Must be serious.”
“You have no idea,” I murmur, pushing my chair back and rising to my feet.
He gulps down his coffee and joins me.
“So what’s your crisis?” I ask as we exit the dining hall.
“I don’t think I’m supposed to be here. I don’t feel the ‘calling’,” he says.
This time it’s my turn to be surprised. “How did you end up in the seminary?”
“Peer pressure. It sounds bad, doesn’t it?” I’m not in a position to judge, so I don’t say anything. He clears his throat and asks, “Your turn.”
Dragging my fingers through my hair, I try to think of an appropriate answer. But there’s none. It is what it is. So I say, “I, um, I’m in love with someone.”
From the corner of my eye, I see him studying me, probably wondering if I’m serious. “You’re serious.” I nod. He whistles low. “Okay, wow. How? When?”
I sigh and give him a short version of my story, skipping the parts where Grace and I had sex.
By the time I’m done, we’re standing in front of Father McLean’s office. He mutters, “Do you regret being with her?”
After spending the night tossing and turning in bed, asking myself the same question over and over, the answer is a no-brainer. “No, I don’t.”
“What are you gonna do?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.” And that’s the God’s honest truth. I’m at a crossroads and my heart is torn in two. Don’t even get me started on how much I loathe myself for what I did.
He slaps my back, and says, “Talk later when you’re done here?”
“Sure. Yeah.” He turns and strides back the way we came, and I turn to face Mrs. Laurent, Father McLean’s secretary. I wipe my damp palms down my pants. Talking to Gerry helped clear my head, but it didn’t ease the dread I’m feeling.
After exchanging morning greetings with Mrs. Laurent, she heads inside Father McLean’s office to inform him I’m here, waiting to see him. She returns and tells me he’ll be with me shortly, then gestures to a set of chairs across from his office for me to sit and wait. Since seminarians are encouraged to talk to their spiritual directors anytime, she doesn’t ask me why I need to see him.
Seconds turn to minutes. My eyes are glued to the brass nameplate with the words ‘Father Terry McLean, Spiritual Director’ on it when I hear Mrs. Laurent call my name. I glance up, meeting her concerned eyes studying me closely. “You don’t look so well. Can I get you anything to drink?”
I shake my head quickly and mutter, “I’m good, thank you.” The mere thought of food or drink causes my stomach to roil.
The door opens and Father McLean appears, blue eyes peering out from behind glasses, his features as kind as always. Moments later, I’m seated in the chair across from him in his office.
Bracing his elbows on the desk, he leans forward, his fingers steepled together and meets my gaze. “What can I do for you, Solomon?”
The patience and trust in his eyes causes sweat to break out on my forehead, because I’m about to break that trust.
I open my mouth to speak but my tongue sticks on the roof of my mouth.
He frowns, studying me closely. “Whatever it is, we can handle it together.”
I really doubt it.
I swallow around the tightness in my throat and say, “It’s about, um, Grace.”
His eyes widen slightly with recognition. “Go on.”
Where do I start? The memory of Grace’s tear-filled face flashes inside my head and my stomach hurts like a wrecking ball just hit me.
I clear my throat and ball my hands into fists to stop them from shaking. “She and I . . . Grace and I have been seeing each other for the last few months.”
He frowns. “Seeing each other? You mean as old friends?”
“As in, um, having a relationship.”
He sits back in his chair, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, before putting them back on. His features tighten as he locks his eyes with mine. “Exactly how long have you two been seeing each other?”
“Since Thanksgiving.”
“We’ve met every month since Thanksgiving. . .,” He trails off and shakes his head. “I had the impression you’d finally gotten ahold of your attraction for this girl,” he says, his voice rumbling with dismay.
I flinch at his words and bow my head. “I did, Father.” The weight of my actions, of breaking the trust of one of the people I respect the most causes my chest to constrict. My throat and eyes burn with tears, and I take a deep breath. “I’m so sorry for lying to you and for breaking the rules and my vow. And most of all, for destroying your faith in me.”