Coming from me? Well, that says a lot, doesn’t it?
What would you expect from a kid when the doctors prescribe him medications and they refuse to give them to him, though?
Though the tut is silent, I move on, greeting worshippers whose faces I’ve come to know, whose names trip off my tongue like they’re old friends, and when I’ve walked to the last pew, my intent to grab Lara’s driver who never comes in, just hovers outside, I see her.
Sitting in the back corner.
She didn’t come for communion, because she wasn’t there, waiting to accept the sacrament.
I’m not sure when she arrived.
The church is small in size, but the back end of the nave is pretty dark, and the altar is bright thanks to its south-facing position.
If I’m in a pool of light, I can’t see the back of the church without difficulty.
So, she’d either watched the service, or she sneaked in.
And yes, I use that word on purpose.
Sneaked.
She doesn’t belong here.
Every instinct in my body screams at me that she doesn’t. Even as I recognize her.
How couldn’t I?
She’s the woman.
Andrea Jura.
What’s she doing in my church?
I thought she was still ill. Had thought she was being treated—apparently not.
Here she is.
In. My. Church.
And she’s watching me.
Looking at me with those eyes that had struck my soul over a year ago through a TV screen.
I freeze as her gaze drifts over me.
I want to ignore her, want to completely cut her off, but somehow, I can’t.
I just can’t.
And it’s weird. So strange. I’ve never felt that before, had never thought I would.
I’ve sinned many times in my life, but since I’d taken the vows that turned me from a simple man into a priest, I’d never looked at women.
It’s one vow I haven’t broken.
One that actually means something to me.
Sure, I know that might come across as ridiculous. How could I have killed in the past? How could I handle sinners and punish them with ease when that broke the most cardinal rule of all—thou shalt not kill—but I never thought about sex?
Well, I know why.
Two years in a rebel camp has turned me off of anything sex related.
Two years of being forced to listen to women being raped has done that to me.
Even if I have any urges—and all priests have them, but it’s our duty to fight them—they’d long since been buried in my past.
Yet, Andrea Jura?
I feel something.
I’m not sure what either.
Arousal? Lust?
Hatred?
Fear?
Repugnance?
She doesn’t look like she did back on the TV. Her hair is short, and considering she had brain surgery, I guess that fits. And while her hair is still that beautiful shade of sandy blonde, it’s somehow darker thanks to the short cut.
A part of me wants to scrub my hand over her head, to feel the curls against my palm, but another part of me wants to avoid her like she has the plague.
“Father?”
I jerk in surprise at the soft voice, and twist to see Junia Lorenzo staring up at me with concern.
I’m always kind to her because she has an asshole for a husband. He’s someone I’m watching.
Someone I’m keeping my eye on.
He’s dancing on the knife’s edge and he doesn’t even know it.
Neither does she.
Her eyes are soft, limpid, as she stares at me in concern. She’s a gentle woman, too good for that bastard of a spouse, so I reach over and pat her shoulder. “All is well, my child.”
I move on, lest I cause any more curiosity, and even though I want to watch Andrea, to see if she’s watching me, I continue, not stopping until I’m at the doorway.
The intense cold from inside the church is brisk, bracing. Outside, though, it’s still technically winter, but the sun has been hot, so I know Lara’s driver must be melting in his formal suit and cap.
The second he sees me, he dips his chin, his eyes darting over the small crowd as he makes his way inside and aims his way toward his mistress.
Standing at the door, I wait on the attendees to leave, giving them my thanks for their presence and wishing them well until the next time I see them.
Six stay behind for confession.
My gaze darts over the pews, spotting those who are waiting, and while Junia is one of those who left, her husband remains.
I sigh inwardly, because I hate my time with him.
And she’s still there.
Sitting relatively close to the confessional too.
But she’s American, and they never speak other languages, do they?
The booth is far away enough for me to have no fears over privacy, but I’m curious as to why she’s here.
What she’s doing in my church.
As far as I can tell, she seems to be doing nothing.
Just sitting.
Her eyes are almost closed, and if I’m not mistaken, I’d actually say she’s napping.
Is that because of her illness?
For a second, I actually wonder if I should go over and help her, but I’m hesitant to do so.
If anything, I’m wary of it. Wary of her.
I don’t want to approach her.
I really, truly don’t.
And I know that’s the exact opposite of being Christian, but getting close to her?
It’s just not something I can do.
So, I turn my head away from her, refuse to look at her, and almost like a child, pretend she isn’t there.
Something about her...
Lord help me, it’s magnetic.
I can feel her as I pass her, even though I do my best to ignore her—and trust me, I’ve become pretty adept at ignoring things, people, as well as situations that make me uncomfortable.
But Andrea Jura?
She’s impossible to erase.
I hide in the confessional—I admit it.
I find comfort within the booth that’s as much of a prison to me as the cage back in Oran, its shadows providing a sense of security as I go about my chore for the afternoon.
It’s here where I find the sinners, and it’s here where I loathe the calling I’ve taken.
I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I must.
If they prey on an innocent, I can no longer sit idly by and wait for them to escalate.
I made a vow to myself when Dirk Benson was discovered—not by his wife, but by a customer—and I’d taken that as a sign. A sign that I’d done right. But when the news had fallen of his passing, I promised myself that I’d let no innocents be harmed in my flock, or any other.
Not if I could change the present.
Not if I could do something about it.
I’d sat back and watched Dirk progress over the months. I’d been instrumental in the murder he committed.
I’d accept no more blood on my soul. Not unless I’m the one shedding it.
A tap sounds at the door, and I tense up, expecting to hear her voice after I mutter, “Enter.”
“Thank you, Father.”
The voice is sweet. Young. Innocent.
Well, his parents would disagree, but I don’t.
My lips curve of their own volition as I greet Carlo and start the confession.
“I didn’t mean to.”
His morose reply has me grinning, and I take a second, close my eyes, and force my voice to behave—even if I find his antics hilarious, his parents definitely don’t. “Let me decide if what you did is a sin.”