There was one person who I knew would almost certainly be willing to talk to me about Poppy, and the thought of seeing him again filled me with immense distaste, but I was running out of options. The semester would start soon and I wouldn't have time to gallivant about the eastern seaboard looking for my ex...girlfriend? Ex-lover? And I couldn't imagine having this kind of idealistic, ultimately hopeless quest on my plate until Christmas.

After two hours on buses and trains in various states of over-crowdedness, I was in Manhattan's Financial District, staring up at the large steel and gla.s.s structure that belonged to the Haverford family. I wandered inside, surrounded immediately by marble and busy-looking people and an overall air of industry, and this persisted even when an elevator took me to the central office sixty floors up. No wonder Poppy chose Sterling. I'd never be able to offer her anything like this. I didn't have fleets of black cars and portfolios of investments, I didn't have a marble-floored empire. All I'd had was a collar and a home that didn't legally belong to me-and now I no longer even had those.

G.o.d, I'd been such a fool to think I could have kept Poppy Danforth for my own. This was the world she'd come from-of course this was where she would return.

The receptionist inside was a pretty blonde girl, and a.s.shole that I was, I wondered if Sterling had slept with her too, if his life was just a parade of money and infidelity, a parade without any consequences, a parade without a single concern other than how to get what he wanted.

"Um, hi," I said as I approached her desk. "I was wondering if I could see Mr. Haverford?"

She didn't even look up from her computer screen. "Do you have an appointment?"

"I'm afraid not," I said.

"No one without an appointment can get in..." her voice trailed off as she looked up at me and then her eyes widened. "Oh my G.o.d! You're the guy from the Hot Priest meme!"

Sigh. "Yeah, that's me."

She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "I follow a bunch of the Tylerette tumblrs. Is it true you went to go live in Africa? Were you hiding? Entertainment Tonight said you were hiding."

"I was on a mission trip," I said. "Digging wells." Although the lack of internet in Pokot had definitely been its own perk.

She made a high-pitched aww noise, peering up at me with her big brown eyes, suddenly looking very young. "You went to go help people? That's so sweet!"

She bit her lip and glanced around the empty waiting room. "You know, Mr. Haverford never keeps track of his own appointments. He wouldn't know if you were on the books or not." A few keystrokes. "And now you're officially on the books."

"Wow, thank you," I said, feeling grateful-that is, until she handed me a business card with a number scrawled on the back.

"That's my phone number," she said a bit coyly. "In case you ever feel like breaking your vows again."

Sigh. "Thank you," I said as politely as I could manage. There didn't seem to be much point in explaining my current non-clerical position to her, or that there was only one reason I'd ever broken my vows, and that reason was why I was here in my enemy's stronghold in the first place.

"Can we take a selfie?" And before I could answer, she was up and on the other side of her desk, standing next to me with her phone extended in front of us.

"Smile," she said, pressing herself against me, her blonde head against my shoulder, and I dutifully smiled, at the same time realizing how deep Poppy remained in my system. I had a slender blonde smashed against me, warm and willing, and all I wanted was to peel myself away. I'd rather be in the next room fighting with Sterling than enduring this girl's flirtatious advances. Sean would be ashamed of me.

"You can go in now if you'd like-he's between appointments," the receptionist said, still conspiratorially, thumbs working fast and nimble over her screen as she posted her selfie everywhere on the internet.

Sterling's office was as impressive as the rest of the building-dizzying views, a ma.s.sive desk, a low bar filled with expensive Scotch. And then Sterling himself, sitting like a king on his throne, signing reams of paper covered with dense type.

He glanced up, clearly expecting one of his employees, and then seeing me instead, his mouth fell open. I expected him to be angry or triumphant-ask me to leave, maybe-but I didn't expect him to stand up, walk over to me and then extend his hand for a shake, like we were old business partners.

I ignored the proffered hand. I may have been a priest, but even I have my limits.

However, my rudeness didn't seem to bother him in the least. "Tyler Bell-sorry, Father Bell," he exclaimed, pulling back to look me in the face. "How the f.u.c.k are you?"

I rubbed the back of my neck, uncomfortable. I'd prepared for every possible shade of Sterling's a.s.sholery on the train ride here, but not once had I considered the possibility that he could be, well, friendly. "It's actually not Father anymore. I left the clergy."

Sterling grinned. "I hope it wasn't because of those pictures. I did feel a bit bad after I released them, I'll be honest. Do you want something to drink? I've got this amazing Lagavulin 21."

Um... "Sure."

Sterling went over to the bar, and I hated to admit it to myself, but right now, now that he no longer considered me his enemy, I could see what Poppy once saw in him. There was a specific kind of charisma in his manner, coupled with the kind of sophistication that made you feel like you were sophisticated too, just by being around it.

"So I imagine you came to gloat, which I deserve, I admit. I'll be a man about it." He unstoppered the Lagavulin and poured us both a healthy gla.s.s. He walked over and handed it to me. "I'm surprised you didn't come sooner."

I literally had no idea what the h.e.l.l he was talking about. I took a sip of the Scotch to hide my confusion.

Sterling leaned against the edge of his desk, swirling the Scotch with a practiced hand. "How is she?"

Was he talking about Poppy? He couldn't be, he was with Poppy, but yet she was the only she that we both shared. "I came here to ask you the same question, actually."

Sterling raised his eyebrows. "So you two..." he used his gla.s.s to gesture at me. "...You guys aren't together?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. "I thought you were together with her."

A shot of pain-real pain, not disappointment or anger-flashed through his face. "No. We aren't...we weren't. We weren't what I thought."

I found myself-ridiculously-feeling sorry for him. And then his words began to really sink in, and a small flower of hope bloomed in my chest...

"But I saw you two kiss."

His brow crinkled. "You did? Oh, that must have been in her house."

"The day you released those pictures."

"I am sorry about that, you know."

Yeah, yeah, yeah. It wasn't water under the bridge exactly, but I was much more interested in how they'd gone from kissing in her bedroom to not being together. I should tamp down this hope now, before it truly blossomed, but I couldn't bring myself to-although if she wasn't with Sterling, then why hadn't she tried to contact me?

One question at a time, I coached myself.

Sterling must have read the meaning behind my expression, because he took a sip and then set his gla.s.s down and explained. "That day, I had finally gotten tired of waiting, so I drove up to that c.r.a.phole town-no offense-and told her I'd release those pictures if she didn't promise to be with me. She was standing by the window, and then all of a sudden she shuffled me into her bedroom and tore my jacket off. I kissed her, thinking that's what she wanted. But no. After one kiss, she shoved me away and kicked me out." The way he rubbed his jaw just then made me wonder if kicked me out had involved a punch to his jaw. I really hoped it had. "I went ahead and released the pictures because I was p.i.s.sed-understandably, I think, given the circ.u.mstances."

I sat down in the nearest chair, staring at the whisky in my hand, trying to sort out what this all meant. "You only kissed that once? She didn't leave Missouri to be with you?"

"Obviously not," he said. "I a.s.sumed she'd gone running back to you."

"No. No, she didn't."

"Oh, rough luck, old sport," he said sympathetically.

I digested this. Poppy had kissed Sterling once and then demanded that he leave. Sterling was either a terrible kisser or she didn't want to be with him at all-but if she didn't want to be with him, then why hadn't she stayed with me? And after those pictures, after I'd left the clergy, she hadn't once reached out. I'd a.s.sumed it was because she was with Sterling, but now that I knew differently, that stung a bit more. She could have at least said goodbye or sorry or something, anything.

My heart twisted some more, a tired washcloth still being wrung out. Rosary, I reminded myself. This is about returning the rosary and giving her your forgiveness. And you can't forgive her if you're bitter about what happened.

Besides, at least she wasn't with Sterling. And that was some small comfort.

"Do you know where she is now?" I asked. "I want to talk to her."

Of course he did. He went back around his desk, found his phone, and within a few seconds, I was holding a sc.r.a.p of paper with his neat block handwriting. An address.

"I stopped keeping track of her last year, but this was a property that the Danforth Foundation for the Arts purchased not long after I came back home. It's a dance studio here in New York."

I studied the address, then looked up at him. "Thank you." I meant it.

He shrugged and then drained the last of his gla.s.s. "No problem."

For some reason, I extended my hand, feeling a bit bad about ignoring his gesture earlier. He took it, and we had a brief but courteous handshake. Here was the man who'd ruined my career, who I thought had taken my Poppy away from me, but I was able to walk away without any hatred or ill will, and it wasn't just because of the $1500 Scotch.

It was because I forgave him. And because I was going to walk out of this door and find Poppy and return this rosary and finally, finally move on with my life.

The dance studio was in Queens, in a colorful but rundown neighborhood, the kind of neighborhood that seemed like it was on the cusp of gentrification, but no developers had moved in yet, only scores of artists and hipsters.

The Little Flower Studio, from what I could tell from the internet search on my phone on the subway there, was a non-profit studio dedicated to giving free dance lessons to the youth in the community, and seemed particularly aimed at young women. There was nothing about Poppy on its website, but the studio had opened only two months after she'd left Weston, and the entire project was funded by her family's foundation.

It was a tall brick building, three stories, and the front seemed very recently renovated, with tall windows looking into the main dance studio, a view of blond wood and gleaming mirrors.

Unfortunately, since it was the middle of the day, there didn't seem to be anybody at the studio itself. The lights were off and the door was locked, and no one answered the bell when I rang it. I tried the studio's phone number too, and then watched the phone on the front desk light up again and again. No one was here to answer it.

I could hang around until someone came back-someone who I hoped desperately would be Poppy-or I could go home, try again some other day. It was bakingly hot, the kind of hot where I worried my shoes might melt if I stood on the sidewalk too long, and there was no shade outside the studio. Was it really the best idea to stay here and turn into a sweaty sunstroke victim?

But the thought of leaving New York without seeing Poppy, without talking to her, was a thought I couldn't stomach for longer than a few seconds. I'd spent the last ten months in this misery. I couldn't spend another day more.

G.o.d must have heard me.

I turned back toward the subway station-I'd seen a bodega nearby, and I wanted a bottle of water-and I caught a glimpse of a spire between two rows of houses-a church. And my feet turned there without me even thinking about it; I suppose I was hoping there would be air-conditioning inside and maybe a place to pray until the dance studio reopened, but I was also wishing (hard) that I'd find something else inside.

I did.

The front doors opened into wide foyer studded with stoups full of holy water, and the doors to the sanctuary were propped open, wafting blessedly cool air into the entryway, but that's not the first thing I noticed.

The first thing I noticed was the woman near the front of the sanctuary, kneeling with her head bowed. Her dark hair was spun up in a tight bun-a dancer's bun-and her long neck and slender shoulders were exposed by the black camisole she wore. Dance clothes, I realized as I got closer, trying to be quiet, but it didn't seem to matter. She was so absorbed in her prayer that she didn't even move as I slid into the pew behind her row.

I could trace every inch of her back from memory, even after all these months. Each freckle, each line of muscle, each curve of her shoulder blade. And the shade of her hair-dark as coffee and just as rich-I'd remembered that perfectly too. And now that she was so close, all of my good intentions and pure thoughts were being subsumed by much, much darker ones. I wanted to unpin that bun and then wrap that silky hair around my hand. I wanted to pull down the front of her top and fondle her t.i.ts. I wanted to rub the softness between her legs through the fabric of her stretchy dance pants until it was soaking wet.

No, even now, I wasn't being honest with myself, because what I really wanted was so much worse. I wanted to hear the sound of my palm against her a.s.s. I wanted to make her crawl, make her beg, I wanted to sc.r.a.pe the skin of her inner thighs raw with my stubble. I wanted to make her erase every minute of pain I'd felt because of her-erase those minutes with her mouth and her fingers and her sweet, hot c.u.n.t.

I was tempted to do just that, scoop her up and throw her over my shoulder and find someplace quiet-her studio, a motel, an alley, I didn't really care-and show her exactly what ten months apart had done to me.

Just because she isn't with Sterling doesn't mean she wants to be with you, I reminded myself. You're here to give her the rosary, and that's it.

But maybe just one touch, one touch before you give the rosary and say goodbye forever...

I got down on my own kneeler and reached forward, extended one finger, and then, when I was only an inch away from her skin, I murmured my name for her. "Lamb," I said. "Little lamb."

She stiffened right as my finger grazed the creamy skin of her neck, and she turned around, her mouth parted in an unbelieving o.

"Tyler," she whispered.

"Poppy," I said.

And then her eyes filled with tears.

I should have waited to see how she felt about me, I should have asked for consent to touch her, I know all these things. But she was crying now, crying so hard, and the only place she belonged was in my arms, and so I moved to her pew and pulled her into me.

She slid her arms around my waist, burying her face in my chest, her whole body trembling.

"How did you find me?" she managed.

"Sterling."

"You talked to Sterling?" she asked, pulling away, swiping at her eyes.

I ducked down to meet her gaze. "Yes. And he told me what happened that day. The day you kissed-" and my own resolve failed here, because despite job changes and living on a different continent, seeing her now and remembering the hole carved in my chest the moment I saw her kiss Sterling was too much for me to speak out loud.

She cried harder now. "You must hate me."

"No. In fact, I came to find you to tell you that I don't."

"I thought I had to, Tyler," she mumbled, looking down at the floor.

"Had to what?"

"I thought I had to make you leave me," she whispered.

Even my pulse paused to listen. "What?"

Her eyes were raw with pain and guilt. "I knew we could make it through anything Sterling threw at us, but I couldn't handle the thought of you leaving the clergy...leaving for me." She looked at me, face pleading. "I couldn't live with myself if you had. Knowing that I had taken your vocation from you-your entire life-all because I couldn't control my feelings for you..."

"No, Poppy, it wasn't like that. I was there too, remember? I was choosing the same things you were; that mantle of guilt wasn't yours to bear alone, if at all."

She shook her head, tears still falling. "But if you'd never met me, you wouldn't have ever thought about leaving."

"If I'd never met you, I would never have really lived."

"Oh G.o.d, Tyler." She buried her face in her hands. "Knowing what you must have thought about me all these months. I hated it. I hated myself. The moment Sterling's lips touched mine, I wanted to die, because I saw you coming through the park, I knew you were there, and I knew you were hurting, but I had to. I wanted you to forget all about me and keep living your life the way G.o.d wanted you to."

"It hurt," I admitted. "It hurt a lot."

"I hated Sterling so much," she said into her hands. "I hated him as much as I loved you. I never wanted him, Tyler, I wanted you, but how could I have you without you losing everything? I told myself it was better to push you away than watch you wither."

I peeled her fingers away from her face. "Am I withered now? Because I did leave, Poppy, and not because of you and not because of the pictures Sterling released, but because I realized that G.o.d wanted me elsewhere, living a different life."

"You left?" she whispered. "I thought they made you leave when the pictures came out."

"I did. I thought...I guess I thought that you would know that."

"But the rumors...everyone said..." She took a deep breath, her eyes on me. "I just figured the pictures had ruined you. And it killed me knowing that it was partially my fault, because if it hadn't been for me, Sterling would have never have targeted you. Knowing that split my heart in two, and I couldn't take it. I had no heart left to split. I missed you so much."