"She was looking at the renovation spreadsheets. She's got a background in finance and an MBA from Dartmouth." I didn't mention that she also had a background in seducing wealthy men by dancing on a platform. Or that her c.u.n.t tasted sweeter than heaven.

"Maybe she and I will have to get together for coffee sometime," Millie said. "Since you can barely add two communion wafers together. Unless, of course," she said, watching my face, "you'd rather keep the meetings just between the two of you."

"Rem acu tetigisti," I said, sliding my eyes away from hers. You've hit the nail on the head.

"I'm going to a.s.sume that means, 'You're right, Millie, I am deplorable at math.'"

It didn't.

"I've always said that you were too young and too handsome to lock your life away. 'Trouble will come of it,' I said. 'Mark my words.' And n.o.body marked my words."

I didn't answer. I was staring at our interlocked hands again, thinking of the silence in the sanctuary after I'd come all over my stomach, the feeling of Poppy's wet heat pressing down on me. I'd taken two showers, scrubbing myself to the point of pain, but nothing could erase the feeling of her skin on mine. The feeling of warmth splattering on my stomach as she watched with hungry, feral eyes.

"My dear boy, you do realize this is perfectly natural. What was the homily you preached your first month here? That part of healing would be celebrating normal, consensual, G.o.dly s.e.x?"

I had preached that. Setting aside the fact that I had enjoyed my share of consensual s.e.x in college (consensual, but not always normal, mind you), I had a firm theological belief in the importance of human s.e.xuality. Almost every variation of Christianity had been in the business of suppressing s.e.x and its enjoyment, but suppressed desires didn't just disappear. They festered. They created guilt and shame and, in the worst cases, deviancy. We weren't ashamed to enjoy food and alcohol in moderation-why were we so afraid of s.e.x?

But obviously, I had meant this message for my congregation, not for me.

"What was it you quoted?" Millie asked. "Mere Christianity? 'The sins of the flesh are bad, but they are the least bad of all sins...that is a why a cold, self-righteous prig, who goes regularly to church, may be far nearer to h.e.l.l than a prost.i.tute.'"

"Yes, but Lewis ends that paragraph with: 'Of course, it's better to be neither.'"

"You are neither. Did you really think that by wearing a collar every day you would stop being a man?"

"No," I said, agitated. "But I thought I would be able to control my desires with prayer and self-discipline. It's my vocation. I chose this life, Millie. And am I going to abandon it at the first temptation?"

"n.o.body said anything about abandoning. I'm simply saying, my dear boy, that you could choose not flagellate yourself over this. I've lived a long time, and a man and a woman wanting each other is by far one of the least sinful things I've seen."

I'd set out the Bible study curriculum for the men's group at the beginning of the year, so it was nothing more than awful coincidence that tonight was the beginning of our discussion on male s.e.xuality. Despite Millie's practical advice, I spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening cultivating a very robust form of self-loathing, doing push-ups in my bas.e.m.e.nt gym until I couldn't breathe or move or think, until it was time to come to the little faux-wood-paneled cla.s.sroom on the far side of the church.

I knew Millie had been trying to make me feel better, but I didn't deserve to feel better. She didn't know how far I'd already gone, how much of my vow I'd already broken. Probably because she would never a.s.sume her priest would be so weak as to actually act on his desires.

I rubbed my face vigorously. Wake the f.u.c.k up, Tyler, and figure this out. It had only been a couple weeks, and I'd completely failed at keeping my s.h.i.t together. What would I do for the next two months? The next two years? She was here to stay and so was I, and there was no way I could let what happened this afternoon happen again. I mean, if Millie seeing us together once (innocently and in public) had given her ideas, then what would happen if we started actually sneaking around?

I lifted my head and greeted the men as they drifted in. Of all the groups and activities, I was the most proud of this group. Typically, women were the driving force behind church attendance; most men only came to Ma.s.s because their wives wanted them to. And especially after my predecessor's crimes, I knew that the men in particular-many of whom had sons who were the same age as the victim-would harbor a deep anger and a mistrust that would not be overcome by typical methods.

So I hung out at the local bars and watched Royals games. I enjoyed the occasional cigar at the town tobacco shop. I bought a truck. I organized a hunting club at the church. And all the while, I continued to be open about my own family's past and all the ways that the church needed to-and would-change.

And gradually this group coalesced, growing from two old men who'd been going to church so long that they'd forgotten how to stop, to a group of forty, ranging from recent graduates to the recently retired. In fact, we'd grown so big that next month we were starting a new group.

But what if I had just undone three years of hard work? Three years of toil thrown away for half an hour with Poppy?

If I seemed distracted, n.o.body noticed or commented on it, and I managed to not choke on my own words as we read through pa.s.sages in 2 Timothy and Song of Songs. At least, I managed not to choke until we reached one verse in Romans, and then I felt my throat close and my fingers shake as I read.

"I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do, I do not do, but what I hate I do...for I have the desire to do what is right, but I cannot carry it out. What a wretched man I am."

What a wretched man I am.

What a wretched man I am.

I had come to a town cracked wide open by the vile actions of a predator and I had vowed to fix it. Why? Because when I looked up at the stars at night, I could feel G.o.d looking back down. Because I felt the wind as His breath on my neck. Because I had bought my faith with a great deal of struggle and pain, but I knew that my faith was also what gave my life shape and purpose, and I didn't want the Church's failures to deprive an entire town of that gift.

And then what had I done today? I had betrayed all of that. Betrayed all of them.

But that's not what made my hands shake and my throat tighten. No, it was the realization that I had betrayed G.o.d, perhaps more than I'd betrayed the people in this room.

My G.o.d, my savior. The recipient of my vehement hatred after Lizzy's death and also the presence that had patiently awaited my return a few years later. The voice in my dreams that had comforted me, enlightened me, guided me. The voice that had told me what I needed to do with my life, where I needed to go to find peace.

And the worst thing was that I knew He wasn't angry with me. He'd forgiven me before it had even happened, and I didn't deserve it. I deserved to be punished, a hail of fire from above, bitter waters, an IRS audit, something, anything dammit, because I was a miserable, loathsome, l.u.s.tful man who'd taken advantage of an emotionally vulnerable woman.

What a wretched man I am.

We wrapped up Bible study, and I cleaned up the coffee and chips robotically, my mind still dazed by this newest wave of shame. This feeling of being too small, too awful, for anything less than h.e.l.l.

I could hardly bear walking past the crucifix on my way back to the rectory.

I slept perhaps three hours total that night. I stayed up late reading the Bible, perusing every pa.s.sage about sin that I knew of until my tired eyes refused to focus on the words any longer, sliding over them like two magnets with the same charge. Finally, I crawled into my bed with my rosary, mumbling prayers until I drifted off into a restless sleep.

A strange kind of numbness settled over me as I said Ma.s.s that morning, as I laced up my running shoes afterwards. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, maybe it was emotional exhaustion, maybe it was simply the shock of yesterday carrying over into today. But I didn't want numb-I wanted peace. I wanted strength.

Taking the country road out of town to avoid Poppy, I ran farther than I normally did, pushing myself harder and faster, moving until my legs cramped and my breath screamed in and out of my chest. And instead of going straight to my shower, I staggered inside of the church, my hands laced above my head, my ribs slicing themselves apart with pain. It was dark and empty inside the church, and I didn't know what I was doing there instead of my rectory, didn't know until I stumbled into the sanctuary and collapsed onto my knees in front of the tabernacle.

My head was hanging, my chin touching my chest, sweat everywhere, but I didn't care, couldn't care, and I couldn't pinpoint the moment my ragged breathing turned into crying, but it was not long after I went to my knees, and the tears mingled with the sweat until I wasn't sure which was which.

The sunlight poured through the thick stained gla.s.s, jewel bright patterns spilling and tumbling over the pews and my body and the tabernacle, and the gold doors glinted in darker shades, somber and sacred, forbidding and holy.

I leaned forward until my head pressed against the floor, until I could feel my eyelashes blinking against the worn, industrial carpet. Saint Paul says we don't have to put words to our prayers, that the Holy Spirit will interpret for us, but interpreting wasn't needed this time, not when I was whispering sorry sorry sorry like a chant, like mantra, like a hymn without music.

I knew the moment I was no longer alone. My naked back p.r.i.c.kled with awareness and I sat up, flushed with embarra.s.sment that a parishioner or a staff member had seen me crying like this, but there was no one there. The sanctuary was empty.

But still I felt the presence of someone else like a weight, like static along my skin, and I peered into every dim corner, certain I'd see someone standing there.

The air conditioning powered on with thump and a whoosh, the change in air pressure slamming the doors to the sanctuary closed. I jumped.

It's just the air conditioning, I told myself.

But when I looked back up at the tabernacle, golden and stained with color, I suddenly wasn't so sure. There was something antic.i.p.atory and sentient about the silence and emptiness. It suddenly felt as if G.o.d were listening very intently to what I was saying, listening and waiting, and I lowered my eyes back to the floor.

"I'm sorry," I whispered one last time, the word hanging in the air like a star hangs in the sky-glimmering, precious, illuminating. And then it winked out of existence, at the same moment I felt my burden of sorrow and shame wink out of existence.

There was a beat of perfect completeness, a moment where I felt as if I could pluck each and every atom out of the air, where magic and G.o.d and something sweetly beyond complete understanding was real, completely real.

And then it was all gone, all of it, replaced by a deep feeling of peace.

I exhaled at the same time the building seemed to exhale, the p.r.i.c.kling on my skin disappearing, the air vacant once again. I knew a thousand explanations for what I had just felt, but I also knew that I really believed only one.

Moses got a burning bush, and I get the air conditioning, I thought ruefully as I got to my feet, rising as slowly and unsteadily as a small child. But I wasn't complaining. I had been forgiven, renewed, released from guilt. Like Saint Peter, I'd been tested and found wanting and forgiven anyway.

I could do this. There was life after f.u.c.king up, after all, even for those who lived without f.u.c.king.

The next two days pa.s.sed without event. I spent Thursday lounging on my couch while watching The Walking Dead episodes on Netflix and eating Cup of Noodles that I'd made by using hot water from my Keurig.

Sophisticated, I know.

And then Friday. I got up and prepared myself for the morning Ma.s.s as I always did, a few minutes late, reminding myself for the thousandth time to rearrange the sacristy, and then readied myself to walk into the sanctuary. Weekdays Ma.s.ses are short-no music, no second reading, no homily-sort of a like drive-thru Eucharist for the extremely faithful. Like Rowan and the two grandmothers and- Jesus help me.

Poppy Danforth.

She was sitting in the second row, in a demure dress of ice blue silk with a Peter Pan collar and flats, her hair in a loose bun. She looked prim, composed, modest...except for that f.u.c.king lipstick, fire engine red and begging to be smeared. I looked away as soon as I saw her, trying to recapture that holy sense of peace I'd been given on Tuesday, that sense that I could master any temptation as long as I had G.o.d on my side.

She needed something from this place, from me, something way more important than what we had done on Monday. I needed to honor my office and give it to her. I focused on the Ma.s.s, on the words and on the prayers, pleased to see Poppy doing her best to follow along, praying especially for her as I performed the ancient rites.

Please help her find guidance and peace.

Please help her heal from her past.

And please please please help us behave.

When it was time for Eucharist, she lined up behind the grandmas and Rowan, looking a little uncertain.

"What do I do?" she whispered when she got to the front of the line.

"Cross your hands over your chest," I whispered back.

She did, her eyes still on mine, her long fingers resting on her shoulders. She cast her eyes back down, looking so lovely and yet so frail, and I wanted to hug her. Not even s.e.xually, just a regular hug. I wanted to wrap my arms around her and feel her breathe into my chest, and I wanted to tuck her face into my neck as I kept her safe and protected from her past, from her ambiguous future. I wanted to tell her and have her know-really know-that it would be all right, because there was love and because someone like her was meant to be out in the world sharing that love, like she had done in Haiti. All that joy she had felt there-she could feel it anywhere, if only she'd open herself to it.

I placed my hand on her head, about to murmur a standard blessing, and then her eyes lifted to mine and everything shifted. The floor and the ceiling and the cincture tight around my waist to encourage pure thoughts and her hair feather-soft under my fingertips and my skin on her skin. Electricity skimmed down my spine, and every sense memory of her-her taste and her feel and her sounds-shocked through me.

Her mouth parted. She felt it too.

I could barely get the blessing out, my throat was so dry. And when she turned to walk back to her pew, she also looked stunned, as if she'd been blinded.

After Ma.s.s, I practically bolted back to the sacristy, not looking at anyone or anything as I did. I took my time removing my vestments, hanging the way-too-expensive embroidered chasuble on its hanger and folding my alb into a precise, neat square. My hands were shaking. My thoughts were incomplete fragments. Things had been so good this week. And things were going so well during the Ma.s.s, even with her all adorable and devout and so f.u.c.king close, and then I touched her...

I stood for a minute in my slacks and shirt and stared at the processional cross, (feeling a bit betrayed, if I was being honest.) If I was forgiven, why hadn't G.o.d also removed this temptation from me? Or given me more strength to bear it? To resist it? I knew it wasn't fair to hope that Poppy would move away or become a Baptist or something, but why couldn't G.o.d eliminate my attraction to her? Deaden my senses to the way she'd felt under my blessing...deaden my eyes to those red lips and bright hazel eyes?

Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me. Even Jesus had said those words. Not that they had worked out so well for him...why was G.o.d so willing to leave bad cups all over the place?

I left the sacristy in a strange mood, trying to summon that ethereal, distinctly nonphysical tranquility I'd felt earlier, and then I turned the corner and saw Poppy standing in the center aisle, the sole parishioner remaining.

I honestly didn't know what to do. We were urged to flee temptation, but what if my job was helping the temptress? Was it more wrong to sneak away, to leave her without help, and avoid the l.u.s.t and desire? Because of course, the l.u.s.t was my own problem, not hers, and no excuse to be cold to her.

But if I did go to her, what else was I risking?

More importantly, was I risking it because I wanted to risk it? Was I only telling myself I cared about her spiritual development, so that I could be near her?

No, I decided. That for sure wasn't true. It was just that the actual truth was so much worse. I cared about her as a person, as a soul, and I wanted to f.u.c.k her, and that was the recipe for something much worse than carnal sin.

It was a recipe for falling in love.

I would go to her. But I would put her in contact with the leader of the women's group, direct Poppy to seek guidance from her instead of me, and hopefully the occasional Ma.s.s would be the extent of our interactions.

Poppy stared at the altar as I approached.

"Aren't there bones inside there?"

"We prefer the term relic." My voice had that unintentionally deep timbre again. I cleared my throat.

"Seems a little macabre."

I gestured towards the crucifix, which depicted Jesus at his most b.l.o.o.d.y, broken, and tortured. "Catholicism is a macabre religion."

Poppy turned toward me, face thoughtful. "I think that's what I like about it. It's gritty. It's real. It doesn't gloss over pain or sorrow or guilt-it highlights them. Where I grew up, you never dealt with anything. You took pills, drank, repressed it all until you were an expensive sh.e.l.l. I like this way better. I like confronting things."

"It's an active religion," I agreed. "It's a religion of doing-rituals, prayers, motions."

"And that's what you like about it."

"That it's active? Yes. But I like the rituals themselves too." I looked around the sanctuary. "I like the incense and the wine and the chants. It feels ancient and holy. And there's something about the rituals that brings me back to G.o.d every time, no matter how foul my mood is, no matter how badly I've sinned. Once I start, it all sort of fades away, like it's not important. Which it isn't. Because while Catholicism can be macabre, it's also a religion of joy and connection, of remembering that sorrow and sin can't hold on to us any longer."

She shifted, her flat b.u.mping against my shoe. "Connection," she said. "Right."

In fact, I was feeling connection right now. I liked talking religion with her; I liked that she got it, got it in a way that a lot of lifetime churchgoers didn't. I wanted to talk to her all day, listen to her all day, have her breathy words whisper me to sleep at night...

Noooooo, Tyler. Bad.

I cleared my throat. "What can I help you with, Poppy?"

She held up the church newsletter. "I saw that there was a pancake breakfast tomorrow and I wanted to help."

"Of course." The breakfast was one of the first things I'd started doing after coming to St. Margaret's, and the response had been overwhelming. There was enough rural poverty and poverty in nearby Platte City and Leavenworth to guarantee a steady need for the service, but there were never enough volunteers and we were slammed the two times a month we hosted it. "That would be so much appreciated."

"Good." She smiled, the hint of a dimple appearing in her cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow then."

I prayed extra last night. I woke up at dawn and went on an even longer run than the ones I'd been taking, crashing into my kitchen sweaty and exhausted, causing a ca.s.serole-unloading Millie to tsk at me.

"Are you training for a marathon?" she asked. "If so, it doesn't look like you're doing a very good job."

I was too out of breath to even sputter a protest at that. I grabbed a bottle of water and drank the entire thing in several long gulps. Then I stretched out facedown on the cold tile floor in an attempt to lower my core temperature.

"You do realize it's dangerous to run in the heat, even in the morning. You should get a treadmill."

"Mmphm," I said into the floor.

"Well, regardless, you need to shower before the breakfast. I ran into that delightful new girl last night in town, and she said she was going to help us today. And surely you want to look nice for the new girl, right?"

I lifted my head and looked up at her incredulously.