Did it Pass?

by catwat3r

Summary:

Four years after being left at the bus stop, Fleabag finds herself engaged, working for a non-profit, and on better terms with her family. But with the engagement comes the wedding planning. Her fiance, Henry, is set on getting married in the same church where her parents were wed, and her mother's service was held. Fleabag does her best to stop him, knowing what's to come, but he's insistent and any convincing reasons would mean... Well, telling him the love she held for a hot priest never passed.

Notes:

I'm American and know next to nothing about how most things in London work. Did my best. Also, I couldn't find any concrete informtion on the location of Fleabag's mom's funeral, so I took some creative liberty with that for angst <3

Chapter 1: Prologue

John 1:8 If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us.

         “Are you sure you want to do this?” Claire asked over a cup of black coffee. “I know business has been… rough, but this was yours, and hers.” She took a sip, I can’t imagine how she can stand it. I can imagine, however, she’s convinced herself over the years that black coffee simply tastes better. Probably helps her feel superior to others too, but I would never tell her. At least not now, while we’re doing better. A few weeks ago when she flew back and visited my flat, I think I saw her sneak a bit of milk into her tea. 
        “I’ve talked it over with my therapist, the one dad set me up with—”
         “You’re still going?” 
         “She’s actually quite brilliant,” I said. “Maybe you should try it sometime.” Claire rolled her eyes, and I continued, “The cafe is costing me more to run than I’m making, and… I dunno, I suppose I thought I was obligated to make it work after Boo. But, I think she’d like me to be at least a little successful. And if that means I have to sell it, then… that’s what I’ll do.” 
        “Do you actually believe that?” Claire asked, tucking a piece of her dark hair behind her ear. She’d gone back to the short bob, just below the point of her chin. It looked much better, at least I thought and looks less like her stylist has a vendetta against her. Chic, but not boring. 
        I shrugged and looked around at the smattering of guinea pig portraits around the room. Hillary chirped from her cage. “Either I believe it, or I ask you to be my flatmate,” I told her, which wasn’t entirely false but I mostly said it just to get her support. Nothing like telling my sister I might need to depend on her to light a fire under her arse. 
        Claire made a sound, halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “You have my support then.” She took another sip from her mug. “Where are you going to store all of this?” 
        I looked around the room again. When Boo first started collecting all of the different pictures, I never thought I’d have to store them elsewhere one day. Maybe I was a fool, thinking they’d stay on these walls forever. “In my flat, for now. I don’t think I can really get rid of them, at least not yet.” My eyes flitted back to Claire, did she notice the crumb of vulnerability I threw her way?
        She pursed her lips, and I could see the calculations behind her eyes. It’s hard to explain in a way you’d understand, but I’m assuming at this point you have a good grasp of the way my sister behaves. “If that’s what you want, and as long as you don’t ask me to hold onto anything,” Claire said. A perfectly fine response for her. 
        “Course not,” I said, and waited for her to get comfortable in the fact I’d let her off the hook. “I was wondering, though, if you and Klare could help me pack up, while you’re here.” 
         Claire fought a sigh I could tell she wanted nothing more than to release. A habit leftover from the times when we couldn’t agree on anything when we couldn’t hug when the only thing tying us together was the clusterfuck of our father’s relationship with our godmother. Things were… different now. I’m still debating whether or not they’re better, but we don’t fight as often. 
        Once Claire left Martin, a weight was lifted from those slim shoulders. I still think about those words from Jake, that Claire needed to leave Martin. I still can’t tell whether or not he sincerely cared about Claire’s wellbeing, or wanted her for himself. Regardless, he’s doing well now. Finished up his schooling and stays with Claire and Klare for the most part, though I imagine he’s with Martin… enduring. 
        “I think we could manage that,” Claire said and finished the rest of her coffee. 
        She checked the sleek watch on her wrist, and before she could say she had to go I chimed in, “Just let me know when you’re available, yeah? We’ll figure something out, I still have a week or two.” 
        “Right,” Claire said with a nod. She gathered her bag and coat, and I stood up with her. “I’ll give you a call.” 
        Claire stepped towards me, arms open for an embrace, and I wrapped my arms around her. We’ve had a bit more practice, and our hugs are typically more comforting now. 
        We untangled and I watched her leave, the bell above the door singing the song of her departure. 

⁂

        You know how when you’re grieving, people never know what to say to you? When my mother died, my father was the one who should have been there. And when Boo died, well… She’s the one I would have turned to. I wanted so badly for the cafe to work out, for our dream to grow into something bigger than us. 
        Chatty Wednesdays worked for a while, but it’s London, and rent was killing me. Maybe if I had more themed weekdays, Monastery Monday, Saint Saturday (dress as your favorite!), Frittata Fridays. There are points in your life where it’s a bit like the end of a chapter in a book when you’re nearing the end of the paragraph and it's time to turn the page. I think it’s time for me to turn the page. 
        This chapter of my life, the cafe, the resentment, him… I think it’s time I turn the page, or at least that’s what other people would tell me to do. The cafe is empty now, save for the equipment we didn’t install. I’ve probably got at least three panini presses sitting in my closet, and enough pictures of guinea pigs to open my very own art gallery. 
        Only a few lights are still on, and the contract in front of me is full of text I can’t bother to parse through. I know I should probably have a lawyer, I know Claire could help me, or Dad, but I can’t be bothered. With a quick signature, the man across from me slides a check across the small wooden table. I pass the contract back to him, which he deposits into his briefcase. 
        We stand and he holds his hand out for me to shake. I stare at it for a second. I’ve already signed it away, but something about the handshake feels more final. Like the contact of our flesh is binding as the sweat of our clammy palms co-mingles. I wipe my hands on my trousers at the thought before taking his hand in a weak handshake. 
        He heads for the door first, holding it open for me as I cast another glance at the tables and counter. It doesn’t look like our cafe anymore, which I suppose makes it easier to leave it behind. I flip the lights off and join him on the street, where he gives me a wordless smile and gets into his car. 
        I watch him drive away, standing under the streetlight. I wonder if he thinks I’m pathetic for having a dream. Maybe if I told him the story behind it he wouldn’t think so, but maybe he’d pity me then. I don’t know which one is worse. 
        I start down the street in the direction of my flat, deciding to walk the night off. If I allow myself to sit for a second, I worry the lack of motion will give my brain the energy to ramble on with regrets and wishes and prayers. I do, however, allow myself to look back at the cafe once more. 
        Under the streetlight, a fox watches me, and I can’t help but laugh. 

Chapter 2: Three Cheers for Commitment and Impending Rescindment

Isaiah 32:9-20 Rise up, you women who are at ease, hear my voice; you complacent daughters, give ear to my speech. In little more than a year you will shudder, you complacent women; for the grape harvest fails, the fruit harvest will not come. Tremble, you women who are at ease, shudder, you complacent ones; strip, and make yourselves bare, and tie sackcloth around your waist. Beat your breasts for the pleasant fields, for the fruitful vine, for the soil of my people growing up in thorns and briers, yes, for all the joyous houses in the exultant city. ...

4 years later. 

        I hope I never get tired of waking up to his cropped brown hair every morning. I run my fingers through it, and he’s going to wake up in a few moments. He does it every morning after I disturb him in some way, he’s quite a light sleeper. He stirs, and I place my hand back on my pillow. 
        He turns around and greets me with a sleepy smile, uttering the word, “Morning.” He watches me, and I know he must be thinking about how he’s the luckiest man in the world to wake up to the likes of me every morning. 
        “Morning,” I reply, and watch as his head turns to look up at the ceiling. Three, two, one… he rises from the bed and walks to the kitchen, where he’ll start to boil a pot of water and start the toast. 
I sit in bed, knowing I don’t have anything to do today. Not having to go to the cafe for the past four years has given me plenty of time for self reflection, almost to the point where I wish I could go back to the times when my financial burden was the only thing on my mind. Among other things. Spending so much time with myself has been absolutely dreadful, and I find my mind wanders to topics that mostly concern me. Godmother would call me horribly self-centered, but with the state of our relationship these days she’d have the tact to keep it to herself. 
        Once I hear the toast pop out of our toaster, I get up from the bed and throw on a ratty t-shirt. Henry is hovering over the stove, pushing eggs back and forth with a spatula. Our kitchen is nice enough, certainly more spacious than in my last flat. 
        The table is fit for four people, which serves us well on the when Claire and Klare stop by, or Dad and Godmother. I don’t know how to describe it, but after I sold the cafe Dad was more open with me. Almost like the cafe was tied up with so much grief, he didn’t know how to handle it. He was pleased to find I was still with the counselor he set me up with, and I think it was the reassurance he needed. He’s still capable of doing the right thing 
        “Sleep well?” Henry asks, setting a mug of boiling water down on the table in front of me, teabag already steeping. He turns back to the stove, making quick work of flipping the eggs. 
        “I crashed,” I tell him, and hold the mug up to my lips for a test-sip. “No dreams, though. And you?” 
        “Like a rock, did I snore?” He asks over his shoulder.
        I shake my head in response and watched him place the toast in the pan, crisping up under the eggs. Watching him cook reminded me of Boo, and I think that’s part of what I love about him. It’s almost meditative for him, the way everything falls into place. Like a dance, or a song, counting the measures until everything comes together for the resolution. “No, I don’t think you did,” I tell him. I wouldn’t notice anyways, between the two of us I’m the heavier sleeper.  
        Once he’s satisfied with the state of our breakfast, he serves them up on plates and joins me at the seat across the table. In the morning light I get a chance to look at him, really look at him. The deep brown eyes, the way they crinkle around the edges, the natural downturn of his lips hiding the joyous smile underneath. 
        He picks up the egg and toast, eating it like a half-sandwich. I can’ help but think there’s somewhat of an animalistic quality to the way he eats, at least when we’re in the privacy of our flat. I’d like to see him eat that way with the suit and tie he wears to work, so refined in depiction but crude in his behavior. 
        “What’s on the agenda today?” Henry asks, mouth full of yolk and carbohydrates. 
        “Oh, not much,” I say, finally picking up my food. I take a bite and chew while running through my day in my head. “There’s a few things I need to pick up for the ‘Women Finding Their Way’ event, but beyond that I think I might have a nice day with the flat to myself.” 
        He finishes the rest of his meal and swallows. “I wouldn’t normally ask, but would you mind taking my suit to the cleaners today? The blue one?” Henry stands from the table and goes to put his plate in the sink. “I’ve got a big meeting on Friday and I won’t have time to do it before then.” 
       "Oh, yeah,” I set the toast down and grab a napkin from the bin at the center of the table. “I should be able to squeeze it in somewhere.” 
        Henry smiles. “Wonderful, thank you.” He checked the clock we hung across the room, and glanced back at me. “I’ve got to get ready…” 
He leaves the kitchen and disappears into our room, where I can hear the sounds of him shuffling through his closet for the right shirt, the right tie, and the right slacks. I still don’t really understand what he does, something with finance. Claire would have a better idea than I would, but I know for certain he’s not a lawyer. 
        In all fairness, he doesn’t quite understand what I do either. I don’t even understand what I do, I mean… What does “Women Finding Their Way” even mean, at the end of the day? My supervisor keeps going on about keynote speakers, women who have found their way. I suppose I would qualify, I found my way? Didn’t I? At least, other people would say I have. Whether it was the right way or not, I’m still not sure. Don’t tell Henry. 
        Less than ten minutes later, Henry’s dressed, groomed, and holding his briefcase. In a flurry of movement, he takes one last sip of his tea, gives me a kiss, and he’s off. I count to thirty in my head, and rise from the table. 
        “Now that we’re alone, I feel obligated to fill you in on a few things. For starters, Henry was raised Catholic. Laugh all you want, because it’s not nearly as bad once you find out I’ve been taking theology classes at the local junior college. What can I say, I have a certain… interest in religion.” I pick up the plate and take one last bite before placing my plate in the sink to soak. It’s time for my morning bath, so I gather the basics: a towel, my bible, and my vibrator. The water comes out of the faucet in a hot torrent, and I strip while waiting for it to fill the tub. 
        “It’s quite fascinating actually. I don’t know if I can ever bring myself to believe in a God, but I have to admit there are some fine quotes I might get embroidered on a throw pillow. I met Henry in one of those classes, and we initially bonded over the fact we were the only people who weren’t fresh off their exams. I also found him quite attractive, but that’s a more important detail for the long run.” I dip my hand in the water, and then ease my body in. 
        “When I first told him I’m an atheist, I think he was more confused than anything. Now he jokes that I know more about the bible than him, which I suppose is true.” I open the tome to the last page I was annotating, the place marked by a napkin with a phone number scribbled on it. Every time I open to the bookmark, it’s torture. I consider it my own form of self-flagellation, which according to some people a couple hundred years ago, it’s one of the most holy things I can do.

⁂

        By the time Henry gets home, I'm ready for our evening. I hear the door open while I stare at myself in our floor length mirror, and I just have to tell you, "I look fucking amazing." I decided to go with a purple cocktail dress, not usually my color but it complimented my skin and hair wonderfully. 
        “You ready?” Henry calls out as the door closed behind him. 
        “Almost,” I call back, a white lie. As soon as I step out of our room, I know he’ll want me right then and there. Which reminds me, “I forgot to tell you.” I make my way for the door. “Because Henry is Catholic, and I won’t go to church with him, we compromised. Good god, you’re not going to believe it.” I place my hand on the doorknob, ready to open it. “I agreed with Henry to wait until marriage.” 
        I open the door to our room and step into the main room of the flat, where Henry is waiting in the entryway with a bouquet. “Did you want to go and freshen up?” I ask him. 
He hands me the flowers, lily of the valley, and begonias. An odd mix, but quite pretty. “I put on a spritz of cologne before I left the office,” I watch his eyes trail up and down my body, just as I had expected. “Besides,” he continues. “I don’t think any amount of freshening up could help me compare to the dazzling creature in front of me.” 
        I procure a vase from one of the cabinets under the sink, and fill it with water. Carefully, I put the flowers in vase and place them in the center of our table. I’ll trim them a bit when we get home, but I have other priorities. One of them being the impending proposal. 
        Henry has never been good at hiding anything, and I think it’s partially leftover from his upbringing. I haven’t seen any direct evidence, no ring, no search history suggesting it, and we’ve had plenty of dates. I was, however, informed of a reservation to a fine establishment and was told to wear my best attire— on our anniversary, no less. It’s not hard to guess. 
        “Right, then,” I walk towards where he stands in the doorway, and he holds out his arm for me. “Shall we?” 

        The ride to the restaurant isn’t too long, and Henry’s insistence on getting a cab rather than driving tells me he has something up his sleeve. If he truly is planning on proposing, I honestly don’t know what I’m going to say. Yes, of course. We’ve been together all this time, after all, but the part of me who never thought I’d get married is still alive and well. Maybe we could discuss something like long-term partnership, married in every aspect except the technical. 
        But I don’t think that’s really something Catholics do. Henry’s a bit more modern though, I suppose. He’s a modern man after all. At least, up until the point where he won’t fuck me until He allows it. And it’s a bit late to bring it up now, isn’t it? 
        I cast a glance at Henry, who’s too preoccupied with looking out the car window to notice. I look back ahead, “If he’s proposing, I’ll say yes. Fuck it. But if he isn’t, I’ll talk everything out over with him.” 
        It’s a vow to myself, and I have to suppress the urge to tack amen to the end of it. I wonder if God would give me the best advice in this scenario. I’m almost sure I have to convert— assuming Henry wants to follow the traditions he was raised with —so I’m certain it’s in God’s best interest to give me whatever advice ends with a marriage. Though, if I’m being completely honest, I didn’t pay much attention to lectures discussing marriage rituals. Never thought I’d need them. 
        The cab pulls up to the restaurant, and Henry leaps into action to open the door for me. He offers his arm once more, and we enter the restaurant in silence. A valet opens the door for us, and when we step inside the restaurant is lively, yet so stuffy in its atmosphere I can feel my dress clinging to my body. 
        “Henry, for two,” Henry tells the Hostess, and she scans the book in front of her. 
The Hostess grabs two menus and leads us through a maze of tables, before leading us into a small room near the back of the restaurant. It’s blocked off with glass walls, and a long wooden table fills the center of the room. Once the Hostess leaves us and closes the door, we’re left in silence. Besides the quaint classical music playing softly over the speakers. 
        “I hope this is alright,” Henry says, and goes to pull out a chair for me. “I didn’t want to make too much of a spectacle, but I’ve always loved the idea of…” He clears his throat and finds a seat for himself. 
        Either he thinks I’m stupid, or knows I’ve pieced everything together and isn’t going to bother hiding it. As I settle in, I eye the long table. Quite odd for a date night, but it was a reservation… “Did you invite my family?” 
        “What?” he asks, trying to sound utterly surprised. 
        “Did you invite my family to our anniversary dinner?” 
        Henry lets out a huff, not in the way Claire would, but more like he’s a deflated balloon. A deflated balloon who was caught in the act, and is now trying to cover it up. “I…” He drops the worried facade and laughs. Nervousness or something adjacent, I can't tell. “Can I be honest with you?” 
        “I’d hope you would be.” 
        Henry chuckles again, and I start to get nervous. Is this all going to be some joke? A long, four year, joke in which I’m the fool? Is this my punishment for fucking with God? For replacing him with another Catholic? 
        “I wanted to propose tonight, but I feel like I’ve ruined the surprise.” Henry finally tells me. The anxiety melts away faster than I even register it’s there to begin with, and I stifle a laugh. I was right. “I- don’t get me wrong, I still intend to.” 
        I watch as he rises from his seat, hardly even warm from his presence yet. He kneels next to me, and I watch as he looks up at me with those adoring brown eyes. Slowly, but with resolve, Henry pulls a small box from inside his jacket. “Will you make me the happiest man alive, and marry me?” He opens the box, and inside is a simple ring with a round diamond in the center, and two smaller stones on either side. 
        I cast a glance to the side, he doesn’t notice. “If I have doubts, now would be the time to say no, right?” I ask. “I mean, look at what happened to Claire. But Henry’s no Martin. Besides, I’ll still have time to change my mind, right?” 
        I look back at him and smile. “Of course, yes! I’ll marry you.” 
        He laughs and returns my smile, slipping the ring onto my finger. “I don’t know what to say, to be honest.” 
        I don’t give him the chance to think through his mental dictionary, when I grab his tie and tug him towards my lips. He’s a bit shocked, but accepts it nonetheless. He breaks the kiss, and checks his watch, “I’ve invited your parents, my parents, Claire, and Klare. They should be here any minute.”
        “Wonderful,” I tell him. 
        My knee-jerk reaction is to bitch and moan about how the night is ruined, but I have to remind myself that things are fine with my family. Something they don’t tell you about bad relationships is that the imprint on your mind, leaving shadows and reminders. Even when you’ve moved on, they linger. So the nausea in my stomach that rises at the thought of seeing Godmother and Dad might not know that we’re doing alright now, and the wit that rises in preparation doesn’t realize we’re not preparing for battle. All I can do for now is keep up my smile and, for once, have a night all about me that no one can blame me for. 

Notes:

1. for all of my priest/fleabag girlies, next chapter. sorry/not sorry. patience is a virtue, but greed is a vice /hj
2. hopefully the present tense isn't too jarring, I felt like it worked the best with the way I've decided to present the fourth wall breaks
3. if I repeat too many British phrases, sorry. Trying to diversify my British lexicon, but I think r/Britain is starting to get sick of hyper-specific questions
4. I want to post the playlist I listen to while writing at some point, but only if people are interested! So lmk

As always, thanks for reading <3

Chapter 3: We Can't All Be Good Feminists

Notes:

1. i lied, sorry. priest/fleabag is next chapter I PROMISE!! Mentally skipped a chapter while writing the last note, I'm just as excited as you are
1.5. maybe this is part of my evil plan to lead you on like fleabag is leading henry on
1.75 it isn't, don't worry. still developing some stuff!
2. i hope this chapter makes sense
3. i was finally diagnosed with adhd so expect more consistent uploads

thanks for reading, love you guys!

Luke 21:34-35 Be on guard, so that your hearts will not be weighted down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of life, and that day will not come on you suddenly like a trap; for it will come upon all those who dwell on the face of all the earth.

6 Months Later

        Cropped brown hair fills my field of vision as I slowly rise from my slumber. The same hair as always, soon to be forever. Rather than wait for Henry to stir, I turn over in bed and look at my left hand. Each passing day since the proposal has added an extra ounce to the weight on my ring finger, and six month’s worth is more than enough to match the dread in my stomach. 
I don’t have the heart to tell him. Everything is fine, at the end of the day, but I can’t help but wonder if this is really what  I want. I glance back at Henry, still fast asleep, and get up to go to our bathroom.
        Dark bags protrude from under my eyes, and my hair has lost its shine. “I know what you’re thinking,” I say, and reach for my toothbrush. “Just tell him, rip the bandage off, everyone will understand.” I run the brush under the faucet, squeeze some paste on, and make quick work of my teeth. 
        “I don’t think it’s quite that simple,” I say and spit a bit of foam into the sink. “This is the longest relationship I’ve maintained in my life, and that comes with expectations.” I spit the rest of the toothpaste foam and rinse off my toothbrush. 
        My reflection stares back at me while I brace myself on the counter. “If I throw this all away now, I’d never hear the end of it. And I know I shouldn’t care but… everything is good! For once, it’s normal, and I don’t have to play any games, and he loves me, and I love…” I trail off and have the most intense eye contact with myself I’ve ever had in my life. I take a deep breath and nod. “I love him.” I run a hand through my hair, but I don’t think anything will save the lackluster, shapeless, mess it is.
        I practice a quick smile in the mirror, and I’m off to the kitchen. Henry is up, somehow I didn’t hear him pass the door. “Morning,” I tell him and watch from the threshold as he starts a new pot of coffee. 
        “Morning,” He replies and turns to face me once the coffee starts brewing. There’s a light in his eyes, like some sort of childish joy I can’t put my finger on. He’s certainly happy, and if he’s happy then everything is fine, right? Or, if he doesn’t notice I’m not as happy as him then he’ll know something is wrong. 
Would he ever really notice though? He doesn’t seem to realize when I… “Well, you know.” 
        I watch him for a moment, searching for any signs of recognition. Nothing. I don’t know if I should feel relief or be upset, because if my history says anything his lack of awareness isn’t a good sign for our trajectory. “I know, I know,” I step away from Henry, towards the table. “Save your judgment, but I still consider that a successful venture.” 
        “Have you put any thought into the venue?” Henry asks and pours himself a cup of coffee. He grabs it and walks towards his desk in the corner of the sitting room.
        “No, not really,” I confess. I expect him to be upset, but he just sips his coffee in pleasant silence. “Any ideas?”
        “Well, I’ve been talking it over with mum, and she’d love it if we had more of a traditional wedding.” Henry sets his mug down like it’s about to get serious. 
        “Meaning?”
        “You know, church, priest, interviews, long vows, the whole bit.” He looks at me, waiting expectantly. 
        I suppose I’m not too opposed to it. I could have guessed he would have wanted this when he asked to wait until marriage. And I’m already so deep into that, what’s a traditional Catholic wedding on top of it? As long as the priest isn’t too attractive. “You know, it’s funny, I knew a…” I trail off and finish the rest of the thought in my head. The echo of his memory fills my mind, bouncing between the verses and scripture. “Never mind, actually. I don’t see why not. Though, I’m not quite sure where.” 
        “We could do my family’s, but that’s a bit of a slog.” 
        “Something in the middle, then?”
        The corner of his lip quirks up, he’s excited about something. “My parents have actually been thinking of moving here, be closer to the in-laws, and the kids.” I nod slowly. Kids, right. Henry continues, “I’ve been looking at the churches around here, and I had an idea I wanted to run by you.” 
        I cross the room and sit on the chaise across from his desk. “Well, whatever it is, I’m sure it’s better than anything I’d come up with,” I tell him, crossing my legs and propping my head on the heel of my palm. He always seemed to like when I did that, as if it made him feel more important because I appeared to be listening so intently. 
        He types something, then turns his laptop so I can see the screen. My body goes completely still, I don’t need him to explain before my mind fills in all the gaps. For a moment, I’m not in the flat anymore. 
        I’m sitting behind the church, G&T in my hand, the soft glow of the indoor lights illuminating the two of us. The glances we shared across the room, the secret we kept, the love we shared— the bus stop. THE BUS STOP. I can’t get it out of my head, blaring like a horn in the fog. “Oh my god,” I fight the urge to stand up right then and there. “I still love him.” 
        “Godmother told me she thought it would be ‘lovely’ if we got married where your father and she did,” Henry says, then hesitates. He takes a deep breath and continues, “And where your mother’s service was held.” 
        I think the pause was for my own benefit, like the idea of the whole ordeal would move me to tears. And maybe it would if I believed in an afterlife. Knowing Henry, he’s about to launch into a whole spiel about how it would be so grand to get married where my mother would be watching over me. 
        Don’t get me wrong, it is an emotional thought. But I’m healed enough that I don’t need to cry about it. My therapist is either going to love me or hate me when I tell her. And if there’s an afterlife, wouldn’t she be able to watch over me regardless of where I am? I pray to God there isn’t an afterlife if that’s the case, for her own sake. 
        What am I supposed to say to him? On paper, it’s perfect and I should be crying or jumping with joy or hugging him or something. But all I can think about is Henry showed me his church. And Godmother suggested it. Is she trying to ruin my relationship before I do? I don’t think she knew about us, but I wouldn’t be surprised if a little rat came out of the sewer and broke the news. 
        If I tell him I don’t think it’s a good idea, I need a good explanation. If Godmother and I still had the relationship we did all those years ago, that would be perfect. But if we’ve restored our relationship, maybe Godmother and Henry see this as the final seam, mending it once and for all. I could tell him the priest is a crock, but what explanation do I provide to back that up? He touches children, like brother like brother? I shouldn’t… But I could, so I file the idea away anyways. 
        Henry’s sitting there, looking at me expectantly. “I… appreciate Godmother’s thoughtfulness, but the priest was wildly unprofessional.” 
        “How so?”
        “During the vows, he went on this rant about how love was horrible, not exactly what you want to hear at a wedding.” I watch his expression shift as he takes in the information, but he doesn’t seem phased by my words. 
        It’s a lie, of course. The words, “So no wonder it’s something we don’t want to do on our own,” echo in my head. I can’t help but look away from Henry for a moment. Is this who I want to face love with? It’s been nice, easy. No major fights, or fallouts. No moving out of the flat, showing up drunk in the middle of the night to win him over, no fights. No doubts, until now. 
        “Right, well… I’ll do some research, and set up a few interviews around town. We’ll see how it goes, yeah?” 
        I nod, “We’ll see how it goes.” My mind is hooked on the wedding, playing the day over and over again like a movie. “I need to call Claire, maybe she’s got an idea.” 
Henry nods and turns back to his laptop. I stand up and go back to our room, where my cell waits for me on the nightstand. I grab it and dial Claire’s number. 
        It rings once, and she picks up, “Is everything alright?”
        “Yes, why wouldn’t it be?”
        “You never call this early.” She sounds more concerned than angry, a welcome development over the years.
        “I’ve called you in the morning before,” I say, and sit on my side of the bed. 
        “Stop deflecting,” Claire says, and I hear her sigh. She’s got me there. “Is everything okay?”
        I bite my lip and consider saying yes and hanging up. But this is a serious matter, and— even though my circumstances are entirely different —I helped save her from her marriage. “I think I’m in love with someone else.” My voice is hushed, I can't risk Henry hearing me.
        There’s silence on her end, and I try to imagine what she’s thinking. Probably something along the lines of, “I thought we were finally done with this,” but I shouldn’t project onto her. I know my therapist would certainly be proud of that. 
        “Okay…” Claire starts, I can practically hear the gears turning in her head. “Do I know this person you’re in love with?” 
        I hesitate to tell her. She always seems to know what’s going on with me, whether or not I actually tell her. I suppose this is a side effect of us being sisters. “Yes,” I finally say, and wait for the blow. 
        “Is it…” She trails off, but I think she doesn’t want to say it for the same reason I don’t want to tell her. As soon as we say it, we’ll speak it into existence. “Is it him?”
I let out a breath, she knows me so well. “Yes,” I confirm, and the weight of my feelings is alleviated slightly. It might not be the best confession I’ve ever had, but there’s a certain holy quality about it. 
        “Are you going to tell Henry?”
        “God no.” 
        I can tell it’s not the answer she wanted when she releases another classic sigh. “You can’t do that to Henry, he’s—”
        “I know, nice, stable, charming, eligible.” I finish the thought for her, but I know it’s not what she wants to say. “But I can’t just tell him.”
        “Why not?”
        “Because…” I think about it for a moment, piecing the thoughts together in a coherent explanation. “If I tell Henry it’s not like I can just, you know, pray my way into another relationship.” 
        “You told me to go.”
        “Yes, but Martin is an ass. Henry’s the opposite, almost painfully so. And you had Klare.” 
        “So you don’t want to tell him because you don’t have a safety net, is that it?”
        I pause and purse my lips together. “Yes, I guess so.” 
        “Are you ever going to tell him? How long are you going to let him be with you, while you wish you were with someone else?” 
        I almost regret telling her, but I know she’s right. “I’ll tell him,” I relent. “Just not now.” Relenting entirely will be a process. 
        Silence on Claire’s end, until she tells me, “Alright. Just, don’t let it go on for too long. I…” She’s gearing up to tell me something that shows she cares, I can feel it. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” 
        Oh. Now I’m the silent one. “I’ll try not to, thanks.” 
        She stifles a laugh, and I’m not sure if it’s because she knows I’m not going to try or if she knows it’s going to happen no matter what I do. “Good. I’ll talk to you later?”
        “Yes, talk to you later.” The line goes quiet and I’m left to sit alone with the spirit of the conversation. I hate that she’s right, not just about having to tell Henry at some point. But I hate that she’s right about my lack of safety net. 
        It’s not that I need a man but I’d like one, and I’d like it to be one man in particular. But if I don’t need one, why is the thought of leaving Henry so hard?
        Good god, I’m a horrible feminist. 

Chapter 4: Dear God, Just Get Me Through the Pre-Cana

Notes:

as promised, thanks for sticking with me <3

edit-- didn't realize i completely switched from first person to third, ignore that, fixing it lol
edit 2-- fixed, sorry!

Isa 59:14 Justice is turned back, and righteousness stands far off. For truth has stumbled in the public square, and honesty cannot enter. 

        “So how exactly does this work?” I ask, running a comb through my hair while Henry brushes his teeth next to me over the sink. 
        He spits and runs the toothbrush under the water. “We’re supposed to do an interview, tell the priest we’re right for each other, all that.” 
        “That simple?” I leave the bathroom and grab our coats from the rack beside the door. The water shuts off in the bathroom and Henry walks out a moment later. 
        “That simple.” He tells me and takes his coat. 
        “Lovely,” I say and watch as he opens the door to the hallway. I turn to the side briefly. “Can’t be too hard to convince the Priest we’re clearly a match made in heaven.” No matter what, or to whom I tell, I can’t quite seem to vocalize ‘and convince myself too,’ as much as I know it’s what I’m really thinking. 
        We leave the flat, and the chill of the March air greets us. People on the way to work pass us as they make their way to the nearest bus stop, where other busy workers wait. Once the bus arrives we all pile on, Henry and I find two empty seats in the middle. 
        “So which church is on our schedule today?” I ask mindlessly, settling into the seat and watching as other passengers board. 
        “It’s on Glentworth, the one Godmother told me about,” Henry says simply. 
        “Oh, so we’re starting with that one?” I can’t help but stare at him for a moment, but he doesn’t think anything of it. I turn towards the window and sigh, “I did not have the time to emotionally prepare for this.” 
        “I figured with your reservations, it was best to cross it off the list first.” 
        “I’m still not sure about this priest.”
        “Maybe he’s not at this church anymore,” Henry says, offering a kind smile.
        “He’s our age.” 
        “Changed departments, perhaps?” Henry’s mouth curls into a grin, and I snort. He shifts in his seat and asks in a hushed voice, “Is this really about the priest?”
        My gaze returns to the window, “Yes,” before snapping back to Henry’s. 
        “If you’re having second thoughts we can always pause the planning,” He reaches for my hand and squeezes it gently. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m pushing you into anything.” 
        “I want this, I promise.” I lean over to give him a kiss on the cheek. The words should sound real enough to Henry, but they fall into the empty cavern in my chest. How far is too far? Where is the line, the last chance to tell him? Plenty of women walk away at the altar, surely I’m not all that bad. Claire’s words echo in my mind, like an angel watching over my shoulder. My shoulders cave in from the external disappointment. 
        We fall into a comfortable silence, watching the hustle of London fade away. A half hour or so later and the bus comes to a halt at our stop. Henry is the first to rise and offers his hand. I look up at it for a moment before accepting, hoisting myself out of the seat. 
        On the street, the stop is a few hundred feet away from the entrance. Henry starts walking immediately, like a man with a hunger only to be sated by white lace dresses and veils. I hesitate another moment until my steps follow his and I catch up to him at the door. Henry seems to pause at the door and I wonder if my reservations around the Priest have somehow bled into Henry’s psyche. I cast a glance at him, and open the door in an effort to convince him all is well. 
        No one is inside, not exactly shocking for a church on a weekday, and the door closes softly behind us. A flash of movement in the corner of my eye almost makes me jump, until I realize it’s a woman. Then another type of dread sets in. 
        “Welcome in,” the woman says with a warm smile as she comes closer. When her eyes settle on me, her face contorts momentarily. Confusion, frustration, anger, pity? I can’t quite put a finger on it, but the woman’s eyes remain focused on me. 
        She opens her mouth to speak again and I can hear everything about to come spilling out, “You’re not allowed to be here, you know what you did, how could you set foot in here again…” 
        Before the imagined downfall could be set into motion, I jump into an enthusiastic tirade, “Oh Pam! Lovely seeing you, it’s been how long now? God, I don’t even remember, it feels like forever!” Pam stares at me for a moment, even Henry seems a bit put off. “Bit much then…” I note for no one in particular, and maintain the smile plastered on my face— as if it were the only thing protecting me from Henry finding out what really happened in these pews. 
        “Right,” Henry says and clears his throat. “We’re here for the pre-cana?” 
        I wrap my arm around Henry’s waist and Pam looks between us. “Of course,” she says, her smile returning to her face. Pam turns and guides us through the church, and up the stairs to the office. As we walk, Pam glances over her shoulder to say, “Not many marriages lately, you two are the first in months.” 
        When we start up the stairs my arm falls back to my side and Henry trails closely behind Pam. “I’m not surprised, the whole ordeal can be quite expensive, especially with a family like mine,” he tells her, and Pam nods with the thoughtful expertise of someone who must have witnessed countless ceremonies. 
        “Almost took a trip to the Registrar,” I quip, which apparently doesn’t warrant the same insightful nod. 
        Pam stops outside a door and turns to face both of them. “We’re always happy to help couples such as yourself on your journey,” she says and looks at the door. “He’s ready for you in here.”
        I’m not concerned with Pam anymore as my body freezes, locked in place where I stand. The wood hasn’t changed a bit, the same pictures are hung in the frames in the hallway, and the same draft hits my shoulder. As silly as it all seems to even notice. But I feel myself walking in, putting my hand on the same door knob, turning it with the excited anticipation of a sixteen-year-old girl who hasn’t quite experienced the fall from grace. A girl who hasn’t hit seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty… 
        I see myself walking into the small office, the opulent robes for next Sunday hanging behind his desk. His smile, the warm glow from his dark eyes, and the crows' feet around them. The glowing smile is directed at me because he intended it for me, not out of any priestly obligation. 
        My reverie is interrupted by Henry’s hand on the door instead of mine. I snap awake and glance at Pam, who only offers a slight raise of her brows and a knowing look. For a moment I wish I could plead my case, explain to Pam that this isn’t a plan, a calculated attempt to insert myself back into the parish. For a second I feel like a child, but if only I could tell Pam it was all Henry. Instead, Pam turns and walks down the hallway, returning to whatever important duties she has to take care of. 
        Henry disappears into the office and I’m left alone in the hallway for a moment, before taking a deep breath and crossing the threshold. The Priest is already rising from his desk by the time I step inside, and he’s offering one of those smiles to Henry. “Welcome in,” he says, in that faint Irish accent I never thought I’d have the pleasure of hearing again. 
        He’s shaking Henry’s hand, making eye contact as they share the mutual excitement of marriage. One as the participant, and the other as someone so closely tied to it but never fully bound. I approach the desk and for a moment I think I can do this. Until the Priest’s eyes meet mine. I can’t tell if the air in my lungs is gone, if I’ve let out a small gasp, if my heart is pounding out of my chest, or if I’m even alive. The internal monologue of not needing a man flashes in my brain again, and I realize how wrong I was. 
        The world has stopped, leaving me alone to fall through the super-massive pit in my stomach. I’m weightless, and yet the realizations I recognize in his eyes weigh on me like the eyes of God. The desire to run, shout, scream, or sing was overwhelming. But I just stand there. 
        Without a word to me, the Priest clears his throat and turns his attention back to Henry. He lets go of Henry’s hand and gestures for both of us to take a seat across from him at the desk. Henry pulls out my chair and I sit, folding my hands in my lap. I’m unsure of what to do with myself, and briefly contemplate the appropriate body language for the circumstances.
        “So tell me about yourselves,” the Priest says, sitting up straight in his chair with his hands laced together on the desk. His eyes flit to me for a moment, before returning to Henry. 
        “Well,” Henry starts. “We met… what is it now? Four years ago, in a theology class.” 
        The Priest’s brows rise, but only for a moment. He can’t hide his surprise from me, and my eyes travel to his hands on the desk. His knuckles are white, along with the skin where his fingers are gripping desperately onto his hands. “I suppose you two are in the right place, then,” he says with a smile and a deep breath. He unravels his hands and wipes them on his robe.
        Before he can continue, I cut him off, “Almost too perfect.” Obviously, Henry doesn’t think anything of it, but the Priest meets her eyes once more. A victory, maybe? I can tell he doesn’t want to acknowledge me, but I can certainly try to make him. 
        “It might be helpful if I let both of you know what I typically expect out of these sorts of interviews,” the Priest starts. “Think of me as your guide, here to make sure both of you are on the same page. Finances, children, all of that. Essentially, I’m here to ensure there’s nothing that might result in a divorce down the road, since we obviously don’t want that.” He chuckles, but it feels forced. Regardless, Henry mirrors the laughter and I throw in a smile to sweeten the deal. 
        “Any arguments or resentment that’s unresolved, that sort of thing. Should be relatively simple considering you have four years under your belts.” 
        Henry glances at me and reaches for my hand, offering a squeeze and a smile. I glance to the side, “Is now the right time to tell him?” At least she’d have God looking out for me. But it would be all too convenient: showing up to his church after so many years unannounced, with a Catholic fiance I  met in a theology class who looks a bit too much like the Priest for comfort, putting on this show of proving I’ve moved past that chapter in my life, and then deciding it’s not right? It’s clearly better for everyone else involved if I just wait, which offers a brief moment of relief. 
        I glance back at the Priest once I’ve checked back into reality, and I’m taken aback when I find his eyes trained on mine. There’s a question behind his eyes as he glances quickly between Henry and me, before shaking his head as if he thought he saw a ghost. “Then, let’s start with an easy one, yeah? A little warm-up, if you will. What does marriage mean to you?” 
        Henry jumps to answer as if he’d been dying for someone to ask. “Well, we’ll always be there for each other, be the shoulder to cry on. Pick each other up, listen to each other, be honest… Hard to define, really.” 
        The Priest doesn’t offer any commentary on the answer, instead allowing my answer to fill the space as he turns to me expectantly. My eyes fall to the hands in my lap, Henry’s hand holding mine. Slowly, I move my hand and Henry lets go. Silence falls over the room as I knead my palm, thinking about what marriage could possibly mean to me. I never really envisioned myself here, so I don’t have a monologue about childhood dreams of romance and princes ready.
        It’s a loaded question, Henry was at least right about it being hard to define. Settling down was an option, but never really written explicitly into the plan. For a moment I think about the times when I actually considered marriage, for myself, not because someone else told me to. The times when I felt loved, felt like this was something I could do. 
        “I… I think marriage should feel like home,” I start. The words feel foreign in my mind and mouth as if this idealized version of marriage doesn’t compute. “A place you can come back to, always… A shared respite from everything else. But it should also be a place of growth, something you can challenge, and test, and come out on the other side stronger.” 
        I sit up a bit in my seat, having found my footing. “Where you can be flawed and still loved.” When I look up I find the Priest's dark eyes focused on me, and for a moment it’s all that matters. Until I remind myself to look at my husband-to-be, who already has tears in his eyes. 
        “You’ve certainly put a bit of thought into the matter,” he says with a hard swallow. The Priest looks back at Henry. “Certainly off to a good start, as I expected. Now, what about our apprehensions? Anything we’re a bit nervous about?” 
        Henry answers first again. “I suppose I’m a bit worried I’ll bore her as time goes on.” 
        “Care to elaborate?” the Priest asks, sitting forward in his seat. 
        “This better be good,” I say before turning in my seat to face Henry. 
        “Well, I’m definitely not the most spontaneous. Which I know she appreciates, I’ve heard some of the stories,” he says with a laugh rather than the sullen tone I might have expected. My eyes wander to the Priest, who shares a similar smile. He was there for some of them, after all. “And I suppose I’m worried about the sexual aspect of our relationship.” 
        I take the reins momentarily and tell the Priest, “We’ve been waiting.” Adding the most important detail to Henry’s concern. 
        The Priest purses his lips, I can tell he’s holding back a laugh. He takes a pause and a breath. “That’s actually a common concern in these interviews, if you’ll believe me,” he says and glances between them. “If you have a solid foundation of trust, there shouldn’t be anything to worry about. And as long as you continue to work on your communication, as any couple should continually work on, I have no doubts about your success in that area of the relationship. And if you ever have any issues you can’t seem to resolve there, London has plenty of great sex therapists.”
        A light blush spreads over Henry’s cheeks, but I know he isn’t a total prude. The thought of involving someone else in their sexual relationship probably doesn’t bode well with his upbringing. That, or he just can’t believe their priest is telling them sex therapy is an option, to begin with. The Priest finishes his thought, “But it shouldn’t be too much of an obstacle for a couple such as yourselves.”
        The Priest looks at me expectantly, and I hesitate with my answer. What are some of my apprehensions about marriage? Where do I even start? I scour my memory for any answers that wouldn’t end the engagement right there. I could talk about the sexual concerns, though mine were based on a very different thought process than Henry’s. I could talk about how he only ever seems to watch the war documentaries on the history channel, but that’s something I could resolve easily on my own if it bothered me enough to do so. 
        For a moment I allowed myself to wander into my own mind, allowed my brain to conjure an image of how I’d really want things to go. I imagined something like:

        Pam guides us to the office, leaving us in the hallway. Instead, I take charge and open the door. When I step inside, the Priest is overjoyed to see me and rises from the desk immediately. Henry is trailing behind me, brimming with his naive excitement. 
        Everyone shakes hands, everyone is happy, and the Priest can’t take his eyes off me. They all sit down, his eyes still on me. And before he can even open his mouth, explain the pre-cana, or ask us any questions, I’m speaking, “I have been thinking about you ever since that day at the bus stop. I saw a fox after you left and thanks to you I can’t help but come close to a fucking heart attack every time I see one. Maybe I did find a nice Catholic man in my theology class to fill a void, another Catholic man who won’t fuck me on top of that.” 
        Then I’d stand up in my chair and it would slide back a few inches in my fervor. “And no, it didn’t pass, and that was just a load of bullshit you fed me so you could absolve yourself of getting involved in this mess. So you could say your hands were clean and go back to praying to God, as if you didn’t know I haven’t been dying to come back here since then.” 
        And at that moment, so dumbstruck by my confession, he would raise his hands to God, pull me in, and kiss me like I’d been dying for him to kiss me for the last four years. 

        Instead, I start to answer the question by stalling, “Well…” Before I could flounder further, there was a knock at the door. 
        The Priest stands up and walks around the desk. “Excuse me,” he says, and approaches the door. There’s a hushed conversation both Henry and I turn to watch. The Priest nods, closes the door, and turns to face them again. “Terribly sorry, something’s come up.”
        Henry stands up immediately, as if he’s somehow responsible. “Is everything alright?”
        The Priest shakes his head, for no or to dismiss Henry’s concern? I can’t tell. “Just something with my brother, I don’t normally do this. Can we reschedule?”
        I glance to the side and hide my smile. “A lorry accident.” 
        When I look back at the Priest his eyes are on me, but this time there’s something new there. Something about the hint of mischief glinting in the light of his eyes tells me I’m right, and he knows I am. 
        “It’s fine, we understand. ‘Course we’ll reschedule, it’s alright,” Henry says, nodding profusely. The man looked like he’d break out in a sweat, as if it was his own brother. 
        “Right, right, thank you… Stay as long as you need,” The Priest says and is halfway out the door before adding, “We’ll be in touch.” 

Chapter 5: Definition of Celibacy

Notes:

i've had this chapter ready for a few days but i've been admittedly hesitant to post it. mostly because i let it sit and started to overthink, since i'm not used to writing for serialized publishing. going forward i'm going to force myself to relax because— as much as I always want to put out the best work —it's still a fun little fanfic at the end of the day

I'm already halfway through writing chapter five, so it should be up in a day or two (don't hold me to that though...). this chapter is all Henry and Fleabag, but I think the following chapter has some of what we've all been waiting for. finally starting to dip into the things I've been holding back on, so stay tuned!!

       John 16:33 I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world, you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.

 

I’m on the couch with Henry by my side, matching plates of takeaway pasta in our laps. A reporter on the BBC drones on about upcoming elections, or democracy, or something. I’m not quite full, but I can’t bring myself to finish the meal because of some new quirk Henry has developed. 
        When we’re like this, just sitting on the couch together, it’s like he hardly wants to touch me. We’re close, but not as close as we used to be. It’s like starting the process of the pre-cana means our relationship is different, and now Henry’s acting odd. It’s still the same, but with a different level of… I can’t put my finger on it. It’s as if the eyes of God are heavy upon us. Like we’re leaving room for Jesus. At least, Henry is. 
        I wonder if entering this stage of the relationship is causing Henry to develop some sort of Madonna-whore complex, like what I read about when we discussed Freud back in school. I never scored well when it came to Freud, I could never really get past most of his… unconventional ideas. But I know what it feels like when a man is worried he’s going to hurt you. When he treats you like some fragile being, and simply touching you with his big man hands would be too much. 
        Maybe his religious upbringing, combined with finally bringing the church into our relationship, flipped some sort of abstinence-only-educated switch in his subconscious. Not that we’ve talked about it much, and maybe we should, but I don’t think Henry has anything leftover from growing up within purity-culture. I mean, he wants to wait sure, but he doesn’t have the issues I’ve heard other people talk about in regards to a religious upbringing. So what is it?
        Even if he wraps his arm around me, his hand never dares to dip below my shoulder. Better yet, that means I have the uncomfortable option of resting the bottom of my skull on his arm, or I could rest my cheek on his chest. And his chest— firm, comforting, reassuring —was usually the ideal option, except he’d adopted the habit of resting his head on mine. Which means I have the pleasure of feeling his chin on my head until I get up, on top of him cutting off the easiest road to anything resembling a make-out session. 
        So instead of trying to snuggle up with him, I eat my takeaway silently and watch the headlines scroll by on the screen. My body almost hovers next to him, yearning for either one of us to climb on top of the other. In the beginning of the relationship, I worked on my sexual appetite in an effort to make him comfortable. He’d asked me to wait once we were exclusive, but if I knew I’d have to wait four years? 
        I just want to know if this is normal, if this is something I should actually worry about. But I’ve been too busy to be consistent with therapy, and I can’t ask my priest. I could ask for a recommendation to a really great sex therapist, though. 
        “I can’t take this for much longer,” I say to myself, the words bubbling to the surface and Henry pays no mind. “He’s been like this ever since we met with the Priest. That was… three days ago. And after seeing…” I pause and purse my lips together. I shake my head and a soft laugh escapes me. “I don’t know what his deal is, and at this point I need—”
        I set my fork down on the plate a little harder than I thought, and stand up from the couch. “I need to go have a bath,” I declare. 
        Henry looks up at me, as if snapped out of deep thought, and nods rather mindlessly. “Oh, sure, do you want me to grab your plate?” 
        “No, I’ve got it, I’ll put it all in a tupperware when I’m back,” I say, and cross the room into the kitchen. I leave my plate on the counter and walk with a purpose to the bedroom. 
        Once inside our room, I change into a room and go to my nightstand. I open the drawer and look at my essentials. I grab my copy of the Bible, and as I reach for the vibrator my hand stops. As if my mind wasn’t already preoccupied, every time I think about getting off I can’t bring myself to think of Henry. My mind always wanders to another… Godly man, and it feels wrong every time I’m in the mood. 
        So instead I end up tired and frustrated. I just can’t bring myself to do that to Henry, especially after his tearful response to my sermon about what marriage means to me. I don’t even think those words were meant for him. At least, that’s the conclusion I came to when we got home and my mind was finally quiet enough to parse through everything that happened. 
        I leave the vibrator in its place and close the drawer. In the bathroom, I set the Bible on the lid of the toilet and turn the water on. Once it starts to heat up, I step in front of the mirror and give myself a good, long look. “I know this whole ‘Henry-not-being-all-touchy-feely’ thing has nothing to do with me,” I say and untie my robe. I hang it on the hook behind the door and turn back to look at myself. “Unless he wasn’t satisfied with my answers at the pre-cana which I, if I’m being honest, think were better than his anyways.” 
        The mirror starts to fog up and I look at the tub, where steam is starting to curl above it in the air. I step in and ease my body into the water, feeling the heat spread over my body like a weightless blanket. “And speaking of the pre-cana…” I reach over and grab my Bible, opening it to the bookmark. My fingers linger on it for a moment as a million different ideas and fantasies run through my head. 
        “I mean come on, what in God’s name am I supposed to do? How do I lie to my fiance and my priest? And talking to him about the life I’m supposed to want to build with Henry? Especially when I can’t stop thinking about him? For Christ’s sake, I can’t even masturbate without feeling like I’m ruining the sanctity of my relationship!” 
        I pinch the napkin between my fingers and hold it up. The number repeats itself in my brain, like my own mind was trying to hypnotize me into calling him. After a few minutes I finally allow myself to entertain the thought. Four years without even deigning to touch the fantasy, until now. “What do you even say in a call like that?”
        I thought about it for a moment, feeling like a philosopher whose set off to solve the world’s mysteries. I even let myself imagine I live in a world where I could call him, I could tell him what I’m doing, he’d tell me to go on, and I would. I’d dip my hand under the water and between my legs and he’d tell me exactly what to do, exactly how to do it, and I would. Then he’d hang up, time his arrival at the front door perfectly with me finishing up in the bathroom, he’d knock, I’d quickly wrap my robe around my body, and let him in. 
        Or a little more realistically, I could call him, he’d say, “Hello, who is this?” And in my inability to decide between asking about the pre-cana, his brother, or to say a straightforward hello, he’d grow impatient and hang up. 
        Instead I put the napkin back, close the Bible, put it back on the toilet, and decide to simply stop thinking about it. I go through the motions of my bath, willing my brain into silence, and finally step out when the ridges start to form on my fingertips. I drain the bath, pat myself until I’m damp, moisturize, and put my robe on. 
        I’m on autopilot as I take the Bible and go to put it back in my nightstand. When I do, my fingers linger over the little slip of white sticking out of the side. I sigh, as if there’s anything I can do to stop it, before I grab the bookmark and slip it into my pocket. 
        I don’t even know what I plan to do with it, because I’m at the door without a second thought. My hand goes to open the door but I stop. I was so preoccupied with the Priest in my bath, I forgot to think about the other issue at hand. 
        Making a move crosses my mind, but the thought of trying to initiate something with someone whose barely touched me isn’t as hot as it usually is. Is it even worth asking about? I feel so silly even considering asking Henry to touch me more, because that’s not even what I really want. My mind wanders to the phone number in my pocket, and the wheels in my heard start turning. 
      I shut that idea down, until my mind lands on something else. Something I’ve always been good at, stirring the pot. Before I can even consider the consequences, I’m out the door. My feet carry me to the couch, where I blurt out, “What if we didn’t wait?”
        Henry muted the television and turned to look at me over his shoulder. “What?” 
        “What if—”
        “I heard you, what do you mean?” Henry stands  up from the couch and sets his plate down. As he approaches he doesn’t seem particularly angry or hurt, mostly just lost. I couldn’t blame him, I surprised myself. 
        “I just mean, we’re so close already, we’re talking to a priest, I don’t think anyone would be too mad.” 
        Henry takes a breath and his eyes dart upward for just a moment, before landing back on me. “Did he just…” I say to the side. If he was looking to God for guidance, maybe I could make this work. As long as I pretend his looking to God is because he’s a priest who can’t have sex with me, rather than my fiance who won’t. 
        “I don’t know, we’re so close already,” he says and crosses his arms. “Where is this coming from?”
        I stop myself from going on the defensive and spitting something like, “What’s that supposed to mean?” back at him. Instead I take a breath and put on my most earnest expression. “I’ve just been frustrated lately, and…”
        “Is this why you’ve been acting so weird?” There was something new in his voice, like he turned the stove on and the anger was starting to simmer. 
        “What? No—”
        “Because that’s something I’d like to talk about, instead of a promise I made to you and to myself. One which I intend to keep.” He takes a deep breath and there’s a faint tremor in his voice when he speaks again, “I’ve had this nagging, burning, question in the back of my mind for a while now. And I haven’t asked you, not in this way, because I thought I was being silly, maybe I am. I don’t have any… any evidence, but I have this feeling.” Henry pauses and searches her eyes briefly, then asks, “Do you want to marry me?” 
        The question hangs between them, pulling her heart to the ground as it falls to the floor. I look at this passionate version of Henry, his deep brows drawn together, the barely controlled tremble in his lip. Every doubt I’ve ever had about him crosses my mind, but with this version in mind. I picture our life in marriage, what it would be like if Henry just allowed himself to let loose. 
        I scold myself, “Tell him.” I can’t. “Tell him!” 
        I reach out and cup his cheek in my hand. He leans against it, his head heavy like a child’s after a long day. “Of course I do,” I say. For a moment it’s true. “I love you.” 
        Henry looks at me and his gaze softens. He puts his hand on mine and holds it when I let go. I almost think he’s going to give in, he’s wearing the face all men seem to wear when they decide it’s time to have their way with you. 
        He starts to lean in and I let him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. When his lips meet mine he’s tender, until he pulls me in by the waist and his lips adopt a new hunger. I grind my hips against his and I feel him gearing up to grab more purchase. 
        Our brief excursion into something steamier than what we’ve been experiencing is cut short when the old house phone rings. Henry’s body becomes stiff against mine, like he’s startled by the intrusion. 
        “At this hour?” I ask, trying to hide the frustration in my voice. We were so close, I can still imagine the trip to the bedroom. 
        Henry reluctantly untangles his limbs from mine and walks to the kitchen to take the call. “Could be important if it’s this late, family,” he suggests and picks up the phone. “Hello? Yes, this is him.” 
He looks back at me and I mouth, “Who is it?” Henry waits for a second and nods, before pointing at his neck. His neck? Who could… I make the gesture of the cross across my body and Henry nods.             “What could he possibly want right now?” 
        There's a brief silence as Henry listens to whatever the Priest is saying. “Tomorrow? Let me see… Well actually here, I’ll put her on the phone,” Henry says, then sets the phone down on the counter. “He wants to set up individual meetings, before we meet again as a group.”
        Henry walks to the couch to resume his earlier position, but my feet are stone. “We hardly finished the first one, shouldn’t we have a few more together before splitting off?” I ask, buying myself some time. Knowing that less than a few feet away, the man I had been dying to talk to for years was waiting on the other side of the line. 
        I don’t even have time to laugh at the irony, I was ready to call him less than fifteen minutes ago. Ready to throw everything away too, or at least a few things. But now I’m stalling and I can feel my tongue start to wither away as the dry mouth sets in. 
        “I don’t know.” Henry shrugs and sits down. “Maybe the one on one will help you work through the issues you said you have with him. Because he seems like a great guy  and priest to me, very nice.” 
        I nod and take a step toward the phone. “Sure, good point…” I turn back to the phone and pick it up. The plastic is still warm from Henry’s ear, and I don’t hear anything on the other side. I make sure Henry’s invested in the news again before going to our room and closing the door behind me. 
        All I can do is brace myself against the door and say, “Hi.” 
        Every fantasy I’ve ever had is thrown out the window. I can’t even parse through them all because my brain is too preoccupied with him. Having him on the other side of the call is enough, even if it’s only for a little while. 
        “Hi,” is all he says back, and it lingers for a second. The Priest clears his throat and I wonder if he’s telling himself to remain professional. Or if he even has to. I don’t know which I’d prefer. “Did uh… Did Henry explain why I called?” 
        I almost say yes, until I realize I could listen to him for a little longer if he explains again. “Oh no, he just handed me the phone and said you asked for me, sounded important.” Each word is an extreme exercise in keeping all my emotions out of my voice. I can’t put a finger on what I’m even feeling to begin with, there’s so much going on it might as well be static. 
        “Well, the one on one meetings are designed to… get to know you, both of you, as individuals. In case there’s anything embarrassing, for example, that you’re having a hard time bringing up or—”
        “Get to know me?” I ask, and I can’t help but laugh. 
        He stammers momentarily and I know I’ve caught him off guard. It only takes a second to collect himself and answers, “Yes, I know it’s maybe a bit awkward given the… circumstances, but it’s part of the process. I was calling to see if you were available tomorrow.” 
        I am, but I need to think it over. “Let me check my calendar,” I tell him, and wait for his acknowledgment before starting my calculations. 
        If I say no, I can only put it off for so long. And I don’t even want to put it off. But I also feel like I’m open to doing something stupid right now, and stupid isn’t what I need. As if I know what I need anymore. Maybe Henry was right, it could be an opportunity to work through my unresolved issues with the Priest. Except the only solution I can think of definitely isn’t what Henry had in mind. 
        “Tomorrow morning is open,” I finally respond. I can only hope ripping off the band-aid will go in my favor. 
        “Perfect,” he says. I can hear him smiling. “I’m not too busy, so come in when you can.” 
        “Okay, tomorrow then.” I don’t want to hang up yet, even though I know I’ll see him in less than twelve hours. Something about just hearing him— instead of seeing him in the flesh —allows me to ignore everything and live in the fantasy for a little longer. 
        “Right,” he confirms and clears his throat. “Tomorrow.” I don’t think he wants to hang up either. 
        Neither one of us says anything for a few seconds, until I bite the bullet and give. Someone has to. “Goodnight, Father.” 
        “Goodnight.” 
        I end the call, and stand in the silent bedroom for an extra minute or two so I can replay his words. So I can hear his voice without the other distractions. In my reverie, I don’t think it’s set in yet. And I don’t think it will, at least not until I see him. All I can do now is wait, and figure out what I’m going to wear. 

Chapter 6: Today's Agenda: Tell Me to Leave Him

Notes:

it's finally here!! sorry for making y'all wait so long for our faves to get some time alone, but hopefully it's worth it. I made this chapter a little longer than the others as a treat. I'm hoping it doesn't drag, but I tried to make sure the added length was relevant/contributing to the plot instead of pure fluff.

   Jude 1:22 And have mercy on those who doubt;

     It’s nearly ten o’clock and I’m standing outside the church. The road behind me is quiet, and it seems like I’m the only person in England who has any interest in going to church on a Friday. 
        I’ve been struggling to keep my nerves in check all morning, and I know if I don’t this will only go poorly for me. Henry too, depending on which way the pendulum swings. I still can’t tell, though, which is more overpowering: the stress or the excitement. 
        When I was getting ready, I made sure I didn’t look too good. Good enough that if I stomached a trip to Harrods other customers might think I’m buying any number of the luxury goods available until they realize I don’t look that good. I want to put on a good show, but as far as everyone else is concerned I’m still one-hundred percent committed to Henry. 
        On paper that’s true. But the matters of the heart are a completely different story. Part of me can’t help but wonder if seeing the Priest for the first time by myself will change things. I wonder if we’ll let our guards down, and talk in a way that somewhat resembles how we used to. Seeing him with Henry was intense enough for my emotional state, and now without my buffer?
        After the Priest called to schedule this meeting, I immediately phoned Claire. We’re meeting for lunch after, and thank God, because I already know I won’t know what to do with myself. I definitely don’t want to go back to the flat, even though Henry will be in a meeting. Every time the Priest crosses my mind in the kitchen, the hallway, the bathroom, the bedroom… It feels wrong. I still don’t know if it feels wrong because I’m so loyal to my future husband, or because I know exactly how much it will break him.
        I step inside and the church is as quiet as the street, Pam doesn’t even seem to be here. Once the door closes behind me I don’t even entertain the thought of leaving. This is something I need to do, something I want. I just need to figure out what that is, exactly, and what I’m supposed to do about it. 
        The church is almost too quiet. There’s a certain kind of silence I’ve only been able to find in holy places, the kind that weighs on you. Or maybe it only weighs on me because I’m a guilty sinner and if I were a good Catholic woman who prayed and confessed I’d feel welcome, content even. But the silence makes the church feel private and wrong like I shouldn’t be here. 
        I shake the weight from my shoulders and head towards the back of the church. I am supposed to be here, I was quite literally invited by the man of the house. On the way up the stairs, I indulge in the nostalgia— especially without the biggest reminder of my current chapter walking by my side. 
        His office is only a few feet away, and my body freezes again. I thought this would only be a one-time thing, but my feet are stone and the thought of moving them is excruciating. My eyes are trained on the knob, like staring at it will compel the door to open. I will myself just go and open it. Just take a step. Open the door. 
        My trance is broken when someone clears their throat to my right, and I involuntarily gasp. Of course, when I turn the Priest is standing there, apologetic shock written all over his face. “Sorry I, um…” he starts, trying to find the right words and probably trying to figure out if that was the sort of small thing he needed to apologize for. “I brought coffee, had a feeling you’d be here soon.” He holds out one of the cups in a silent offering, and I take it. 
        The Priest is pulling his keys out of his pocket as he steps past me and unlocks the door. Once he takes a step inside I glance over my shoulder. “He knows neither one of us is going to drink these, right?”
        When I turn around to follow, I catch him shaking his head and a glimpse of fading laughter. The Priest quickly suppresses any humour in his demeanor and walks around his desk to take a seat. He gestures to the chairs across from him and I take one, setting my coffee on his desk in the process. 
        A heartbeat’s worth of silence passes between us and I start, “So—”
        “Listen,” he interrupts. His tone is entirely serious, but there’s a certain softness to the edge of his voice. “I think we should address this,” He gestures between us. “Our history.”
        “Address it how, exactly?” I’m genuinely curious how he expects to make this better for either of us. Some sort of special priestly tool, a gift from God all-mighty? 
        “I suppose we’re doing it right now,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to make a joke or not. I don’t say anything, and he adds, “This isn’t really my area of expertise, officiating your ex… exes wedding.” 
        He’s got a point. “Wasn’t exactly my idea. Godmother gave Henry the idea and he insisted.” Explaining gives me a bit of relief, but I almost feel more foolish after telling the Priest I have zero personal agency. Or how I have zero self-preservation instincts. At the very least, though, it distances me from everything in a way. Gives me plausible deniability. 
        “Ah,” is all he says. He already knows what that means, what it’s like, I don’t have to waste my time explaining. The Priest laughs a bit at the mention of the Godmother, and this time he lets me see his laughter. He takes a breath and poises his coffee for a sip. “How’ve you been?” 
        “Well,” I start, and it’s my turn to laugh. “I’ve been fine, things are good.” It’s the understatement of the century, but he knows that. He has to. 
        “Not the fairy tale everyone makes it out to be?” He does. 
        I shake my head, still smiling from my laughter. “No, definitely not. Never really was, was it?” I pause but I don’t let him answer. “And you? How’s the priesthood been treating you?” 
        “It’s well, you know, certainly challenging me with new things every day,” he answers. “Even all these years later.” 
        I’ve fallen off our rhythm and I’m not sure whether to smile, nod, laugh, or I should make a joke. Before I saw him I spent so much time imagining what these moments would be like. Maybe it was rash to assume I’d walk back into this office, this church, his life, and everything would be as it was. 
        I desperately wish that was the case, and I wonder if he does too. Did the Priest ever sit here, imagining all the things he’d wish he’d had the time to say? Did he debate calling me for four years? I also have to consider the thought that he didn’t do any of that.
        After the bus stop, did he go home, grab a drink, and go to bed? Did he stay up that night thinking about it? And how long did it take him to get over all of it? A day, a week, a few months? I don’t know why, but I can’t imagine having any sort of impact equal to what he’s had on me. 
        It’s possible, but assuming I’m not at the center of everything is also something I’ve been working on these past few years. My therapist is quite proud, actually. I wonder why I haven’t scheduled any sessions lately… 
        “So,” the Priest starts again. I don’t know how long I’ve been in my own head, but certainly long enough for him to notice. “I scheduled these one on one meetings because I got the sense someone was holding back, but I couldn’t quite figure out why.” 
        “I know you’re a priest, not a detective, but—”
        “Let me rephrase that because I know you’re going to say your answers were better,” he says, and I shut up immediately. He’s right. “Henry’s answers may not have been the most romantic, but it was also clear who was more eager to be here. This is why I’ve scheduled these meetings. Because as much as you think you’re good at hiding what you’re feeling, you’re not.” 
        I stare at him for a moment, and I’m not sure what to say. I’m not sure what he wants me to say to that. Again, he’s right, but I also didn’t come here to be verbally assaulted in such a way. I’m half expecting him to tell me I’m here because I’m still in love with him. He already seems to know the whole story anyway. 
        He waits through my silence and adds, “So if talking about your relationship with me is a bit weird, I get it. Weird for me too. But I’m hoping that talking about your relationship when you’re not thinking, ‘Oh my god, here I am sat next to my fiance talking to a priest I’ve fucked’.”
        I can’t stop my laughter, it comes out ugly and loud. “Almost exactly what I’ve been thinking these past few days.” 
        The Priest nods and laughs. “I thought so, I’m assuming he doesn’t know? If Godmother set this all up.” 
        “Oh, absolutely not,” I tell him. “I don’t know what Godmother told him except you officiated her wedding, and where to find you.” 
        “And you never thought to tell him? I’m certainly not the only priest in all of London. Could have tried Kensington, Westminster… Camden, even,” he says, his cheeky smile now a permanent fixture. 
        I shake my head, laughing again. “I tried to tell him to go to another priest, tried to tell him I didn’t like you after Godmother’s wedding, he insisted. And every time I’d bring it up afterward, he’d act like my wanting a different priest was a sign I didn’t want to marry him. 
        “So why not just tell him?”
        “Father, I’m engaged to a Catholic man who I’ve agreed to wait to fuck until we’re married, I don’t think telling him I’ve fucked the priest whose officiating our wedding will go over well.” 
        He leans back in his seat and looks at me like he doesn’t believe me. “You know, I always thought you would’ve ended up with someone who would find it… endearing.” 
        I look down to hide my smirk. So he has been thinking about me. At least, enough that it was worth mentioning. “The way I might find his former service as an altar boy endearing?” 
        “Sure,” he answers and shrugs. “We all have our experiences with the church.” 
        “It’s just…”
        He purses his lips, then asks me, “That’s not really the issue, is it?” I shake my head. Then he asks, “So, what is it? This is your time to get it all out there.” 
        I look away and my eyes wander the room as I piece my thoughts together. I don’t know what to tell him, what I can. For starters, I still don’t think I’m ready to tell him I’ve been in love with him all these years. Or at the very least, I’m relatively sure. Because now that I’m sitting here with him, I’m wondering if I really am just falling back into my old habits. 
        If I’m not sure if I want to marry Henry, or get married at all, but I’m four years deep with no discernible issues… Is my brain trying to give me an out? Or maybe I’m destined to be on my own forever, if I can’t bring myself to get over one of the most unattainable men in all of England. Not entirely unattainable. But, still enough so the part of my brain that’s been getting my life in order over the years is screaming at me. 
        My eyes land back on his. “I’m not sure if I want to marry him,” I finally let out, and the relief is instant. It feels even better than when I told Claire, now that I’ve told someone other than the one person I’d trust with everything. 
        The Priest nods. “This is normal, cold feet, you’ve definitely heard of it,” he says. “What doubts are you having? About him and the marriage.” 
        “Well,” I start, but I don’t even know where to begin. “I don’t know if I love him.”
        It might be the holiest confession I’ve ever made in my life and I almost feel the spark of God within me. Telling Clare was one thing, but telling him? Maybe it’s because I’ve dug my grave so deep, but at this point sharing any sliver of the truth feels like heaven. As cliche as it is, I feel lighter. But why is it so hard to do it when it matters?
        I finally take in Priest’s expression and he doesn’t exactly seem as shocked as I expected, but he’s silent. His eyes meet mine and he holds a hand up. “I’m sorry, I’m…” he starts. “I’m not um… God help me find the right words to say,” he laughed and grabbed his mouth, before easing his hand up to cover his eyes. He shook his head and added, “I’m not laughing at you, I guess I’m just um… I don’t know, really.” 
        His loss for words takes any lingering thoughts out of my mouth. I don’t know how to react to him, but I don’t know what sort of reaction I expected to begin with. There’s not exactly a playbook for our type of relationship. Maybe I’ll write it, and once I become the famous author of this playbook my fans will let me know that I’m not alone. 
        So I don’t know what I want him to say, and I don’t know what I want to say, but I know one thing. While he’s processing my words I realize I’m sick of this feeling: this crushing, aching, echoing, haunting, draining loneliness. What am I supposed to do about that, though? Everything a rational person would tell me to do isn’t an option, except spending time with family… That’s beside the point. 
        I need to say something! Oh my god, it’s so quiet in this office. A bit stuffy too. Well, what did I expect him to say? Maybe ask me why I’m here then? But he probably knows me well enough to guess I haven’t been forthcoming with Henry. 
He clears his throat, and asks, “Are you sure you don’t love him, or is there a chance you’re getting cold feet? A little early, but still cold.” 
        “I’ve actually been trying to figure that out myself,” I tell him. “I didn’t think we had any… problems, before all this. But then as soon as he proposed, I think I realized how serious it’s all become. But now I can’t tell if I don’t love him, or if I’m still scared to commit.” 
        “You don’t trust yourself?” 
        He presents the question like it’s a no-brainer, like he was presented with an elementary maths problem on the Solicitor Qualifying Exam. Do I trust myself? I suppose the inability to decipher my own feelings and listen to myself qualifies. “I guess I don’t. What if I tell him I don’t, and then we break up and I realize I’ve made a horrible mistake?”
        Priest takes a sip of his coffee, and I wonder if he’s trying to prove me wrong sip by sip. “You said you didn’t have these doubts before the engagement, so let's try something. Tell me about how you met, how you became a couple. How did you end up back here?” 
        “Well, I decided to take some theology classes—”
        “That wasn’t a joke?”
        My words stop dead in their tracks and I stare at him. “A joke?”
        “Yes,” he laughs. “There’s no way that wasn’t some sort of stunt you cooked up to fuck with me.” 
        “First of all, not everything is about you,” I say, leaning forward in my seat. “And second of all, maybe I was hooked and wanted to learn a bit more. Is that a crime?” 
        He raises his hands defensively. “Hey, I’m all for people learning more. Just a bit surprised. Keep going.” 
        “I sat near him because he was one of the only older students in the room, and we started talking. Towards the end of the term he asked me out and I said yes. Been together since.” 
        “That’s all?”
        That’s what he has to say? “Um, yeah. Does that not answer your question?”
        “No, it does. I just thought… I don’t know, there’d be something more to your story,” he says with genuine disappointment in his voice. 
        “My god, what do you want from me?” I ask him, incredulous. All I can do is laugh, but my voice is getting louder. “I’ve done everything right for once and that’s what you have to say?” 
        The Priest presses his face into his hands and shakes his head. He rubs his eyes and looks up at me. Clearly, he didn’t prepare for this portion of the meeting. Instead, I continue, “You know, just because you thought my life would turn out a certain way when you met me years ago doesn’t mean it’s going to actually turn out that way. Not to mention, people change in the span of four years. I’ve changed.” 
        “That’s true. I’m not trying to diminish your accomplishments, especially one as sacred as a relationship this close to marriage,” he says, the laughter fading in favor of gravitas. “I’m sorry. But still… I’d just always imagined that maybe you’d meet someone with a hamster-themed cafe, or at least something more than a guy from a theology class.” 
        “He’s not just a guy from a theology class, he’s…” I jump to Henry’s defense, but find myself coming up short when it’s time to launch into a tirade full of everything I love about him. 
        So, why did I start dating him? “He’s handsome, for starters.” True. “He’s smart, probably more on Claire’s level than mine.” True. “He’s patient, kind… Henry’s perfect on paper, but now that I’m here? Thinking about spending the rest of my life with him?”
        “What are you going to do about it, then?” 
        “Well, tell him. Right? That’s what I’m supposed to do.”
        “You don’t want to though.” 
        Maybe he still knows me. “How can I tell him I don’t love him if I’m not even sure where I stand myself?”
        “Have you considered you don’t have to tell him?” There’s a devilish glint in his eyes. Like he knows he’s just proposed the perfect business opportunity, and I’d be a fool not to invest. 
        “Well obviously.” There’s a hint of annoyance in my voice that I didn’t intend to be there, and I continue a bit softer, “That’s what I’m doing right now.”
        He shakes his head. “No, I mean… Tell him to want to push the wedding back, push all this back, and buy yourself some time to figure it out.” 
        I laugh. “You’re telling me to lie?” 
        “No, no,” he shakes his head again, with a touch more fervor than the last. “I’m telling you to just tell him you’re nervous, worried, whatever, you didn’t want to say anything in front of me, then you figure it out, and either marry him or not. Telling him you’re not sure if you love him is only going to hurt, but telling him it’s on you…”
        “I don’t know if I can do that.”
        “Why not?” He’s surprised, I can tell. “It’s not really lying, you’re just telling him what you’re thinking in a way that doesn’t hurt him.” 
        “Except he’s already confronted me about acting ‘weird’ about the wedding. Last night, in fact, right before you called,” I tell him. “I blurted out that I wasn’t sure about waiting until marriage anymore. He got all serious and asked if I still wanted to marry him.” 
        “So you feel you’re already in too deep?” 
        “Exactly.” 
        I watch him genuinely reconsider in real-time. Leaning back in his seat, staring at the desk as he thinks about the situation. All he’s missing is a long grey beard to stroke. 
        “And that’s why you need to know if you love him, because at this point you either tell him you don’t or marry him?” Priest asks, and I nod. 
        I expect another question for his line of reasoning, but he falls into another contemplative catatonic state. This definitely isn’t how I thought our meeting would go, but so far it feels relatively successful. My heart isn’t beating out of my chest anymore, and my palms aren’t clammy. 
        While I’m sitting and waiting for his response, I look at him. He’s not really paying attention, too preoccupied with trying to solve my dilemma. But I finally have an opportunity to look at him, to really look. His eyes, his arms, his neck. 
        I’ve made a silent decision by the time he opens up to speak, “You know what love feels like, and you know it isn’t easy.” His voice is soft, tentative, like he’s still finding his footing. “And because of that, if you don’t think he’s right for you, I think you should do yourself a favor and break it off.” 
        “I thought you didn’t tell people what to do?” I tease. 
        “As a priest I don’t, sure,” he starts. “But as a friend? I’d at least like the chance to see you happy again. You deserve that much.” 
        His words are heavier for me than I think he intended, and now I’m the speechless one. I try to prevent my brain from latching onto the fact that he admitted he wants me to be happy, since I know I’ll only focus on him admitting that he cares —rather than his self-imposed categorization as a friend.
        Instead of speaking, I nod silently. I should end it. I should be excited to marry who I’m with and, he’s right, I deserve to be happy in my relationship. Everyone does. 
        “Now I just need to figure out how to actually sit down and do it.” I rest my cheek on my hand, and sit forward to prop my elbow on the desk. I start thinking aloud, “He’s quite sensitive, so if I’m at a certain point in my cycle… Our lease isn’t up yet either, but he’d be fine.  And he has a conference coming up, I have an event…” 
        “There’s no proper time for a breakup,” he reminds me. “It won’t be easy either.”
        I snort and sit up straight in my seat, “Breakups are harmless, I don’t think I’ve ever lost sleep over one.” His face falls momentarily, then I remember, I’m transported back there, and it hits me again. “Except for… Sometimes, sometimes they’re hard.” 
        Priest looks up and finds my eyes. We hold each other’s gaze for a few silent moments, until he breaks it with a solemn nod of understanding. “Sometimes…” he echoes, before taking a deep breath and sitting up in his chair. “I guess I’ve done my part then.” 
        It’s time to go and I know it, but I don’t want to. Not yet. “Is it?” I tease, trying to break through the wet blanket that’s settled over both of us. I check the mostly decorative watch I wear, barely registered the actual time, and clasped my hands together. “Well, I’ve got lunch with Claire so…” 
        “Right, of course,” he says and stands up. I follow suit and he walks around his desk. 
        Our eyes are locked, and neither one of us knows what to do. I take the lead and walk towards the door before it gets awkward. Once my hand is on the door and I already have a foot out the door, I stop. I glance over my shoulder at him, he hasn’t even moved from his spot at the desk. 
        I’m about to say goodbye, but I don’t want to. I’m not ready to close this chapter again, so instead, I ask, “Did it pass?” 
        Priest doesn’t miss a beat and says, “I’m not so sure anymore.” He looks crestfallen but wears a sad smile, and it takes everything in me to stop myself from running to him right there. 
I don’t say anything else, I just return his sad smile and leave. 

Notes:

....sooo....

how are we feeling?? hopefully good. i'll be honest, i've been having really bad insomnia lately so my writing skills are running with half a tank. posting this from my new campus too, so that's exciting!

Chapter 7: Confessions of the Convent

Notes:

aka confessions of the only child who tries to write two sisters being happy and mentally well

Psalm 133:1 “Behold, how good and how pleasant it is; For brothers to dwell together in unity!”

         I’m still reeling from the meeting. Something about the Priest’s words gave me more relief than I think anything else could have. I know Claire will make some sound of when she finds out I’m listening to her advice out of someone else’s mouth. But when she knows it was his?
         She won’t be, disappointed is probably more fitting. The kind of disappointment that can only be experienced when a woman’s friend takes the word of a man over hers. Claire will understand when she knows it’s him. If I explain how I feel blessed, how it felt like the god I still don’t believe in was holding my hand and guiding me to the answer. 
         When I get off the bus, the street is immediately more lively than what I was greeted with outside the church. I weave my way through the crowds of people either on their way to lunch, or back to the office. It’s a nice day out, which doesn’t do much to change the heavy London attitudes. 
         Around the corner I spot the cafe Claire picked out, and I almost feel like the world is playing some sort of cruel joke on me. Bringing our holy father back into my life was one thing, but this? The cafe looks like a perfect replica to mine. Perfect replica to the one I had, anyway. 
 It almost looks like I never sold it at all, with the same lettering on the same black awning. People are sitting outside eating, laughing, chatting… I might cry over it if selling the cafe didn’t actually turn out to be a good thing. Look, I hate saying that but it already took me long enough to think the thought. It doesn’t sound good, especially after what I did to Boo, but trying to manage a cafe is no fucking joke. Busy or not, it follows you everywhere. Money alone aside, having to be responsible for yourself is exhausting. 
         Claire’s sitting at one of the tables under the awning, and once I approach the table she looks up from whatever email’s open on her phone, and smiles. After the years of just wishing we’d get along, it’s not something I take for granted. It’s reassuring, and suddenly opening up about the Priest doesn’t seem to be the worst thing in the world. She trusts me. She knows I don’t want to be miserable, and she just wants what’s best for me. 
          “You look good, did you attend a service too?” 
         I give her the pity laugh as I pull out my chair to sit. “Very funny,” I say, hanging my bag on the back of the chair. The cafe doesn’t look so similar up close, until I look inside. Through the windows I can see hundreds, if not thousands, of photos of cats. The image of Boo hanging the first photo flashes in my mind and I can’t help but think out loud, “Not very original.”
         “Hm?” Claire asks, then follows my line of sight inside. “Oh, I didn’t even—”
         I shake my head, “It’s not— Don’t worry, it’s fine.” I don’t need her feeling guilty over something I didn’t really mean to say anyway. My eyes fall to the menu in front of me, and I take a quick glance at the options. I’m not really that hungry, not after the stress of the meeting, but if I don’t at least order something I know Claire won’t either. 
         “So how did it go?” Claire asks, and takes a sip of the coffee she ordered before I got here. 
         “Pretty well, actually,” I’m happy to tell her. “He said the same thing you did.” 
         “Shocker,” Claire says simply, as if there was no other option. “And besides that was it…” 
         “Not too bad, awkward at first but… I honestly thought I might die, seeing him without Henry.” 
         “Why? Because you still want to sleep with him?” Claire asks, completely earnest. 
         I can’t help but stare at my sister with at least a modicum of shock. Not as much as I would have awarded to sleep’s older cousin, but I don’t want Claire to overextend herself. My shock is broken by a snort, which gives Claire permission to let the cheeky grin she was holding back sneak onto her face. 
         Part of me wants to swat Claire on the arm the way she would when I got into something I shouldn’t have. Like reaching for one of the papers on her desk, followed by Claire swatting my hand away from the curiosities of adulthood. 
         “I do not!” I exclaim, but any defensiveness in my body is only in my words. She knows I want to, I know I want to. At this point saying I don’t want to is a game, a joke. Something we’re all in on. Except for… “I still have to take care of Henry. Besides, I don’t think Priest would let me anytime soon, last time was already challenge enough. Might have to join a nunnery just to get his attention.” 
         Claire looks at me with something new in her eyes, something I can’t really place. Reading her face in normal conversation is hard enough, but when dealing with such sensitive material? You’ll never know where you stand. Somehow she always manages to maintain the calm demeanor of a therapist, hardly phased by the world. Maybe she should have gone into psychiatry. Or is it psychology? Whichever one it is, the mix-up alone should make her feel right at home. 
         “Have you got a plan for that yet?” Claire asks simply. She has to know I don’t. Which gets me thinking…
         How am I supposed to break up with him? I know the usual parts, “This just isn’t working out for me,” or, “It’s not you, it’s me.” Both of which are true, neither of which I can say. Breaking up with someone you’ve slept with a few times is easy, those are hardly even break-ups. Those are just break-offs, you’re just breaking that person off from whatever extension of yourself reached out to them. 
         But in a relationship as long as this? Where the person really knows you, like you really know them? I wonder if Henry really knows me. 

         I consider the thought for a moment.  
         I don’t think he does… 
         Do I know him? 
         I don’t think I do. 

         This brief revelation leaves me in my silence for longer than I intended. But I know Claire thinks I’m carefully pondering breaking up my relationship of four years, not thinking through things she’d say I should have realized months ago. Years ago, even. 
         “I guess I haven’t really gotten that far,” I admit. Which is probably the truest statement I could say about our relationship at any point. I’ve never gotten this far, so of course I don’t know what I’m doing. I mean, obviously I’ve had other longer relationships I’ve had to end. But I got that practice with Harry, and breaking up with him never came with any serious turmoil. At least that’s how it was towards the end. 
         Even still, I’m not an expert when it comes to something at this level. Which means, I thought I was in a pitiful love story, but this whole time I’ve been a fish out of water. At least, that’s the story I’m sticking with. “I know everyone says there’s no good time for something like this but I have a fundraiser coming up, and he has this work trip…” I trail off after noticing Claire’s apparent sigh of relief. “What?” 
         “I actually wanted to talk to you about that,” Claire says. “About having to hold onto the engagement for a little longer.” 
         “Aren’t you the one who told me, what was it…” I start. I can see her trying to stop me, but I’m already quoting in her voice, “’Just don’t let it go on for too long?’”
         “Yes I did, but, it’s not me. It’s Godmother.” 
         “Oh god, what is it?” 
         “She’s planned a garden party, she’s describing it as her engagement gift to you and Henry. But that’s not even the worst part,” Claire explains and gives me a moment to brace for it. “She’s also inviting the Priest. Insisted on it, actually. Says she wants you and Henry to get the same experience she and Dad had with their dinner, time with the whole family.” 
         “She didn’t.” 
         “She did.”
         “Shit.” 
         I press my fingers on my temple as if the pressure could push the event out of my memory and out of reality. I can’t help but groan just thinking about the whole ordeal. “As if all of this isn’t already hard enough. Do you know what it was like to be with both of them in the same room?” 
         Claire gives me a look life she can’t figure out whether or not I’m joking. Whichever decision contributes to her starting to say, “Difficult, I know—”
         “I thought I was doing a good job at keeping everything under wraps last time, but do you know what he told me? He said it was obvious that I didn’t want to be there. I don’t think Henry seemed to mind, though, but…” 
         “Well why would he? You’ve been acting excited to marry him for how long now?” Claire asks, and sips her drink pointedly. “Unless you two kiss, or sleep together, or something, Henry has no reason to think anything’s wrong. It’s not like you’ve cheated on him.” Not physically, at least, I add for her. 
         She takes another sip, but I can tell it’s so she doesn’t have to meet my eyes. I don’t blame her. It’s a bit of a loaded topic between us. If she looks at me and I decide she looks too judgmental, it won’t end well. But if we both act like neither one brought it up, there’s nothing to read into and nothing to get mad over. 
         “Except he doesn’t think everything is fine, at least I don’t think he does,” I start to explain. Before I can get into it, a waiter approaches our table. 
         He’s wearing a black shirt with the cafe’s logo on it, some doodle of a cat a child could have done, printed with their name in copper text. “Can I get you anything to drink?” He asks me, and he seems a bit too excited to be taking my order. 
        “Still water to and an iced tea to start,” I say, and glance across the table to Claire as if to ask whether or not she’s ready to order. She glances down at the menu, back at me, and nods. I finish up my order quickly to give her the stage, “And I’ll have the ham and cheese panini.” 
         Claire looks at the Chipper Waiter and orders, “I’ll do the burrata.” 
         The Chipper Waiter looks at us and takes our menus from the table. “Perfect ladies, that will be right out!” 
         When he leaves it’s like the sun has been hidden by a cloud, and we get back to our riveting conversation. “The problem is, I just told him I didn’t want to wait for marriage anymore. After he’d already thought I’d been acting weird all week, I just… I couldn’t help myself, I don’t even know where it came from. It was so stupid too, I shouldn’t have even asked.” 
         Claire nods. “Well, him thinking you’re acting odd shouldn’t make breaking up with him any harder. In fact, I’d think it would be easier. In this case, you’d confirm his fears instead of continuing to gaslight him for weeks.” 
        My mouth drops open but I try to close it before she notices. “What? I know the words too,” Claire says in a soft sing-song voice, almost like she’s teasing a child. “And don’t act like that isn’t what you’re doing, I’m not saying you’re bad because of it, but I think an ounce of self-awareness might make all of this a little easier.” 
        “Self-awareness?” I repeat back to her. “I’d say I’ve been pretty self-aware throughout this whole thing.”
         Claire can feel my irritation and jumps into damage control mode, “I’m not saying you’re not… I just mean…” She sighs and pinches her brow. “I don’t mean self-awareness… I guess the right way to say it would be to tell you to have some agency. You’re sitting here, going around in circles about whether or not you want to break up with him, when I haven’t heard a single reason why you want to stay with him. 
         “I just, I feel like this is a pretty open and shut case, right? You clearly never stopped loving the Priest because the moment he’s back in your life, you’ve suddenly gone haywire and now I feel like I’m staring at the version of you I saw four years ago. And I get that it’s one thing for me to say all that, especially after telling you to wait just a little longer but…” 
         “What’s that supposed to mean?” My question comes out a bit more harsh than intended, especially because I’ve been having the same thoughts Claire’s just not vocalizing. Has all of this sent me into a spiral, all the way back down to where I started? 
         While I haven’t necessarily done anything rash, besides asking my husband-to-be to sleep with me, my thoughts, my mind feels like I’m back there. Every time I sit down and ponder or worry about whatever is going on, it sounds a little bit like I never left. At least, that’s what it sounds like to me. And now with Claire echoing that very notion? I need to do something about all this, and fast. 
         “I can’t tell if Henry has been healthy for you all these years, or if it’s quite the opposite and the Priest is really what you’ve been needing this whole time,” Claire starts to explain. “I just can’t help but hear some of the old things you’d say to me in your words now, and it makes me worry.” 
         The Chipper Waiter  brings out our food and our conversation comes to a not-so-subtle halt until he’s gone. “Which is why I’m glad that I’ve decided to end it. Do you know how far along Godmother is?” I ask, and pick up my sandwich. Claire looks at me like she’s about to question what I’ve just said, so I add, “With the planning?” 
         “I don’ know, why?” Claire asks while cutting into the burrata to spread on a crostini. 
         “Well, what if we just had her cancel it? If I get through the weekend with him gone, and my event, then I don’t have to wait until her party.”
         Claire stifles a laugh but I know it’s going to come out one way or another, so I wait. It comes out in the form of a snort and she shakes her head, “Even if she hadn’t started anything, do you really think she’d cancel a party? Especially one for you?” 
         “What do you mean, one for me?” 
         “In what world would Godmother throw a party for you, let alone either of us?” Claire asked. “I just mean, the fact that she’s gone out of her way to do something this nice, if you disregard it, I think she just might combust.” 
         I laugh, she’s right. “Well in that case… I guess it’s a non-starter, and I’ll just have to wait until after. She’s going to take it as an embarrassment for her either way. But since there’s really nothing else we can do for that, anything new with you?”
        Claire shakes her head, “Klare is taking Jake on a ‘boys’ trip this weekend,” she pauses and tries to hold in her laughter. “Apparently Jake overhead some kids in his college band talking about camping further North… well, he wouldn’t stop talking about it so Klare insisted on taking him for a weekend trip. I think Klare hardly knows how to set up a tent let alone other, well, camping activities.” 
        Watching Claire talk about Klare is refreshing in the midst of all my drama. She’s so obviously in love with him, the gleam in her eyes, her desire to laugh when she’s only just mentioned him, it’s even in the softness of her voice. But she doesn’t linger on Klare for too long, probably because she can sense I know how much she loves him. 
        “And besides that… work is a bit slow for once, which is nice, but I hardly know what to do with the time,” she says. “I’ve been trying to read more, but I can hardly sit still long enough to do it. Every time I do, my brain yells at me to go and be productive, like I’ve got some sort of deadline only it knows about.” 
       “Well, when all you ever really do is work, hobbies are going to be hard,” I tell her, punctuating my point with a wave of my panini. “I don’t think I’ve ever even heard you mention a hobby, except for reading now apparently.” 
       “I just can’t seem to ever actually relax and do any of the hobbies,” Claire explains. “Every time I do it feels like I’m wasting my time, even though I know I’m not.” 
       “If you’re so used to working then it’s going to take time to adjust to having time for yourself. I mean, I can’t even imagine what it’s like when you’re retired.”
       “Don’t even get me started,” Claire says, and immediately gets started. “I can’t imagine what it’ll be like, if I can’t even relax and take time to myself now while I still have a job, what am I supposed to do when I’m not working at all? I don’t want to be one of those people who can’t stop working until they die.” 
         She looks at me like she wants reassurance, and in the moment I’m almost not sure if I can give it to her. We’ve all known Claire is a workaholic, and out of any of us she’s more than the most likely to work until she drops. But I want to be helpful, she’s been so helpful these few weeks. 
         “If you start working on it now, I think that by the time you retire you should be able to actually relax,” I tell her. I’m not done yet, and I have a feeling this might be a good one. “If you feel like you need to be productive… what if you set deadlines, or goals for your hobbies? Read ‘x’ amount of chapters by a certain day, so you still feel like you’re accomplishing something?”
         Claire thinks about it for a moment, then nods. “I actually think that might work…” she trails off and thinks further, I can see the hint of a smile on her lips. “I don’t want to force myself to try and relax, but if I feel pressured to that might work…” 
         I don’t let her see my questioning eyebrow raise or the way my mouth twists when I’m not sure about something. “Yes,” I try to muster up some sort of positive demeanor. “Pressuring yourself to relax might just be the trick. Maybe you just need to try a new hobby, and reading isn’t your thing.” 
         “I know, but I’ve always been a reader… And I don’t want to look at any of those lists or articles, the ones that tell you what new stuff to try?”
         “Could always pick up art, don’t need a list for that,” I say. “I’m sure Godmother would love to show you.” 
         Claire snorts. “I’d have to be a certain kind of desperate to even consider trying that.” 
         “Yeah, well, I’d give you a suggestion but I’ve never been the best at filling my free time with anything actually good for me.” I take a bite of my sandwich, but don’t manage to wait until I’m completely done chewing before I continue, “Besides… You’re always working so you haven’t had the time to figure out what you actually like when you’re not. Do you actually like reading, or did you just like it when you had the time to know what you like?” 
         Claire raises a thoughtful brow as she considers my words, and for once I know I’ve given her some good advice. It’s been long overdue, especially considering how much help she’s given me in working through my thoughts with Henry. “At least you have your little religion… thing. I still don’t get how you manage to actually be interested in that.” 
         “It’s everywhere, when you get into it. I see the appeal, I just don’t play into it at all,” I explain. “I doubt it’s that different from what you’re reading. Self-help, memoirs, all that… mine’s just got Romans and incestuous ancient humans.”
         Claire lets out a shocked laugh. “That’s what you’re reading?” 
         “Well that last bit is only in the beginning, thank God,” I sip my tea. “Still don’t know how that one got past publishers. And besides, I thought that was common knowledge.”
         “Maybe for Christians, sure,” Claire surmises. “The rest of us?” 
         I nodded, point taken. “Maybe we don’t need new hobbies, maybe we just need friends.” 
         “I have friends!” Claire exclaims, as if I’d just suggested she was lazy, or unsuccessful, or anything else besides lonely. 
         “Let me try again, friends you spend time with.” 
         Claire rolls her eyes, but I know she knows I’m right. She sighs, “It’s hard, I’m busy, they’re busy.” 
         “What about Jake’s friends’ parents?”
          Claire shakes her head, “They always have something to say about Jake. Some ‘cure’ they’ve heard of, never ends. I don’t know why they think it’s necessary, considering he’s gotten just as far as their kids, and I’d argue he’s done better.” 
         She’s bristling, and I can tell this is something she’s wanted out for a while. So I let her. “And you’ll tell them you’re not interested, but they’ll always find a way to bring it up. Sending emails with links to new studies, mentioning medications when I’m in earshot… They’re like those women with their makeover parties, but instead they’re trying to sell the idea that your kid is broken.” 
         I nod, taking it in. Before Martin and Claire split, I couldn’t imagine her taking on Jake in the way she did. But watching her advocate for him, in the way he tried to do for her then, was more than heartwarming. I think, in a way, it’s how I know Claire will be alright. She has Klare to fight for her, and Jake to fight for herself. Instead of directing her love and energy towards trying to save something she couldn’t, she finally has the opportunity to direct it towards something she can choose to save everyday. 
         “There has to be a few that aren’t so bad,” I suggest. “Maybe not the kind on the school board?” 
         “I’ve tried, but every time I try to talk to another woman my own age she’s either too busy with her marriage, her kids, or she’s like me and she’s just as busy with her job,” Claire explains, somewhat defeated. 
         “What if you set aside a day or two in advance? Pick a day every month or so, spend time with your friends,” I offer, once again feeling quite helpful for once. “One thing I’ve learned after taking on this job was that you have to make time… but you know that.” 
         Claire nods, taking in the advice. She sips her coffee and asks, “How’s your job going, by the way? I feel like all we talk about anymore is men.” 
        “Honestly, most days I get paid to look busy,” I say and laugh. It’s certainly been a welcome relief after treading water in the cafe for so long, but with the nature of my work I can’t help but feel guilty at times. “Most of the women I work with are so good at knowing what people need, but they spend more time talking about it then doing it.” 
         “Could be a bureaucracy issue, I know more than enough about red tape to know there’s probably someone who doesn’t want what they want, who is making it very difficult to achieve,” Claire suggests. 
         “Even if that is the case, our work is just so slow sometimes. And most of the work we actually get done doesn’t really even help,” I sigh and take another bite of my sandwich. After washing it down with tea, I continue, “You know, I’ve even considered leaving to start my own non-profit because of it, and I’ve never even had an interest in that before.” 
         “What if you did? You already have experience with the not-profitting part,” Claire jokes, not holding back her laugh this time. 
         I can’t help but laugh with her, because I have to laugh about it now. “If I ever thought I could pull it off, maybe.” 
         “I’m sure Godmother would love to contribute to your cause,” Claire says cheekily, but then her smile falters for the briefest of seconds. 
         I catch it, and ask, “What is it?”
         “I think this could be a great idea for you, if it’s something you’d ever really want to do, but I think you should worry about Henry and getting all of that sorted first.” 
         I nod, back to this. “Feels like it might be easier with something else waiting on the other side.” 
         Claire nods, she knows. But what she doesn’t know is that, now that I’ve had the meeting with Priest, I have to prepare myself to not rely on the hope that he’s the thing waiting for me on the other side. To not hope that he’ll reciprocate my feelings this time. I’m almost angry at his answer to my question. He’s not sure, but he’s had the same four years I had to decide. 
         “You’ve just got to get through the next few weeks or so, and then you can… I don’t know, run off with your Priest  or something.”
         “I should probably tell him what Godmother’s planning. He thought Henry organizing our pre-cana at his church was some sort of bit.” 
          Claire snorts. “Knows you well.” 
          I join her laughter, “He couldn’t believe I chose another Catholic.” 
         “We couldn’t either,” Claire adds. 
         “Third time’s the charm, I guess,” I say. There’s a lull and then a confession comes to mind. “Can I be honest with you?”
         Claire takes a breath, mentally bracing herself. “Sure.” Another breath. “Why not?”
         “I feel quite guilty talking to you about this, after what you experienced with Martin.”
         “What do you mean?”
         “Henry’s never… I don’t know, he’s not a ‘Martin’,” I explain, even though I’m doing a horrible job of it. 
         Claire nods, “Henry may not be a ‘Martin’, but he’s certainly not a Klare either.” 
         I smile and glance away, almost like I can’t bear to look at her when emotions are involved. But who’s surprised? “No,” I agree. “I suppose not.” 
        “Look, I’ve got one more meeting before the weekend,” Claire starts. “But since it’s just me in the house this weekend, and I don’t have any hobbies… I might get a bit bored.” 
         I nod, Claire was always better at making a polite and graceful exit. She leaves two twenty-pound notes on the table, more than enough for the meal. I promise to save the extra for our next meal.
         “I’ll see you,” I tell her. I want to, for her sake and for mine. 

Chapter 8: “You Know What You’re Going to Do” - My Therapist

Notes:

this one is kinda long, sorry/you're welcome? longish me-update at the end bc i felt too guilty to put it in the last chapter after not posting lol

also i'm pretty sure i caught every 1st/3rd person mistake, i don't know if i've explained this to you guys yet but I write my outline in 3rd person since i couldn't decide what to write this in at the beginning :) lowk want to post it after finishing this for shits and gigs, but also bc there's a few things that are a bit more like the script that i don't include bc i don't want her to become a caricature of herself

Galatians 6:1 Brothers and sisters, if someone is caught in a sin, you who live by the Spirit should restore that person gently. But watch yourselves, or you also may be tempted. 

 

 

        When I get back to the flat Henry’s nearly finished packing. I can hear him zipping up the small bag he uses for weekend trips, so I join him in our room. If my life followed any other trajectory, was in any other sort of genre, this might be my harrowing emotional climax. Maybe he figured it out, or some guilty conscience enlightened him to the situation. 
        He notices my presence in the doorway and stops for a moment to turn and smile at me. “How was it?” 
        “Good,” I say, stepping into the room to join him. “I think I’ve got a lot of things figured out now.” 
        “Good, good,” Henry says, then pulls me into a quick greeting hug. “I’m almost done here, just a few more things for the briefcase and I’m off.” 
        “Your flight is at three, right?” I ask him, playing the role of the good future-wife. 
        He nods, then sets his suitcase on the ground. It’s small, but more than enough for a weekend. In an alternate reality, his entire life is packed in there and he’s leaving me after learning of my lack of faith. Then I’d cry, because how dare he leave me? And as reality would set in, I’d dial the only other number I have memorized. 
        But that’s just my fantasy. One of many. “And you sent me your flight information?” I ask him, I know he did. But a good wife would double-check, right?
        Henry nods again extending the handle of the bag as I let him out of the room, trailing close behind. “So your meeting with the Priest went well?” Henry asks me, his voice brimming with optimism. 
        With his back turned, still walking to the door or wherever he’s setting his bag down, I have a window. “I’m praying he’ll leave the church for me, again.” 
        He glances over his shoulder, waiting for the answer. “Enlightening,” I supply, which is just enough detail to satisfy him. 
        “And Claire? How’s she?” Henry asks, setting his bag down next to the door. He walks over to his desk, where his briefcase is sat open, waiting for the last few folders. 
        “Lovely,” I tell him and, again, it’s plenty. 
        I watch him carefully slip his manila folders into the briefcase, before securing the top flap. He looks up from the task once the briefcase is hanging from his hand at his side, “We’ll have to have them over for dinner sometime, it’s been too long.” I nod. If only he knew. Henry checks his watch and then approaches, plants a kiss on my forehead, and goes to the door. “I’ll call you tonight,” he says and grabs the doorknob. “And good luck tomorrow, you’re going to be amazing.” 
        I don’t have the time to thank him before he’s gone, and just like that I have the flat to myself. Now that I’m alone, my mind drifts to—
        “Shit!” In the stress of the week, and my morning soap opera, I’d hardly remembered to check my inbox. 
        I rush to the bedroom and grab my work-issued laptop, sleeker than any other I’ve owned, and power it on. Once the screen comes to life I grab the power cable and settle into the couch. As soon as I log on, my fears were confirmed: an inbox full of people counting on me, waiting for me to finalize the last details. Some of the subject lines are written entirely with capital letters, so I handle those first. 
        At first I regretted ever taking on the duty of organizing and hosting this stupid thing. But once my email started to look less like a battleground and more like a vacant lot, I realized it might be the perfect kind of distraction from everything else in my life. Until I get to one of the earlier messages, from my Supervisor. 
        Most of it reiterates what the other Team Leaders had already heard before and I almost close my browser, thinking my work was done. Until I get to the line stating, “All executives are expected to bring a plus one.” 
        I let out a groan because, as I’ve learned through navigating the horrible corporate world, expected means required. So just when I think I have freedom from this whole “plus one” business, it finds a way to sneak back in. Well, I suppose it’ll only sneak back in if I let it. 
        Claire's always an option. I know she’s available, and I know she wants to see me. And, she has experience with this type of thing. But, I think it would be a little callous to invite Claire to a work thing after our conversation. Claire wouldn’t say no, though. If she knew I was considering it, she might just beg me. 
        I glance at my phone on the couch beside me, resting there so innocently. Yet, so tempting. How easy it would be to pick it up, dial that number. I shake my head. “No…” 
Who else could I ask? When I teased Claire for her lack of friends, I might have been projecting…. Okay, I was. I guess I just haven’t had the time. Or the room, in my schedule or my heart. Yet I made the room for Henry, and here I am planning on making more for Priest. 
        My eyes drift back to the phone, and I consider it again. Like I’ve done how many times now? I can’t keep track, and it’s starting to become easier each time. Especially because I’m going to pick up the phone, I’m going to call the number I memorized from seeing it every time I opened my bible, and I’m going to ask him to go with me. I am going to make this choice, because I want to. 
        Either emboldened by Claire’s plea for agency or the absence of my fiance, I pick it up. I dial the number, and I wait. It rings twice before he picks up with a hesitant, “Hello?”
        “Hi Father, it’s—” 
        “Is everything okay?” He cuts me off. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.” 
        “Yes, everything is fine,” I say and try not to laugh, because I know he’s concerned. But at the same time, I have to fight the urge to bristle. Is everything okay? What’s that supposed to mean? Of course I’m okay! I remind myself it’s not an accusation, it’s an acquittal. To give me the room to discuss my crime of leading Henry on, and offer support. 
        In the flurry of emotions my laugh comes out, but he doesn’t seem to be particularly amused. “For Christ’s sake, what’s going on?” 
        “So that event I told you about, I’ve learned me and the rest of the managers are expected to have a plus one—”
        “Required.” 
        “Yes exactly, but with Henry out of town, I only have Claire, and asking her to go to a work thing would be unfair,” I tell him. I don’t explain it’s because of the conversation I had with her earlier. Claire’s workaholic tendencies aren’t exactly a secret, so I just assume Priest knows her well enough from our last brush to understand what I mean. “And so, I was wondering if you’d accompany me.” 
        “As your priest?”
        “I don’t know if that’s the angle we should go for,” I start and he chuckles. “I just figured since you’re… you know, you have experience with these sorts of things. Everything you’ve put on with the Church and such.” 
        “Okay,” he agrees, faster than I expected and I’m the one who decided to call. He makes a sound and adds, “I mean, I’d love to. But, are you sure?”
         I know what to say, but I don’t know if I should. It’s the honest truth, but asking him in the first place was already a big step. I’ve already come this far, so I let it out, “I don’t think I’ve been so sure of something in a long time.” He doesn’t say anything, so I continue with the details, “I’ll be working on setting up the space, finishing touches and all that tomorrow. It starts at seven, and the dress code is formal.” 
        “Should I bring anything?” 
        “Just you,” I say, and there’s a silence. He doesn’t say anything, or at least I think he’s not saying anything, and I say, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” By the time I hang up and my nerves have cooled, I realize I completely cut him off and debate sending him a message, or calling back, or something. It’s far from the worst thing I’ve done, though, so I know he’ll forgive me. And I still have things to do. 

 

⁂

 

        It’s nearly eight o’clock in the morning, and I don’t think I’ve ever been to the office so early. The commute isn’t so bad, it’s only a fifteen minute walk from my flat. I could be early everyday if I wanted to, but I seem to fall into the category of people where proximity to a location doesn’t necessarily determine whether I’m going to be on time or not. 
        The building blends in with the rest on the street, except the other buildings are all owned by barristers or finance firms. Sometimes I can’t believe we’re able to afford such a lease, and other times it makes me wonder what else we could be spending it on. Outside the tall glass windows on either side of the door, I see the Priest standing with his hands in his pockets. 
        “What are you doing here so early?” I can’t hide the surprise in my voice, fueled by the excitement of seeing him. 
        “I thought you could use the help,” he tells me. And he’s right. Going through all the emails and handling everything on the back end was one thing, but the in-person coordination was another. 
        “Thank you, I really do,” I say, and move towards the door. I get my key card from my pocket and swipe him into the building. “I don’t know how other people do this.” 
         Inside, the lobby of the building doesn’t look much like a lobby anymore. As the largest space in the entire building the head honcho decided we didn’t need to rent out a space, and could transform the lobby instead. The receptionist’s desk has wood, or whatever stages are made out of, one top of it with stilts to create a… Well, a stage. It doesn’t look the best, but once the train is attached it will cover the actual desk part and none will be the wiser. 
        On either side, two staircases with glass railings lead up to our offices and conference rooms. Besides the tables at the edge of the room waiting to be set up, and a banner waiting to be hung laying on the stage, no one would be able to tell we weren’t open for business today. Well, they might realize when they notice the Receptionist running around with a clipboard, instead of waiting patiently for them at her stage-desk. 
        She approaches me, and looks more full of nerves than ideas. “Ma’am, I have a list of a few things we need your signature for, and a few things you need to clear before we bring them in here.” 
        “Okay, can you give me a moment? If you leave them in my office I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I tell her, which she agrees to. Once she’s started up the stairs I turn to Priest. “Our receptionist, she’s insisted on being one of the most helpful people during this whole thing. I still can’t figure out why, it’s not like I have the most leverage around here.” 
        Priest points to the desk situation. “Maybe it’s that? I’d imagine it’s exceptionally tricky to answer the phone these days,” he suggests. 
        I laugh and nod in agreement. “I mean, she could always go home, assistants have been handling her position ever since the stage moved in,” my eyes linger on the ugly thing as I talk. “Which is why I’ve suggested to promote her, or something.”
        “Would you say you’re promoting her because she’s doing all of this work to help you? Might make sense if she’s worried ” Priest asks, and I look away from the stage and at him. “And even if you don’t think you have leverage, you still made the suggestion. That must count for something, or else you wouldn’t have done it, right?” 
        I nod slowly, “Fair… I just feel so guilty sometimes, in this position.” I look around at the empty event space, the lobby, ready to be filled with my responsibilities. “She seems to want it, while I practically fell into the job. So if I can help…” 
        “That’s very kind of you,” he says, but I’m not sure if it is. 
        “It’s the least I can do, half the time I don’t know how I ended up here. So if I can help someone like her who’s actually doing the work, I’d like to.” 
        “Hey, you’ve done the work too,” he says, reaching out and placing a hand on my shoulder. I glance at his hand, and back at him. I don’t say anything, I know what he’s talking about. 
         Instead I just nod, and keep moving. “I’m going to take care of those signatures, could you start moving the tables away from the walls and make it look like someone could eat dinner here?” 
         Once he agrees I’m up the stairs, towards my office. Almost everyone decided to work from home today, given the distractions downstairs, so the hall is quiet. I walk past doors that look like mine, leading to offices of other important people within the organization. The fact that I’m considered one of them still confuses me to this day. Even after planning something like this, I can’t really wrap my head around it. 
        In my office, I find the Receptionist spreading a few papers out across my desk. I walk past her to the other side of the desk so I can read them. They’re laid out neatly, so I can read and sign every single one without having to move anything but my eyes and hands.
        “You didn’t have to do all this, you know,” I tell her, mostly referring to the signatures, but everything else she’s done thus far qualifies too. 
        “Oh, I know, but without my normal duties I found myself looking for something else to do. If all the other assistants can take on my job, what am I to do, you know?” the Receptionist explains to me, smiling. Beneath the smile, I imagine a very frightened woman who knows her job is almost obsolete. 
        I consider telling her what I told Priest, but I don’t. I leave it at a simple nod instead. I don’t want to keep it a surprise or anything, but I don’t want to get her hopes up in case the answer is “no.” Our supervisor isn’t a bad boss by any means, but sometimes she doesn’t see how certain little things would benefit us in the long run. Like retaining someone who clearly cares about the cause. 
Not to mention, during my entire time working here I think most of it was spent trying to figure out all of the little corporate games. So now I know, no matter how much you push for something sometimes the company just can’t do it. Or they won’t, and they’ll pretend they might. But they never do. Infuriating, really. 
        I don’t want to leave her in a dismissive silence so I just tell her, “If you keep looking for ways to stay useful, they’ll have to keep you around, right?” Maybe not the best thing, or the most inspiring, but she doesn’t seem to mind. “I’ll take care of these from here, would you mind calling in James? I want to make sure we have everything ironed out, don’t want a repeat of last time.” 
        The Receptionist nods, and leaves me to the signatures. I glance at the papers, reading them over. Final drafts on agreements for catering, our design company, the print company, everyone. Why they waited for the last moment to get me to sign these sorts of things, I’ll never understand. Maybe it’s some sort of psychological warfare tactic. Making the contractors and me think that there’s still work to be done, when the deals have already been worked out months in advance, and the deliverables are already waiting downstairs. 
        But, the fact that the deals have already been worked out makes the signing easy. Thank God. As soon as I’m almost done, there’s a knock on the door. I nearly forgot I even asked for James, because I was half-expecting to see the Priest when I looked up. I don’t know why, though, since I know he wouldn’t stray from the task I’ve given him. Unless he managed to set up the tables in record time. I also don’t know how he’d find my office without my help. Not that it’s particularly confusing, or that he’s particularly challenged, but they’re all nearly identical. 
       “Come in,” I tell James, setting my pen and the contracts aside.
        James steps inside and sits across from me at the desk. He doesn’t waste time getting comfortable in the chair, before grabbing one of the papers to look it over. “So, what did you need?” He asks and puts the paper back down on my desk. 
        Let me get one thing out of the way: James is incredibly handsome. Not so much that it’s ever been entirely distracting, given my relationship status, but enough that I’ve certainly noticed. He’s a bit more tanned than the average Brit, and distantly in the back of my mind if I wonder if he spent summers in Spain or Montenegro, or wherever people spend their summers anymore. His dark hair complements his complexion, and his glasses sit on the hump of his nose. 
        “I just wanted to make sure everything is looking okay with our systems,” I start. James doesn’t need the “what happened last time” I gave the Receptionist, because he knows what happened. Of course he does, because he was partially at fault. 
        “I’ve managed to convince them to let me get a projector and screen system, so we can do everything without having to worry about someone connecting to it remotely. Run everything through HDMI from your laptop to the projector, and no one can interfere. Unless I give them the cable,” James explains. I’m no expert, but it sounds like it’ll work to me. 
        At the last event we hosted, one of the executives’ private photos were made available for everyone there to see. Afterward, James explained that apparently our use of Bluetooth or some other wireless connection was vulnerable. That, and we didn’t have the budget for security beyond the basics necessary to protect company materials. Not employee materials. So going “old-school” and using wires this time around was the way to go. 
        “How are you feeling about it?” James asks me. The slight shift in his tone tells me he’s not asking about the system he’s implementing. 
        I glance down at the papers in front of me. “Fine, I guess. I’ve been pushing off responsibilities tied to it for a wile, so I guess that means I’m nervous, right?” 
        He shakes his head. “Don’t be nervous, you’re perfect for this kind of thing,” James says, giving me one of his reassuring smiles our younger employees absolutely love. I mean, I guess I do too. You know what I mean. “Charming, but you also don’t mind making a joke a financier would scoff at, helps break the ice.” 
        Never really hear my sense of humor being described that way, positively. “Well, thank you James,” I say. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, just regular nerves.” I gather all the papers on m desk and and slip them into a folder I can give to the Receptionist. “Are you going to start working on setting up the projector system?” 
        “I was heading that way before I was summoned, actually,” he tells me, and I expect malice or annoyance or something in his voice. There isn’t any, though. 
         It’s not necessarily shocking, I think I’m just always bracing myself. One of the harder parts about adjusting to a typical job was the different social niceties and polite rules they adhere to here. Based on what Claire’s told me about some of the Americans she’s worked with, it’s nowhere near that level, but still a hard adjustment. Going from joking and talking about whatever I wanted with my only coworker, to expectations of poise, and then expectations to serve as an example when I was promoted. 
        There are few coworkers I feel I can talk to somewhat openly, James being one of them. We’ve always got on well, his position as a sort of outsider through his department and my status of an outsider based on… well, me being an outsider. Of course we’ve flirted, but the whole time I’ve been determined to be the good Catholic hopeful bride-to-be. But not that I’ve decided I don’t want that anymore?
        My mind starts to drift, because even after making the conscious decision to invite the Priest to my event for entirely selfish reasons, I can’t help but notice James’ eyelashes. They’ve derailed my train of thought so easily it can’t bode well for anyone. They’re so long, so beautiful. I’m jealous. And then I find myself looking into his eyes, not just at them, and for a moment I can envision him taking me on the desk right now. 
        But then I remember Priest downstairs, dutifully helping me arrange the tables just so. A small jolt of fear courses through my body. Am I really just looking for another bad habit? I don’t let my brain travel down that road, because I know that as soon as I do it’s over. It being my good streak. And everything else, probably. 
        Instead of trying to kiss him or flirt or any number of other things I would have done without hesitation years ago, I keep moving. If I keep moving I won’t think about it. I grab the folder for the Receptionist and stand from my desk. “Well, let’s get down there then, so you can get back to what you were doing.” 
        He rises and follows me as I walk out of the office, falling into step beside me. Conversation is scarce as we walk to the lobby, and I think he can sense my nerves. He doesn’t know they’re not all about the event, but he doesn’t need to. Once we’re around the corner, I can see half of the tables perfectly arranged on one side of the room already. 
        Downstairs, I find my Priest talking to one of the contractors. As we approach they finish their conversation, and the contractor turns to leave with perfect timing. Priest is about to grab another table when we approach, and I break in with an introduction, “Father, this is James, one of my coworkers. He works in the IT department.” 
        “I am the IT department,” James corrects. Father laughs, but I know it’s only a polite laugh in response to the cliche. The same I’d give to any number of Priest jokes. James has confided in me that he’s tired of the joke himself, but the script is so ingrained is his social framework (his words, not mine) it’s hard to let go. He called it a bad habit, though I would probably categorize it under “mildly annoying.” I suppose bad is relative, though. 
        “Ah, nice to meet you,” Priest says and offers his hand. “You know, I figured they’d hire a woman for your job, considering the push for more women in your field.” 
        James nods. “We’re hiring, but I don’t think they believe me when I say we need someone else so the budget isn’t great. It was hard enough for them to convince them to get the equipment we’re using tonight, but she can tell you about that.” James gestures to me, then leaves us to go set up his projector. 
        “Managing okay down here?” I ask Priest, but it feels like a silly question because he’s done more than I could have asked for already. 
        He looks around at the tables already set up. “I think I’m making good time,” he says, and he sounds like he knows he’s making good time. Great time, actually. 
        “Good, that means we can take a break before coming back later,” I tell him. “Let’s finish with the tables, and then I need to give you the basics of our guests. Since I know them, you’ll have to too.” 
        Priest nods, not questioning my instructions for even a moment. “Is this setup okay?” He asks, looking out at the tables he’d already put out. “I wasn’t sure how you wanted them, so I just…” 
        “It’s perfect,” I say. I gesture to the table he was about to grab before James and I interrupted, and we get to work. 
        We grab it and take it to join the others, holding it from either side. I regret missing the opportunity to watch him doing all this hard work while I was upstairs. But now I get to look across the table at him, where our eyes meet. I smile, and then he smiles. Something about it, working together on the event I’d been stressing out over made me feel… Safe. A certain kind of safety that maybe I’ve been longing for for much longer than I thought. 
        But the safety is shattered when I remember it should have been Henry who I went out of my way to invite as my plus one, Henry’s who I should be sharing a smile with as we get things ready. Henry, Henry, Henry. Even though he couldn’t be here if he wanted to. Maybe he’s not hosting an event, but his work is just as important as mine, right? Suddenly, now that I’ve decided things are over, I can’t help but think about him. Certainly more than I ever thought about him when I was sure we’d be wed. 
        And so once again, I’m thrown into a spiral of self doubt and pity. I shouldn’t be doing this, I knew what I was doing when I invited him. He knew what he was doing when he showed up more than early to be the perfect gentleman. I should have left our relationship at the door when I left his office, left the church. I shouldn’t have called. Maybe he shouldn’t have picked up. 
        I don’t even realize I’ve stopped moving when Father waves his hand in my line of sight, snapping me out of it. “Everything okay?” He asks. 
        “Just stressed out, is all,” I answer. I don’t like lying to him, but he doesn’t need me to dive into the same thought process I did in his office. 
        “Okay,” is all he says at first. “Let’s finish up with the tables and then you can tell me about the seating chart.” 
        I nod. Just focus on the tables, then focus on the seating chart. I can do that. With my brain set on the plan, we finish up the tables with relative ease. Just in time for the contractor Priest was speaking to earlier to return with their team in tow, holding everything from centerpieces, tablecloths, as well as the hanging lamps they’ve been instructed to install with the ladder that comes with it. We start towards one of the main staircases on the left side of the room, and James calls out to us from the station he’s made at the back of the room near the doors, “When I’m done with this, can you bring me your laptop so I can get your presentation set up?” 
        I shoot him a thumbs up, even though I can’t remember the last time I’ve done such a thing, and we’re off. 
        “I didn’t know they hired men in your line of work,” Priest comments once we’re around the corner upstairs. 
        “He’s sensitive about that,” I say, half-joking. “Being the only man here. And being the only man participating in the a male dominated part of our company.” 
        “Well, he’s no priest in a nunnery,” Priest says simply. 
         I laugh, he’s definitely not a priest in a nunnery. 
        Once we’re inside my office, he looks around with shock? No… awe? That’s not quite it either. So I ask, “What is it?” 
        Father shakes his head, “Nothing, I’m just… I dunno, it’s certainly a jump from your previous workplace. This whole time I’ve been imagining you conducting charity work from a cafe.”
        I laugh softly, and I can’t help but agree. Talking about it, the cafe, my success, everything, with someone like Claire who knows the whole story is one thing, and it’s already uncomfortable enough. But talking to him about it feels like I’m appropriating something I don’t have a claim to. The guilt in doing as well as I have, without much of a justifiable reason besides luck. 
        “I didn’t mean to… you know,” he offers, and I guess my silence must have been longer than I thought. 
         I shake my head and wave him off. “No, it’s fine. I made the choice to sell it.” 
         I take my seat at the desk and he sits where James was almost thirty-minutes earlier. “How do you let go of something like that? Something that’s so… tied to you?” 
         His question catches me off guard, and I sit there for a moment to consider my answer. I don’t really know the answer myself. “Well, I knew it wasn’t working. I had to,” I start to explain. But it doesn’t feel right in my mouth as I say it. “I guess I haven’t really let go.” I can’t bear to sit there with him staring at me like that, so I start going through my desk to find the seating chart while I talk, “I don’t think you can fully let go of something like that. You’ll still carry it with you, and eventually you’ll smile about it. Unless you regret it.” 
        “Do you have any regrets?” He asks, and I can’t tell if he’s making conversation or trying to get something out of me in that priestly way he does.
        “To few to mention,” I respond sarcastically. “Of course I do. Don’t you?” 
        “I don’t think I do.” 
        “Bullshit. Everyone has something.” 
        “Not when He holds onto them.” 
        “So you just dump them on God?”
        “No, but He helps. In that weird way that he does.” 
         I don’t want him to peer any further into my psyche, so I finally pull out the seating chart and set it on my desk. “Anyways, I’m thinking we should put the group from the Women’s Athletic Association with the Women’s Squash team.” 
        “Squash?”
        “Only team in our budget.” 
         Priest leans over to look at the sheet, and reads some of the names printed in the margins. “The British Baptist Convention…” He looks back up at me. “The BBC?”
        “My idea, I thought it might look good for headlines,” I say, joking a little. “And yeah, I’ve been trying to get some more religious women involved so we can do more outreach, mostly educational on that front.” 
        “Incredible,” he breathes, laughing softly as he does so. Was it? “Who are we putting them with?”
We? “We’ll put them by the—” The rush of confidence from “we”, royal or otherwise, is interrupted by a curt knock. “Come in,” I say, shifting slightly in my chair as if possessed by a business woman. In other words, I learned from Claire. 
        James opens the door and pokes his head in. “Ready for the material.” His voice is serious, as if we’re dealing with some very serious business dealings. But there’s a smirk in his eyes. 
        I grab my laptop from the edge of my desk and meet him at the door. “The passcode is five, two, seven, one, three,” I tell him before handing it off. James thanks me silently and ducks back outside. 
        “You’d just give him your password like that?” Priest asks. “Isn’t that like… rule number one of what not to do?” 
        “Nothing he hasn’t seen before,” I joke. 
         I don’t think anything of it, he’s IT after all, but a question flashes across Father’s face. He stops himself. Until he can’t and then we’re both trying to figure out what the other is thinking. 
        “Did he—”
        “We’re not—”
        We both stop and I look at him, not sure what to do. I know what he wants to ask me. “What?” 
        “No, nothing,” he rubs his eyes, the same way he always does when he’s… I don’t really know what to call it. “I didn’t want to ask.” He sits up a bit straighter and looks at me. “Actually I do but I don’t know how to… and I don’t…”
         I have to admit, it was a little endearing at first. Maybe flustered is the word. I can’t take it though, whatever it is I just want him to spit it out. “Don’t know what?” 
        “I don’t know how to ask—”
        “Ask what?”
        “You and—” 
        “James,” I finish for him. There’s an edge to my voice, but I can’t pinpoint the emotion responsible for it. Whatever it is, it doesn’t sound like my own. 
        “I’m sorry.” 
         I shake my head, there’s no need for the apology. Well, maybe. But I understand. “The lawyer.” 
        “What?” He sounds genuinely shocked, probably more confused. “That wasn’t… No, I guess that’s why I don’t know why I want to ask. You both just seem so comfortable with each other, and I just…”
        “Looking out for Henry?” I ask, but I’m not genuinely suggesting it. “It’s been four years, so maybe I couldn’t wait for Sunday?” Couldn’t wait for him?
        “No, no, of course not!” He’s starting to look a little angry. We’ve now transitioned from endearing to hot. “Would you just stop? Listen to yourself!”
        I take a deep breath and rub my eyes, more out of embarrassment than anything else, and I find a few small tears waiting to spill over. I don’t look at him, until I hear footsteps and see him walking around the desk in my peripheral. He’s next to me, and rotates my chair to face him. Gently, he takes my hands from my face and into his, holding them for a moment. Priest kneels slowly, lowering our hands into my lap. I let him, finally meeting his eyes on the ground beneath me. 
        “I’m sorry for shouting.” His eyes are wide. Terrified. Beautiful. “My mind shouldn’t have gone there. You have to know I trust you, and even if I didn’t your decisions are your own.” 
        “It was a bad joke.” I sniffle and laugh. I bite back a sob I didn’t know I had inside, and he squeezes my hands. “I’ve just been trying so hard.” 
        “I know, I know. You’ve done a great job of it.” 
        I take a deep breath. “I tried so hard, but I can’t remember a day when I didn’t think of you,” I confess, forcing myself to hold his gaze. 
        One hand lets go of mine and moves to my knee, as if he’s anchoring himself before stepping into the inferno. His eyes move to his hand, and neither one of us dares to speak. My eyes are dry,   and I’m more awake than I’ve felt in a long time. 
        His eyes are on my lips when we finally lets go of my other hand and starts to rise slowly. I pray to him, for him to do it, without a word. Something in his eyes tells me he won’t. And he can’t. I can’t. But we want to, I know. 
        For whatever reason, clarity washes over him and he straightens up, over before we even had the chance. He clears his throat and looks down at me. There’s no shame, no regret, no disgrace in his eyes. I’m forgiven. He’s looking out for Henry. 
        Priest clears his throat. “I’ll go… see if James needs any help,” he says and steps away, not turning his back until he’s cleared the desk. 
        I watch him leave silently. Once he’s out the door I give a knowing look and a grin to… no one in particular. 

Notes:

hey guys! yeehaw, we're back on schedule

i started at my new college in september so life has been a little hectic (believe them when they tell you the quarter system is rough, to anyone not in school yet considering a school w a quarter system. brutal) first couple weeks at school were super rough but we're back in business bb.

buuut anyways, just wanted to touch base since i didn't upload anything for a while. hopefully back on my snail's pace of a chapter a month. midterms are this week, so this chapter was born out of procrastination. maybe that's why it's so long... considered splitting this into two but (spoilers?? lol) the next chapter is already a continuation and didn't need to write 3 chapters about a charity event

finally taking my first religion class, suuuper interesting (religion and violence). i'm planning on either double-majoring or at least minoring in religion, so there will be plenty more fics to come. messing around with 2 one shots rn, hope you guys like them when i remember to work on them and post

also, in case anyone happens to be interested in what i listen to while working on this, i made the spotify playlist public (https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5YX88oa4AT5ZRvUfCI4tf1?si=a519a4ebc8104880) and if anyone happens to be interested in hearing why i've chosen these songs, i'd love to talk about it <3 music and writing go hand in hand for me

oooh and i've been going back and forth on asking you guys about certain things, because i didn't want input to change where i'm taking this, but i remembered i'm the writer so i can just decide not to do something lol. but anyways, i was wondering what you guys thought about the change in how Fleabag refers to Priest throughout the fic so far. dropping the The, and maybe now mixing it up with Father? That's my show-not-tell-but-still-actually-telling-sort-of method of making her seem more comfortable with him after the time apart :) if u guys didn't notice, fun fact. if u did, yay or nay??

also accidentally said Harry multiple times while writing towards the beginning. whoopsies! anyways, hope you enjoyed. will be going back to all the comments and responding (even the old ones) because i LOVE when you guys comment and i don't want u to feel like ur talking to a brick wall :/ and when you guys quote my writing back to me?? *moaning emoji* (you know the one) god i live for that, i don't think i could have asked for a better bunch of readers!!

love y'all!! see u in a month lol (we'll see... post midterm me might need some release)

Chapter 9: Women in Business

Notes:

long time no see! hope you enjoy <3

Matthew 6:34 Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own."

 

                           After that little episode, I ended up hiding in my office for at least another fifteen minutes. That was almost a kiss, right? I need to let my nervous system calm down before I can face anyone again, lest I end up causing a scene with my lips. 
                           Once I’m downstairs, I see that the rest of the set-up has gone incredibly well without the need for my input. Priest is finishing up with the remaining tables while he chats with James, who’s still focused on setting up our screens, cables, speakers… and all the other little parts I don’t really understand. I work on the side of the room opposite to them, and while I can’t hear what they’re talking about I can tell they’re getting along. For a moment, I can almost see a glimpse into a different sort of future than the one I thought I’d have for the past four years. Friends like James who I’d never been the best at making, or keeping for that matter. And… well, him. 
                           By mid-afternoon, everything is in order and looks about as good as I think it’ll probably get. There’s still a few hours left until the event, which means it’s time for me to leave and get ready. I run back upstairs to find my keys and bag in my office, before returning downstairs to find the Priest. 
                           He’s talking with James by a podium on the stage, and they both stop once I enter their field of vision. “Time to go and change into my Sunday best,” I say as I approach. Priest looks down at what he’s wearing, and I think he could easily get away with it as a guest.
                           He doesn’t seem to agree though. “That’s my cue then.” 
                           “Are you sure? I don’t think you need to change much,” I say and pause, giving him another once-over. “Maybe a tie? You could always borrow one of Henry’s.” 
                           “Oh no, I couldn’t.” He shakes his head. “I’ll just stay here in case anything comes up, or stop back at the church until you need me again.” 
                           “He’d be fine with it, you’re our priest after all,” I try to convince him, though I think we both know given our situation the excuse doesn’t really mean much. Even though we haven’t crossed any boundaries, he’s not just our priest and never will be. But I can see him considering it, so I add, “Besides, my flat’s a quick walk from here and I’m sure you need a snack or something.” 
                           “I mean, just a tie right?” 
                           “Just a tie.” 
                           “Alright, lead the way then,” He says, and hops from the stage more gracefully than I could ever manage. 
                           We say a quick goodbye to James and head back to my flat on foot. Once we’re inside, Priest looks around and takes a moment to get used to the new space. “Wow, quite nice.” 
                           I thank him, even though it feels wrong to. I can’t quite put my finger on why. “Not having to finance the cafe certainly helps, and… well, Henry’s income definitely does too.” For a moment it gives me pause, will I be able to afford anything without Henry? I have my own job with the non-profit, and the salary isn’t anything to scoff at. It’s more than I could have ever anticipated a few years ago, but I suppose I’ve grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle I never thought I’d be able to access. Claire’s lifestyle, essentially. 
                           I lead him into our bedroom, but this time I just bring him to the closets. The bed is looking at me expectantly, as if it hadn’t received the memo about my new lease on life. Though, it’s never seen anyone but Henry either. Surely, my personification of the future marital bed is some indication I’ve completely lost my mind. No one else can tell though, it seems. Good. 
                           “Are we thinking a fun tie, or normal?” I ask him and start parsing through the tie rack Henry has. It used to spin like the clothes at a dry cleaner, but now it doesn’t work and Henry’s not enough of a tie man to invest in the pursuit of a new one. 
                           “You know better than I would,” Priest concedes. “Your company and all.” 
                           I pull a few out, a navy blue with lighter blue stripes, a solid light green, and a simple black tie. Holding them out to his white  button down, I try to judge which looks the best with his complexion. He looks down his nose at them, and shakes his head when I hold up the black, “Not that one, I’ll look like a missionary.” 
                           A slight smile escapes me and I nod in agreement, “Couldn’t have them think that, now could we?” I place it back on the rack and go back to holding up the other two. After a moment I decide I don’t like either of them, and go fishing through Henry’s closet for a better jacket and tie combination. I land on one of Henry’s deep chestnut sports coats, and a diagonally striped blue and red tie. 
                           “What about…” I start as I emerge, holding the coat and the tie up to Priest’s frame with one eye closed. Satisfied with the vision, I hold them out to him. 
                           He takes them, but asks, “I thought we said just a tie.” 
                           “Jut try it on, please?” I give him puppy eyes, or my version of them which probably looked more seductive than I was going for… But either way, they work. 
                           Priest sighs and finds a mirror. He starts to tie his tie, lifting his chin up to God and exposing his beautiful, glorious, elongated neck. His jaw isn’t a harsh line jutting out from his chin, but a strong slope defined by soft shadows and stubble that bleed down the descent of his mandible. His shoulders rise to the occasion, meeting the muscles that end so gracefully behind his ear. By the time I’ve finished analyzing his anatomy I realize he’s already got the coat on. A tad snug in the shoulders, but a nice fit overall. The sharp creases on the shoulder remind me of his black priest robes, pressed and distinguished. 
                           “How do I look?” He asks, putting his hands in the pockets as if to test them out, then extending his arms out in that priestly sort of way he does so well. 
                           “Perfect,” I breathe out. He looks like more than just a priest— though I might attribute that to the street clothes I’ve dressed him in —he looks like… something I haven’t seen in  a long time. And I don’t know what the means either. “How about you make us some quick drinks while I change? I think we have a bottle or two of something in the freezer, glasses are next to the fridge. 
                           Priest hesitates, which is odd because I’ve never seen him shy away from a drink. It has been a few years, I know that well enough by now, so  I wonder if he’s about to say something. Maybe he’s just going to ask if I should be pre-drinking the work event I’ve been stressing over for ages. But he doesn’t. And if he was thinking that, maybe he figures it’ll help my nerves. He gives he a nod and ducks out of the room. 
                           Once he’s gone, I go to my closet and pull out a long navy number, which I had planned to wear all week. So maybe my tie choices were more intentional than I let on, and so what? But he’s my guest, it makes sense right?
                           I slip into it quickly, and admire myself in the mirror briefly. The plunging neckline might have been a little optimistic on my part, but as I’ve gotten older I’ve cared less about trying to accentuate features I don’t have. While you might be surprised to find a lack of press-ups, or padding in my closet. Each time I embrace something I have, I can hear Belinda’s voice echoing in my mind, “You are just a person.” Surely men aren’t worried about enhancing their appearance, at least not the same way we are. A man might grumble to me about the expectations they face about their bodies, and even then there’s a stunning lack of suits with built in padding to make their muscles look more prominent. 
                           The plunging neckline wraps around my neck with two halter straps, and seams underneath my breasts catch them in a sort of bag. From there, the fabric seems to fall down my body into a simple skirt, but its true pantsuit nature will be revealed with each stride. And of course, pockets. As cliche as that is anymore. 
                           I grab an understated necklace and let it drape over my collarbones, the pendant landing in the center just above my chest. The drinks are calling my name and I leave for the kitchen. Two drinks are on the counter, and where I expected to see our shaker in Priest’s hands I find an envelope. 
                           “I didn’t mean to go through your mail, but I saw a stamp sticking out in the stack.” He hands it to me and I see it’s addressed to Henry and I, from Godmother. I open it up and find an invitation for my engagement party. “What is it?” Priest asks. 
                           “Invitation to an engagement party Godmother is throwing,” Fleabag says. 
                           “Oh,” is all he can return. “Seems… fun.” 
                           And just like that, the fantasy I’ve built up this evening comes crumbling down. In an effort to revive it, I try to laugh. “We’ll see about that. You should come, if there isn’t an invitation waiting for you at the church. You’re marrying us, after all. And Godmother had that dinner with all of us.” 
                           Priest agrees and his eyes flit between the invitation and me. I can tell he’s finally noticed what I’m wearing, his mouth opens ever so slightly and there’s a certain life in his eyes. A hunger. 
                           I set the invitation down on the counter and gesture back to the drinks. Once I step into the kitchen, I notice other supplies in the sink already, “I see you found our shaker.” 
                           “Well, we’re adults,” Priest says, picking up one drink and handing it to me. “I wasn’t going to just put a shot in some juice and call it a day.” 
                            “Mm no, we’re much better than that,” I joke, the fantasy slowly building back up around me. 
                           He grabs his drink and raises the glass, “To us, being adults then.” 
                           Our eyes meet as our glasses clink, and we hold the contact as we take our first sips. I can’t help but wonder if there’s a double meaning in his toast, being adults about the whole “still-having-feelings” thing. Though, with every passing moment I spend with him I don’t think I want to be an adult about it anymore. I was so close back in my office, and now we’re adding alcohol to the mix. If I didn’t have the light shame from earlier today already, I could see myself making a fatal error right here. I can’t, I don’t… I won’t.
                           A few years ago, this would have been my classic pattern of one bad decision after another. Classic lack of self-control, maybe even a mix of self-harm trough my self-destruction. But even after today’s tears, I’m in control. After trying to heal for so long, but on paper it seems like I’m still regressing. 
                           It’s possible I’m trying to justify my actions with all the new tings I’ve learned after actually going to therapy, but I don’t feel like I’m spiraling. Except that’s what everyone who’s spiraling says… Like how schizophrenics don’t realize their condition until after their first episode ends. But my previous spirals have usually been met with disappointment from my family and friends. Except, most of it would come from Claire. She’s had her moments (regarding my moments) but otherwise nothing but supportive. 
                           There’s always the possibility I’m trying to talk myself off the ledge because I know I’d have to convince him to join me on it. Part of me knows, just like Claire said, I won’t do this without knowing there’s someone for me on the other side. I can’t make that leap of faith— not without him. 
                           “Are you speechless because it’s incredible, or because it’s absolutely horrid?” Priest asks, and I snap back to attention. “Lost you there for a second.”
                           I take another sip and shake my head in apology. “Sorry, very good! I was just…” Do I go there? No, we still have an event to get through. “Thinking about tonight.”
                           “We’ve got everything set up, James has the technology covered, so no issues this year.” He pauses and looks at me. “And if anything does go wrong, I’d trust you most to take care of it.”
                           “Really? I think I have more of a reputation for causing problems, not solving them.” 
                           “Exactly. You’ve got a sense for problems. Something comes up, you’ll spot it right away.” 
                           “I don’t know if that’s as reassuring as you’re trying to make it sound, but I’ll take it,” I say, raising my drink in thanks. 
                           “I’ll have to brainstorm  something more peppy for your next event then.”
                           “You have so much faith in me.”
                           “Kind of my job,” Priest said with that cheeky smile I’ve grown so fond of. 
                           I check the clock and finish my drink. “We should probably get started back, I don’t want to be late.” And just like that, reality comes in the way of fantasy yet again. 
                           Back at the office, it’s clear everything has been polished and primed while we were gone. Finishing touches, the tables fill the entire lobby adorned with floral center pieces, sheer curtains have been hung over the banister, and the front desk looks more like a formidable stage than something that a receptionist would ever sit at. My coworkers flit through the space, talking to an associate here, a client there, as more and more guests arrive. 
                           As I make my way through the I recognize some prominent business people I should admire more than I do. Claire would. I mingle with guests and coworkers alike, but even with all the preparation beforehand more names escape me than come to mind. Regardless, I still thank them for accepting the invitation and supporting us in our efforts. 
                           Eventually the time for my speech comes and an expectant hush falls over the room as I mount the stage. “I wanted to thank everyone for being here,” I start, glancing around the room. It feels weird given I’ve already thanked everyone I set eyes on, but all speeches seem to start this way and who am I to tell the speech writers of history that they’re wrong? “We’re all doing such important work for our respective industries. We’ve all come so far in these past few years, working on legislation, helping women abroad, pushing the boundaries… And I believe we can keep this momentum by supporting the women and others who need us.” 
                           As I scan the crowd, making dutiful eye contact here and there as I learned from a recent public speaking article online, I spot Belinda looking up at me. She looks sublime, tranquil… and proud. I’m flustered for a moment, I don’t remember inviting her, and speak on, “Um… a very wise woman once told me, people are all we’ve got. We’re better and stronger together. We can achieve all we want, but only if we agree to lift each other up. The other half of the population is starting to catch up, but we cannot wait for them. Together we can forge our own path, achieve our goals, and let the world know we’re not giving up the power we have so easily. Thank you.”
                           My speech is followed by applause, something I’m not typically on the receiving end of. I could certainly get used to it, though. A few members of the audience give me words of encouragement as I step off the stage. But before I can divert any attention towards them, Belinda approaches. “Apologies for showing up unannounced,” she says, in that warm voice I think I could listen to forever. “But a little birdie told me about an important event for women, and when I heard your name was attached I knew I wanted to be here.”
                           “Such an esteemed woman of business like yourself is always welcome here,” I tell her. 
                           Belinda laughs, a sight and sound I quite enjoy. “How have you been?” 
                           “Oh good,” I say. “Engaged, set to be married soon, all that.” 
                           Belinda raises a brow. “I never pegged you for the marriage type. Congratulations are in order regardless, though.” 
                           “Me neither, to be honest.” I laugh, nodding lightly in agreement. “Though, with the right person I think I’ll manage.” I catch Priest weaving through the crowd out of the corner of my eye, talking to guests here and there. I catch his eye as well, and for a moment we’re looking at each other across the sea of people. 
                           But not for long, the bridge between us is broken when Belinda brings me back to the conversation. “If that’s what makes you happy, then I support it. Put some of our pain on someone else’s shoulder, right?” 
                           I nod. “Got to find happiness where we can and seize it.” 
                           “Precisely, in this world especially.” Belinda smiles. This time it’s her turn to recognize someone in the crowd. I watch her eyes glance around the crowd and it’s apparent as she recognizes someone she knows— someone she’s probably come to know from being an actual business woman. “I’ll leave you to your guests, but lets catch up over coffee sometime.” 
                           Belinda pulls me into a hug and when she releases me I say with a smile, “Yes please, let’s.” 
                           After my speech, the party is in full swing. But after today’s preparations and the energy spent on mingling, my batteries are drained. I find myself slinking upstairs in search of my office. I give myself a moment of pause and look out over the party from the now-decorated railing upstairs. Footsteps approach and I turn to find Priest. 
                           “Thought I might find you up here,” he says as he approaches. “I found your speech very impactful.”
                           “Really? I thought I said a lot without actually saying anything.”
                           “You’re really bad at taking compliments, you know that right?” Priest points out. “You deserve them, you know that right?” 
                           I look away from him, casting my gaze back out over the party. “I know,” I tell him. It’s not a lie, but it’s not exactly the truth either. I know I deserve compliments, I think everyone does. But it always seems harder to accept them when I didn’t already hold the sentiment myself.
                           He follows my eyes, and a silence falls between us as we watch the party. “I’ve thought about starting my own non-profit,” the words spill out of me. It’s not a dream of mine or anything, but it still feels vulnerable. A confession. 
                           Priest cocks his head in my direction, “That could be great!” He gestures at the event. “I doubt you’ve been here the entire four years we haven’t seen each other, and look how far you’ve come. You managed to have a cafe for so long, and I’d imagine a restaurant is already harder than a non-profit. No pressure to make money.” 
                           I look at him, enthusiasm and jest in his eyes. “Something to look forward to, I suppose,” I add to his list of positives. Standing here with him alone, the party a hum in the background of our conversation, and my office only so far away… I need to get out of here. I’ve entertained my fantasy enough for one day. “I think I’m going to do an Irish goodbye.”
                           “Already messed it up, haven’t you?” Priest jokes. 
                           I shake my head in a chuckle and pull him into a hug. He reciprocates and I tell him, “Prone to mistakes.” 
                           “You’ll be able to get home okay? Do you want me to walk you?” 
                           I shake my head. “I’ll see you soon.” I drink him in for another moment before making my way for the stairs. 

                           At home, I strip out of my jumpsuit and into something more appropriate for sleep. Once my teeth are clean and my face is fresh, I pull the sheets aside to climb in. Just then the landline rings, and I reach for the phone on Henry’s side of the bed. It’s his number. 
                           “Hey,” I say softly once I pick it up.
                           His voice is groggy on the other end of the line, like he’s just got back from the bar. “I just wanted to call you to see how the event went before I forgot.”
                           “Oh,” I try to mask the tinge of surprise in my voice. As my level of care for him has steadily decreased, I find myself forgetting he’s still fond of me. He has, in fact, not realized what I’ve been doing this whole time like the nagging voice in the back of my head likes to say. “It went well. Nothing too out of sorts, even ran into an old friend.”
                           “Sounds nice,” Henry replies. He delves into some tangent about another business occupying the same hotel held something akin to my event in the hotel’s ballroom. I make out that it was a disaster somehow, but I’m too busy debating whether or not to tell him Priest accompanied me to listen to the why of it all. 
                           “Anyways,” I start. I should probably tell him. Fuck it. “Priest called me to ask some follow up questions about our last meeting, and it came up in conversation that I wouldn’t have anyone to accompany me to my own event since you were out of town.” I pause and listen for any accusations or opposition. Nothing. “He offered to come with me, and he was so gracious with helping out in setting up and made great conversation (even though I wouldn’t know, busy having my own conversations and all) despite my initial hesitance to have a priest with me.”
                           “Well, you invited the Baptist convention to bring them into the feminist fold,” Henry points out. “Maybe having a priest on your side wasn’t a bad idea.” 
                           “You make a good point.” And he does. Him having any idea of the event details sends a bit of guilt through me. Considering I’ve completely forgotten where he is, the purpose of the trip… “how’s your trip going?”
                           “More wining and dining than actual business, but good for networking,” he concedes. “I should probably head to bed, we actually have a meeting tomorrow for once. I just wanted to call and check in.” 
                           “Right, goodnight.” 
                           “Goodnight. Love you.” 
                           “Love you too.” The words feel hollow on my tongue, and I think the emptiness on the line after he hangs up serves as a good representation of that hollowness. Especially after lying to him. About my intentions, and my feelings. The invitation to our engagement party flashes in my mind, and it doesn’t help that Priest is attached to that too in my mind now. It’ll be over soon enough. It has to be. 
                           

Notes:

thanks to everyone for sticking with me. a few weeks ago i was sitting in my bed after smoking and the next 4-5 chapters came to me, so i've been outlining those since then. this chapter had me stumped for a little bit so i decided to "get it over with" in a sense. hope that didn't compromise quality too much.

i've removed the sad ending tag. i still can't decide though. might have two endings (choose your own lol)

Chapter 10: No Fantasy for Me, Not Today

2 Corinthians 4:16 So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day.

 

When Henry returned, I was laying in bed intending to rot in my guilt and lack of needing to be anywhere. I hear the door to the flat close and him calling out for me. When he was gone, it was easier to maintain my facade. Easier to forget that I’d have to pull the band-aid off eventually. “In here,” I croak out. I can only avoid it for so long. 
        His footsteps thump down the hallway and when he opens the door, he’s armed with a bouquet of incredibly tasteful flowers. Lilies mixed with a smattering of hydrangeas, baby’s breath, and delphinium. I was never much of a flower girl, but Henry’s insistence to keep the vase in our kitchen full has led to them growing on me. It doesn’t help that Henry was most certainly a florist in a previous life. 
        I start to rise from the bed but he greets me by its side, leaning down to plant a kiss on my forehead. He holds the flowers out to me, beautifully wrapped in brown paper and twine. I lean down to sniff them, and of course they smell magnificent. Bright, and clean, and fresh, and well… obviously, floral. “I’ll get these ready for the vase, did you want to get dressed?” he asks, standing up straight. “I had a few things planned if you’re up for it, I thought we might take advantage of our open schedules.”
        My body doesn’t feel up for much, neither does my mind for that matter, but I feel I owe it to him. “Of course,” I finish throwing the duvet over and stand up out of bed. “When do you want to leave?”
        “In an hour?” Henry suggests. “I’d bring a coat and a scarf.” 
        I nod and watch him leave the room. A coat and a scarf? Even though our summers aren’t particularly sunny, at least not like it might be in Spain or Italy, but a coat and scarf is rarely ever sanctioned this time of year. I put on a pair of casual pants and a top, just a step below business casual. In my closet, I sift through the few scarves I have and land on a plaid one Henry gave me a year or so ago. Our coats are in a closet by the door, and I know Henry will remind me before we leave. 
        Outside our room, Henry’s just finished putting the flowers in their vase like he said he would. I haven’t had many opportunities to slow down and think of the little things, but watching from the hallway to our bedroom as he finishes such a simple task… I guess it makes me wonder if I would have the same sort of domestic bliss with Priest. And makes me wonder if domestic bliss was even what I wanted. 
        “So what’s the scarf and the coat for?” I ask him, finally leaving the hallway and joining him in the kitchen. 
        “I thought we could go down to the indoor rink in Kensington and dinner after,” Henry says. 
        Ice skating? It was never really on my radar for things to do, not that I particularly disliked it or anything. So maybe that was a good thing, Henry getting me out of my comfort zone. Maybe the cold of the ice on my cheeks would snap me out of my delusions and I’d have a “come-to-Jesus” moment.
        I flash him a smile, “Seems fun.” We’d have to see about that. I don’t even remember if I know how to skate anymore, but when had I ever shied away from a challenge? Don’t answer that. 
        
        Henry drives us to the rink, and I take the opportunity to gaze longingly out the window. I haven’t  had any reason to go into Kensington for a while, unless Claire needed an expensive dress at Harrods 0r Henry wanted to stroll through Hyde park in the spring. Which just so happened to be near the rink, and I wondered how long Henry had harbored the desire to skate. I laughed to myself and Henry glanced over, evidently thinking I just couldn’t contain my joy as he looks back to the road with a giddy smile on his face. 
        Somehow we managed to secure a spot on the street, a few blocks down from the building. The people walking around Kensington, save for the handfuls of summer tourists coming to the area to see Buckingham, have the same attitude the people walking around the House of Commons did. The business with the rink has a much more diverse crowd, and apparently activities too.
        Once inside, unless I knew there was a rink I wouldn’t have even thought there was. The first thing we saw after walking in were the bowling allies— surprisingly nearly full —and the telltale sounds of an arcade somewhere in the vicinity. Henry approached an employee standing at the bowling shoe counter, and I trailed behind him. I didn’t hear much of their exchange, but did see the employee pointing down a hallway to our left. How big was this place? London wasn’t necessarily known for it’s vast swathes of real estate. 
        Though as we go down the hallway towards the mysterious rink, I can definitely feel the temperature dropping through my sweater. “Can I ask, what made you think ice skating?” I look at Henry, walking a few paces ahead down the hallway. 
        “Well, I thought we’ve been a bit stressed from work lately, planning, all that… When’s the last time you went ice skating?” 
        I have to actually pause and think about it. I wouldn’t consider ice skating a staple in my life, not much of the population does, but as I’m thinking about it… “I think when Claire and I were kids, with… mom.” 
        “I was doing some reading on the children we still carry inside us as adults, who we neglect as we get older,” he starts to explain. We reach the end of the hallway, a large black door with the word “RINK” printed on a reflective sign in the middle of the door. “So I thought, ‘well I haven’t been skating since I was a boy,’ and figured the same was probably true for you too. Why not be kids for an afternoon?”
        The proposition was definitely appealing. “Does that mean we can forget about everything?” I ask. “Except our maths worksheets, of course.”
        Henry grins at me, for a moment I feel like I’m looking at the man I met four years ago. “It’s summer, we don’t even have to worry about that.” 
        He opens the door to the rink and the blast of cold air on my face is a relief after trudging down the dark stuffy hallway. Inside is a large room, almost like a warehouse, and a rink with thick plastic lining the walls like windows. Metal stands fill the other half of the room, I’m assuming for hockey games or figure skating events. 
        I slip the coat that was hanging over my arm on, and it’s a welcome addition. Usually I’m more used to the chill and don’t need a coat so soon, but the weather this summer has been unseasonably great. But as beautiful as the city can be when the weather is nice, I still find myself wishing for clouds. Or rain, and the comfort that comes with a natural excuse to stay indoors. 
        Henry approaches a counter like the last one, but at this one they’re stock with blades instead of… material that keeps you from slipping around? I’m not too familiar with bowling. “Can we get a six and a ten and a half?” He asks, holding a few bills in his hand. The attendant turns around, places on the counter a few seconds later, and the transaction is complete. 
        We find a spot in the stands and sit down to change our shoes. As I take off my seasonable, yet slightly professional, sneakers and set them aside. The firmness of the skate and the support it provides is foreign to me, but grounding in a way even though my feet are technically an inch or so off the ground. I tie up the laces and for a moment, I’m not sitting next to Henry anymore. 
        Claire’s next to me, staring at me with those bug eyes she hadn’t quite grown into yet. Even though we had the same straight, long, stern nose, the gaze down hers always seemed more serious than mine. Even with the hair she still hadn’t figured out how to brush consistently enough, something anyone who knew her now would be shocked to know. 
        But she had the same wild, yet effortless, hair our mother had. While Claire and I were working on tying our laces, our mother was already standing, balanced perfectly on the blades. Claire’s almost done, but the frayed laces on the rental skates keeping getting stuck when I pull them through the loops. Mom kneels down in front of me, offering the warmest smile I’ve ever seen from the most tired eyes. Like Claire’s. “Let me help you with that,” she says. I can hear Claire’s sigh of annoyance next to me. 
        My mother’s dark brows draw together in focus, and she finishes the job in no time with her skilled adult hands. “All done!” she beams up at me, causing Claire and I to launch from our seats with the promise of skating looming over us. We open the gate, which looks like any other portion of the wall and as a child makes me think they’re trying to keep out other children like me with such an expertly camouflaged entrance. 
        As soon as we hit the ice, Claire and I wobble. She gets her balance a bit faster than I do, a trait of hers that always had me imagining her on the field hockey course, or doing something athletically inclined. We do a few circles around the rink before I can feel mom’s eyes on us. She splits a minute or so later, which tells me her gaze was assessing whether or not we had a handle on the ice. 
        I hear her skates getting quieter and quieter until her dark hair catches my eye against the white ice in the center of the room. Claire tugs my puffy coat, she sees her too, and we stop on the edge to watch. I don’t think mom had any secret dreams she didn’t tell us about, like an ice skating career ruined by an untimely injury, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she did. I never asked her where she learned to skate, but she carved deep divots in the ice as she spun in place, or arching lines as she etched the pattern of her skill. 
        No matter where she went, she was an artist. Leaving her mark where she went, and she always looked amazing while doing it. She looks up from her reverie and spots Claire and I watching, a massive smile spreading on her face when she realizes. Mom beckons us over, and we leave the comfort of the wall to join her in the center. 
        We’re unable to stop our trajectory, and she catches us as if she’s our own wall. Our support to lean on. She holds us close to her side, one arm wrapped tightly around my shoulders and the other around Claire. She points out at the ice and I squint, trying to make out the lines in the ice. Once I see it, I look up at her, “A flower?” 
        She looks down at me and presses a wet mom-kiss to my forehead, probably leaving bits of her bright red lipstick on my skin. “For my two beautiful girls,” she explains, turning to kiss Claire’s forehead in an equally embarrassing display. 
        Henry’s hand tight on my upper arm brings me back to the present. We’re skating around the perimeter, and I realize I’m steadier than he is. I didn’t even remember skating with my mom, but now I do. I smile up at Henry which, based on the sheepish one he gives me, he seems to think is in support for his lack of balance. He can’t read the gratitude, for giving me a experience with my mother I’d completely forgotten about. I wonder if Claire forgot.
        Just like Henry knowing what flowers I want, knowing I needed a break, he seems to know what I need when I don’t. Even when he doesn’t know, somehow…  Maybe it’s just the benefit of associating myself with Godly men. 
        “What are you thinking about?” he asks me, and a few teenagers dressed in tight athletic gear pass us. Did my mother ever do that? Go skating with her friends, draw the same pictures in the ice together?
        “I went skating with my mom and Claire,” I tell him. “I had completely forgotten about it.” 
        He smiles down at me like I’ve told him exactly what he wanted to hear. Well, I answered his question so I did. But there’s another layer there that I can’t quite figure out. “I guess we’ll have to come skating more often then,” he says. 
        Oh, Henry… I feel a pang of guilt, as I imagine anyone else would when their fiance brings up a future they don’t know won’t exist. He wraps his arms around my waist as we skate, and even though there are other arms I’d love wrapped around me, the firmness of Henry’s body against mine brings a comfort I didn’t know I needed. 
        As we go around and around the rink, I keep thinking that maybe he isn’t actually as bad as I thought. Bad meaning… well, not what it means to other people. I guess I don’t even know what it means to me. Boring? Easy? Except everything was relatively easy with Priest too. Too nice? Except what did that even mean?
        He was thoughtful, planned things out for me, told me what to wear. He had a steady income, a certain… goodness about him. And yet it didn’t feel like enough. So what was it about Priest?
        What was it that created the feeling where I’d always need to come back? That it wouldn’t pass? Surely love was part of the equation, but we already know that. What was it that made him so irresistible? That he could seemingly resist me? Because in my lifetime of being able to get nearly every man I’d decided to pursue, I couldn’t get him? Was this a quest for love, or a conquest for a concubine? 
        Maybe it was the fact he would openly pick on me for the same thing I rip myself apart for? And not in the way my family— my Godmother —does, but in the way I do. He calls me on my shit. And he does it with a smile, that smile I love so much. 
        I don’t know how long we’ve been skating, or how much of it I was present for, but Henry taps out eventually. There’s even a bit of sweat beading on his forehead, something I don’t think I’d ever seen on him. An image of Priest with his forehead slick with sweat pops into mind, from a certain… night we spent together. 
        We make our way off the ice and help Henry stay on his feet until we can get our skates off. “That was fun,” I tell him as I start to undo my laces. “You were right, we needed a break.” 
        “Oh, we’re not done yet,” Henry says. 
        “What do you mean?”
        “You didn’t think we’d go skating without getting any food after, did you?” he asks. 
        I did. “You’re right,” I say instead. “Where were you thinking?” 
        “I can’t tell you.” I’ve never seen someone so excited to withhold information like Henry, but last time he did I ended up with a ring on my finger. What could possibly warrant a surprise dinner now? I run down a mental list, his in-laws are going to move in with us after the wedding, we’re going to move in with them, he wants four kids instead of the two I begrudgingly agreed to (unbeknownst to him), Godmother wrangled him into making her my maid of honor and she’s wearing white… 
        But he’s not going to give it up. So I’ll just have to go to dinner to find out. It’s almost like he knows he has to find little ways to hook my attention, but he’s not acting like it’s fully slipped away from him. “Can I at least ask where we’re eating?” I ask. Maybe with some of the details I can gauge where we are on the list. 
        He shakes his head and gets up to take our skates back to the employee. The entire time we’re leaving the rink and walking to the car, I’m wracking my brain on what he could possibly have up his sleeve. Maybe it’s not something bad? The last surprise was my engagement, which was… we’ll say the jury’s still out on that one. So what could a positive surprise from Henry possibly be?
        We drive through the city with the Thames on our right, the water still as dirty as ever. I can’t remember any restaurants in this part of the city we’d been to, no anniversaries nearby… St. Paul’s Cathedral catches my attention out the window, towering above the surrounding buildings. My mind wanders to the different cathedrals I’ve seen, and then to Priest… But then the car stops, and I’m back. 
        Outside the car I see  the tall windows of the Sky Gardens building. I look back at Henry and he smiles, “I made a reservation a while ago.” 
        We get out and the valet takes over, whisking the car away to wherever they hide them. “I’m not dressed for this.”
        He looks at me, up and down. “Nonsense. You’re wearing a very smart sweater, nice trousers, we’ll be fine.” 
        I decide to take his word for it and loop my arm in his as we walk inside. The ground floor is nothing to write home about, but once we get to the restaurant, I can start to see why so many people make a point of visiting. 
        Our table is flush with the massive windows, at least two stories tall themselves. I look out across London, I can see the Tower of London from here, both the London and Tower bridge, and I think I can even make out the old globe theater on the river. 
        Behind us, the entire room is filled with greenery. A small potted plant sits in the center of our table, tying us to the garden we entered through. Ivy crawls up the walls, joined by its cousin wisteria, dotting the walls and ceilings with hanging purple flowers. Potted plants with everything that wouldn’t normally survive in London line the walkways from the door to the viewing space where the tables are organized, and some trees even spring from their respective planters like a man-made forest. Everywhere we get rid of the Earth’s gardens, we strive to rebuild them on our own terms. 
        A waiter brings us water and bread, lets us know about the specials, and promises to be back once we’ve had our time with the menu. I crack it open and given the prices, Henry definitely has something up his sleeve. If only I knew what. 
        The anxiety brewing in my stomach has me leaning towards a salad, I don’t know if I can tolerate whatever he has to say with a rich cream sauce and pasta floating around in there. 
        “It’s beautiful up here,” I tell him. Maybe I can get it out of him faster if we run through our typical conversation topics, then he’ll have no choice but to spit it out. 
        “I thought it was a fitting space for my favorite beauty,” he says, playing with the piece of bread crust in his hands. “I’ve been meaning to come here forever, and one of my colleagues mentioned he wouldn’t be able to make his reservation on the trip, and no one else seemed to realize how hard it is to get in. So he graciously allowed me to attend in his stead.” 
        “Maybe the others know the landlord, or a manager, or something. You know how those business-types are,” I say, even though we’re both those business-types. “Well, thank your coworker for me. I appreciate it. Why couldn’t he make it?” 
        “He broke up with his partner, and either didn’t think he could find someone on short notice, or didn’t want to,” Henry explains. “I don’t think I’d want to bring a stranger here for the first time either.” 
        I look out the window and nod in agreement. I suppose this is the kind of place you experience with someone, and for a moment I almost wish Henry didn’t bring me here. Because I know Priest would love the plants, and if I ever bring him here it won’t be the first time. Sure, that doesn’t mean it’s not as special but… Henry’s echo would certainly be present. 
        “If we lived completely different lives, if I never found an interest in learning about religion and never met you… what do you imagine yourself doing right now? Or who?” Other women would ask this question to torture themselves with hypotheticals of them not being with their man. I asked to put out feelers for Henry’s future devastation and ability to get himself back on his feet. 
        He takes a sip of his water and considers it for a moment. “It’s hard to imagine, honestly… though, I’d imagine I’d be engaged to another woman. Not quite as beautiful as you, admittedly, I don’t think I could find a woman like you again. Or one who’d be interested in me. And we’d probably be looking forward to our wedding night, just like we are now.” 
        I smile at his compliment, and it briefly leaves me with an odd feeling I haven’t felt in a long time. A certain sickness in the pit of my stomach that sends the alarm bells ringing. A feeling I hadn’t felt since I first met Henry, since I hadn’t learned how to handle some of his charms. I was never the best at taking compliments anyway, but there’s something about this one I can’t put my finger on. 
        Regardless, the question gives me the answer I want. Especially if I correctly interpreted the double meaning in his words. He’d find another Catholic woman (perhaps a real one this time), and look forward to his wedding night. Though, I imagine he won’t wait nearly as long. Given the length of our theatrical run. 
        “But,” Henry starts. “While I was away I was thinking… And what you said a few weeks ago came back to me.”
        Oh no, this can’t be good. “What is it?” I prod. 
        “About our wedding night… maybe we don’t have to wait. We’re already so close, and after being away from you.. I don’t know if I can wait.” 
        There’s the surprise. This new revelation is utterly shocking to my core. And what’s even more shocking is the lust in Henry’s eyes, burning brighter than I imagine Hell even burns. Maybe this is a test, God finally deigning to set me straight. 
        I don’t even know what to say to Henry, really. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” is the first thing that comes out, and I almost think that God is speaking through me because I definitely didn’t decide to say that. But I run with it anyway. “I mean, when I asked you talked about the promise you made, and afterward I was able to talk to our Priest and do some reflection on it. I don’t want you to do this just because I asked you to, and you feel like you should.” 
        I look at you. Briefly. I want him to have me, just like I’ve wanted him to for the past four years. But now with the Priest in the picture, someone else is occupying my fantasies and I don’t know how much longer I can carry this torch. By the time my gaze returns to Henry he hasn’t noticed. Does he ever wonder where I go? Does he ever want to bring me back into the present, into the moment with him? 
        “I want this. I want you.” Henry reaches across the table and wraps his hand around mine. 
        “Lets just… take this slow, if it’s really what you want. We don’t need to rush into anything,” I reassure him, though I think I’m just reassuring myself. Buying some time. “I want to be sure, before I stain your immortal soul forever.” And before I get the chance to break his heart. Dear God, please give me the strength to let this man go before I do any lasting damage. 

Notes:

i don't think i've ever updated this fast. absolutely exhilarating lol

i remembered that Fleabag probably liked Henry at one point, so a little Henry time was in order. see you guys soon!!

Chapter 11: Pitiful, Self- Sabotaging, Ego-Driven, Masturbatory, Pawing, Insidious, Overwhelming Wallowing

Notes:

welcome to dialogue the chapter lol

discovered therapist is actually counsellor in the script, and also learned i think counsellor is spelled with one L. that was fun for my word processor

              Romans 9:1-2 I speak the truth in Christ—I am not lying, my conscience confirms it through the Holy Spirit— I have great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my heart.          

 

                        The morning chill greeted me as I looked up at the familiar brown building I’d been visiting intermittently ever since my dad gave me one of the worst— yet somehow most considerate —birthday presents I’d ever received. And so what if he was right and I’d been visiting the same Counsellor for years because therapy maybe actually had a point, and was maybe actually sort of beneficial for me? 
                        I woke up today feeling like an absolute piece of shit, if I’m being totally honest. When Henry was gone on his trip, I was busy having fun with Priest. But then Henry comes back, plans a nice day for me, and then confesses he’s okay with having sex? Other memories pop up, Priest wanting to ask if James and I were ever involved, how I got defensive (namely because I don’t want him to think there’s anyone else, and the unfaithful insinuation), my inviting him as a plus one, our hug. 
                        There was nothing inherently… sexual, about any boundaries I crossed. But I still feel like I crossed a boundary. And even though I feel like shit I’d probably do it again. But then my confession to Priest comes to mind, “I tried so hard, but I can’t remember a day when I didn’t think of you.” Then lying to Henry about how I ended up in the situation to begin with. 
                        Priest hasn’t scheduled any other pre-cana meetings, but I know there’s more for us to do before the wedding. I wonder if our renewed… involvement? caused him to put a pause on scheduling anything else, and the fact that I pleaded with him about how to deal with my overwhelming desire to end the relationship. 
                        I take a deep breath and enter the building, heading up the sturdy wooden stairs to her office. The door is made of wood just as old as the stairs, with a frosted glass window and “Therapy” written in gold lettering like an old pub. 
                        I knock and open the door. Counsellor looks up from the notebook in her lap, “Ah, good morning.” She gestures to the seat across the table, and I take it. “How have you been?” 
                        It’s been months since my last appointment, it was probably just before Henry proposed. So it feels like a bit of  a loaded question. “Well, I feel like I should have booked an appointment much sooner than I did,” I admit. 
                        “It’s very common among clients to feel rather healed after an appointment, filling them with the false sense of being ‘beyond therapy’.” Counsellor tells me. “Though you booked a long session, an entire two-hour block. Did you get a raise recently?” 
                        I try not to laugh, she’s not joking. “No, but it’s been a while and there’s been a lot recently. I thought it might be beneficial.” Counsellor nods, and I feel a point go up on an imaginary scoreboard somewhere. “Henry proposed. But I’m not sure I want to marry him, I think I should have booked an appointment before running around telling Claire, but then I saw Priest again and…” 
                        “The same Priest you fucked?” 
                        I nod. “Henry wants us to get married at his church because of Godmother and Dad, and my mom. I don’t know why but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him it was a bad idea, and then all the emotions from seeing him again….”
                        “So why didn’t you make an appointment?” 
                        The question stumps me for a moment, and I glance out her window out to the street below. “I guess it just didn’t cross my mind.” 
                        I see her shift in her seat in my peripheral. “And then, why did you finally schedule your appointment today?”
                        “I’m getting a little too close to the line I told myself I wouldn’t cross,” I tell her, Priest in my office flashing across my mind. I turn back to face her. “That, and Henry just told me he’d be okay with not waiting for marriage, after he reacted very poorly when I brought it up a few weeks ago.” 
                        “Mm… let’s start with you telling me a little about that line,” Counsellor directs me. “What is this boundary you don’t want to cross?”
                        “I had a work event and invited Priest as a plus one. We were in my office, we almost kissed— I’m pretty sure —but then we didn’t. And at the end of the night just settled on a hug.”
                        “So, you felt you had a handle on the situation?” 
                        “No, not at all. I felt like I was drowning the entire time. I suppose I called you because I didn’t think I could keep treading water.”
                        “You were about to go under,” Counsellor suggests, and I nod. “Your procrastination habits are extending beyond your work, I see.” 
                        “It’s not that I put it off, necessarily. Not on purpose. I guess I just didn’t know how I felt, so I didn’t know I needed help. Like, the feeling of doom set in a little bit later and I didn’t realize until it did.” I think about my words for a second, and quickly add, “But even that’s not entirely true… I’ve been talking to my sister a lot about this, she’s been so helpful. But I don’t feel I actually react to things, at least not emotionally. I have my thoughts and reactions in the moment, but sometimes the actual feelings don’t set in until days later. Weeks even. So it makes it hard to navigate when my life is on a time line, with the wedding.”
                        “Is it still on?” 
                        “Right now, yes.” 
                        Counsellor makes a few quick notes on the pad, her distinguished pen (the kind my boss would rather display on her desk) flitting across the page with more urgency than I personally find necessary. “I’m going to prescribe you meditation.” 
                        “Meditation?” Oh god, what have I gotten myself into?
                        “I know some patients like you who aren’t receptive to the idea initially, just be grateful I’m not also giving you journaling,” Counsellor says. Was that a joke? “But the fastest fix we can apply to this is to get you out of your head. You’re not feeling your feelings because you’re too worried thinking about how you think you should be feeling, rather than actually doing any feeling yourself.” 
                        “So you want me to meditate?” 
                        The doubt in my voice must have been apparent, because it elicits a sigh from Counsellor. “Patients will often find it… an odd course of action. But meditation isn’t always what you likely think it is. Go to a park, take a deep breath, try to see if you can focus on your breathing while also feeling the breeze on your face, listening to the people around you, smell any flowers around you, the grass beneath you touching your legs. Be in the moment.” 
                        “I think I could do that,” I tell her. At least the way she explained it. One time my mom got into meditation after a student who studied in India brought it back to her class, upholding the traditions of our great country. I’d stumble on the small groups she’d hold at home, sitting in a dark room with their legs crossed, humming to themselves, and not moving. Counsellor’s description sounded much more manageable, and even though I knew nothing about meditation something told me it was closer to the original. 
                        “Then, I have a question for you,” Counsellor starts. “Are you committing because you want to, or committing simply because your trying to prove that you can?” 
                        I mull it over. Prove it to myself, maybe. Prove it to my family? Definitely. “Sometimes I think I’m doing it more to show my family I can, so they stop thinking of me as they mess they have to clean up. 
                        Counsellor considers this for a moment. “You’ve been in a relationship for the past four years, held a solid job, why do you think they still think of you as a mess?” 
                        “Well for one, at the engagement dinner Godmother told me she’s surprised I managed,” I explain, recalling the subtle patronizing remarks over the years. Of course, flying under the radar of everyone else. “What if the rest of them are thinking it too? I have Claire’s support but even she seems weary at times.” 
                        “Do you think your marriage will finally convince them?” 
                        “Maybe not convince. Not fully, at least. But maybe they’ll think I’ve finally grown up or something.” 
                        “You’re putting yourself through hell for something you’re not even fully convinced will work,” Counsellor points out. “Don’t you think that, at a certain point, you no longer hold the burden for proof?” 
                        I sit back in my seat. I, in fact, had never thought that. With my lack of response, my Counsellor takes it as a sign to continue, “So lets talk about what’s potentially putting this… lets call it a character cleanser, in jeopardy?” 
                        Her pen is poised and ready. “Well, now the Priest is officiating our wedding, and responsible for our pre-cana meetings because Henry’s a real Catholic and thought it was necessary. I had never even considered not being fully happy with Henry, but seeing him again? Everything I thought I’d either forgotten or buried came back, I’ve felt out of control ever since. We haven’t kissed or had sex or anything, but I want him so badly. I think we’ve definitely flirted, but I don’t want to break my commitment. I’ve come so far already.”
                        “And yet, you want out,” she points out. “You know, just because there’s nothing physical doesn’t mean it’s not an affair. There’s such think as an emotional affair.” 
                        “So you mean I’ve already broken my commitment?” Something between relief and dread mixes in my stomach. Freed from the chains I’ve broken, yet still burdened to carry them with me. 
                        “To some people, sure. To others? No. Though, men tend to find physical is worse while women find emotional worse. There’s always plenty of room for exceptions though. What do you think?” 
                        “That’s not for me to decide, is it?” 
                        “No, it isn’t. Although, given you and Henry’s adherence to waiting until marriage I’m inclined to think he’s the former. Have you talked to Henry about any boundaries pertaining to other people and your relationship?”
                        I find myself laughing at my next thought, “I don’t think Henry ever thought he’d have to tell me not to cheat on him. He doesn’t check my phone for anything, if that’s what you’re asking. Never asked about male friends, not that I have many. Coworkers, either.”
                        “That’s good, he’s secure in his relationship with you.” 
                        That makes me feel even guiltier, I’m going to ruin him. “I don’t feel any better about that.” 
                        Counsellor smiles, like I’m a child making the same mistake every child has for the thousands of years. “I’m not here to make you feel better, I’m here to help you work it out. So lets revisit, what do you think about the distinction between physical and emotional? How do you feel about that?”
                        “I’d like to say emotional affairs aren’t as bad, because then I’m off the hook. But emotional affairs are just as bad, then I’ve already broken my commitment. I feel like that’s a weight off my shoulders, I can do what I want.”
                        “What do you want?”
                        I find myself looking out her window again, at the spot I stood at least half an hour before. “I don’t think I want to marry Henry. If I marry anyone, I’d like to marry Priest. But I can’t. I’d like to try. Maybe not the marriage part, but the being with.” 
                        “So what’s stopping you from doing that?”
                        “Me. And the same issues from last time, I don’t think he’d want to.” 
                        “Have you asked?” My Counsellor’s suggestion, as if it was the easiest thing in the world, catches me off guard. 
                        I look back at her and shake my head. “No… he’s supposed to be the one marrying us, it feels wrong to. And what if he’s just being kind out of priestly obligation? The whole priest thing hasn’t changed, and I don’t know how to change it.”
                        “Do you think he’d ever leave the priesthood?” 
                        “No.” 
                        “You don’t think he’s an option, I’d imagine you’re feeling a bit trapped.” 
                        “That, and my Godmother is throwing a sort of engagement party, and she’s not one to skimp on a party,” I explain. “I received the invitation when Priest was at my flat before the work event.” 
                        “He was at your flat?” 
                        “I needed to change, he needed a tie, and we both needed a drink,” I explain. After feeling like I’ve repeated the story so many times, I think I’ve finally mastered conveying the important details. 
                        Counsellor nods in understanding, I’m sure she’ll have another comment about that later. But she continues with her Godmother line of questioning, “So if you call it off, you’ll incur her disappointment from her ideas about you, and now her own contribution as well?”
                        I nod. “My sister suggested I wait until after the party, apparently she’s already invested something into it.” 
                        “Do you think you’ll end the relationship then, after the party?” 
                        “I think that’s the best way to do it. I know I’m still leading Henry on, but wouldn’t it be easier for everyone?”
                        “Easier for you, certainly,” she points out. “You’re sure Godmother has deposits and such down?” 
                        “I’d assume so, she’s already sent invitations out. And even if she hasn’t, the money is one thing. But she wouldn’t tolerate the embarrassment, I have a feeling she’d interpret it as being embarrassed in front of her friends.”
                        “Even though the party is for you and Henry?” 
                        “Exactly.” I confirm. “Any party she’s at is for her, in her mind. The fact that she’s organizing, and hosting it doesn’t help.” 
                        My Counsellor falls silent for a moment and purses her lips as she jots a few notes down. When she looks back up at me, her lips are still pursed. She’s looking at me like she’s trying to find the cracks, crafting the perfect question behind her eyes to penetrate my armor. 
                        “I think we both know you’re not going to marry Henry. But your lack of initiative is concerning, you’re not just hurting Henry, you’re hurting yourself too. If you don’t follow through and break the engagement, imagine the pressure you’ll feel if you get married, when your commitment isn’t bound just by superficial pressures, but the law? You could always get an annulment, but what if you can’t follow through on that and then you need a divorce? If you don’t allow yourself to pursue your wellbeing now, what happens if you break your commitment in the future anyways?
                        “What if you have kids? Most of your reasoning is centered around you. You’ve talked more about what your family will think that how, say, Henry will feel. You’re acting like you’re protecting him, but everyday you wait will only add to his pain later. But you get to ignore that while you have fun with your Priest. And I know once you leave my office, Henry’s fate will be cemented and he’ll be receiving some very bad news after what I assume will be a very nice engagement party.” 
                        I look at her, and I don’t know what to say. Because she’s right, and the guilt I have for Henry surfacing again is proof enough. My hypothetical marriage she proposes brings the dread back too, and when I try to picture the future with Henry I know what I need to do. But much to what I would imagine to be my Counsellor’s disappointment, my time line hasn’t been swayed. 
                        “You’re still going to wait until the engagement party, aren’t you?” she asks. 
                        “How did you—”
                        “You’ve already decided what you’re going to do, just like every time you come and see me. You just want permission to keep doing what you’re doing.” 
                        “I know it’ll hurt Henry, but I still think it’s best for everyone involved,” I tell her. She leans back in her chair, resigned, and makes a few notes in her notebook. “I can only tolerate so much from my family, especially Godmother, without any sort of certainty I won’t have any sort of happiness to lean on. I can’t do that.” 
                        Counsellor nods. “Unfortunately, I understand. Sometimes the hardest thing to do is the right thing, but the easiest isn’t always the worst. When you’re working on your meditation and getting in touch with your emotions, see if you can try to understand Henry’s. His decision to tell you he doesn’t need to wait for marriage could very well be him sensing you’re pulling away. If you proceed with your plan, I’d recommend trying to minimize as much damage as possible.”
                        “I want to minimize the damage too,” I tell her, and it’s true. I know Henry isn’t inexperienced or totally naive, but I still think I have a leg up on him when it comes to relationships. And more experience coming out on the other side relatively unscathed. 
                        “You’re a good person, you care about others. But if you care too much about what others think, that’ll interfere with your ability to actually do any good,” she says, her eyes flitting to the clock behind me. “You won’t, but try to book another appointment before you’re engaged to someone else.” 
                        “I will,” I promise, rising from my chair. Like most therapy sessions, I think I’m left with more questions than answers. I know what I need to do, but now I have this new feeling that I should think about it while doing some meditation. But for now, I need to figure out how to talk to the person I want to talk to most. I just need to get everything off my chest, and maybe he’ll finally give me the indication a safety net is waiting for me on the other side. 

Notes:

hope you guys enjoyed, thanks for reading <3

i'm so excited for the next few chapters, everything is starting to come together

Chapter 12: Dear God, I'm Sorry

       Zephaniah 3:4 "Her prophets are reckless, treacherous men; Her priests have profaned the sanctuary. They have done violence to the law."

 

        The next day after my session, I had to go into work to handle a few meetings with my team. I receive some compliments for the event, and how I was able to bring together such a good group of people from our adjacent industries, and we’ve seen an uptick in donations for our initiatives since. But beyond that, I float through the day thinking about what my therapist told me. 
        I haven’t seen her in so long that everything she told me is bouncing off the walls of my brain, bouncing off each other, until I can’t take it. Have you ever had to sit in a meeting (that could have been an e-mail), trying to pay attention and seem attentive, while debating whether you’re in an emotional affair, how to handle said emotional affair, and what to do about everything else in your life? Surely, I’m not the only one. 
        I continue to float through the office, not quite there but not necessarily anywhere else… Once it’s time to leave I gather my things, bid our receptionist farewell, and step onto the London pavement. With everything in my head, I don’t feel like going home. After my session, I didn’t feel like talking much and I don’t think I can tolerate another evening of Henry looking at me like he does while my chest is swimming with secrets. 
        I find a grocery store and grab some per-packaged sandwiches and a pack of beer. I might not want to schedule another therapy session so soon, out of fear that Counsellor will truly think I’m drowning in the deep end, but I know someone else who can offer guidance. Someone who I shouldn’t be looking for guidance from, but someone I know will give it to me, regardless. 
        And then I’m standing outside the church, looking up at the daunting arched windows, the bricks old enough Jesus himself might have touched them. My hand reaches for the door and, like every time lately, I hesitate. Entering the church feels like starting a new chapter every time I’m here, a new short story in my life. For a brief second, I feel a sort of understanding, of why Priest enjoys the comfort of the church so much. No matter how much I’ve changed, the church is the same. There’s a certain level of reliability you can’t find elsewhere, in a world that seems to change faster and faster every day. 
        I step inside and the heavy door closes behind me. I’m wrapped in a blanket of holiness, brought by the space where I always have an idea of what to expect. It’s quiet inside, with no other parishioners praying or seeking guidance at this hour. I listen for a shuffle somewhere in the building, any sign of life. Brief insanity takes over my mind and I gravitate towards the pews, the plastic bag, and brews and brioche crinkling at my side. 
        My feet are moving and then I’m sitting. I don’t clasp my hands together or anything, but my eyes look towards the vaulted ceiling. I have no clue what I’m looking for. I hear Henry in the back of my mind, explaining how he wants us to get married here, where my mother is. Is that why I keep coming back here? Am I searching for love from the Priest, or from Her? 
        “What should I do?” I find myself asking Her out loud. Before my prayers are answered, I hear the tell-tale signs of someone entering a room. Wood creaking ever so slightly as weight shifted slowly down the stairs, light breathing. 
        I whip around and see the Priest standing at the other end of the room, a little stunned. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says, approaching slowly. 
        I wave it off. “Wasn’t getting much anyway.” I lift the bag next to me. “I thought we could chat.” 
        He chuckles in that inward breathy way he always does, and gestures for me to follow. Priest waits at the door for me to catch up, and we step into the cool evening air. We sit on the bench, and I open my bag to reveal my spoils. I hand him a sandwich, and set the pack of beer in between us. “I hope you’re hungry.”
        Priest looks at the sandwich like a child on Christmas. “You didn’t have to do this.” 
        I shrug. “I was hungry, I figured you might be too.” 
        He unwraps it and takes a bite, I do the same. “So, what brings you back here?” he asks in between mouthfuls. 
        “What brings me back every time,” I say, which gets a laugh out of him. We’re just warming up to do the dance we’ve done so many times, carefully stepping around each other guided by muscle memory. 
        We fall into silence as we eat, the occasional crinkling wrapper in between us. This isn’t what I came here to do, as much as I enjoy being in the same space as him. And even though I’m the one who brought the supplies. I grab a beer and twist off the cap, throwing it in the grocery bag. The first sip isn’t my favorite, beer rarely ever is, but I let it trickle down my throat, nonetheless. They must call it liquid courage for a reason. 
        “I feel like I should explain how I’ve been acting,” I tell him, looking at the grass ahead of us. 
        I see his head whip up in my peripheral, but I can read his expression. “You don’t owe me explanations.” 
        “I want to,” I start. I take another sip. “I don’t want to marry Henry. I won’t. I know this now, know this for sure. Before we got engaged, before we had our first meeting, I was looking forward to marriage, I thought that maybe I could handle kids, the whole ‘starting-a-family’ thing. And I’ve realized I wasn’t looking forward to them the way he does, to me they were just goals to appease others. Waiting for marriage wasn’t exactly my idea—”
        “I had a hunch. Why agree to it?” 
        “I think partially because I wanted to hold onto Henry. Partially because I wanted to see if I could do it. I’m not sure how I managed it, but I kept thinking about you and how you’ve managed for so long.” I finally look at him, only to catch his usually somewhat positive demeanor falter for a moment. I don’t ask why, even if I did, I don’t think he’d tell me. But then a thought crosses my mind, if I broke his streak last time… there’s a good chance neither of us has slept with anyone since our last time. Which leads me to believe, maybe I wasn’t really waiting for Henry. 
        “If I wasn’t there to… push you,” I start again. “It was selfish, wasn’t it? Trying to get you to break your vow because I couldn’t live with myself if you didn’t.” 
        Priest shakes his head. “First, it was my decision to break it or not.  I’ve made peace with it, and I hope He has too. But I’ll figure that out later when the time comes. Sometimes I think you view me as Sisyphus, punished to work like this for the rest of my time on this Earth. But I enjoy it, I picked this life.” 
        His gaze holds me, draws me in, despite the thread of conversation clearly designed to deter me. “Would you ever do anything else?” I ask, testing the water. 
        He looks away for what feels like forever, weighing his words, weighing his desires. Instead of giving me the answer I want, he looks back at me. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”
        A shocked laugh escapes me because he’s right. “Can you blame me?” 
        His laughter joins mine and he shakes his head. “I suppose if not a Priest, maybe a Pastor. But then I’d have to be a Protestant.” 
        “What’s wrong with that?” I ask, oblivious. Despite the religious classes I’ve taken, I assumed there wasn’t as much animosity anymore. But I also have a strictly English background and upbringing, I’m bound to miss something. 
        “Have you seen their churches?” Priest asks, which surprises me. “I don’t know how they could feel God in those cardboard boxes.” 
        “Do you think you can only feel God in a church? What of Martin Luther?” I shoot back. 
        He shakes his head. “No, no… I don’t think it’s a requirement. But why not build something grand for who you love the most?” 
        “I suppose. A bit materialistic though, don’t you think?” I ask. “A god who only values your devotion if it has value to offer him. Doesn’t He love regardless?”
        “I think you’ve got me there,” Priest concedes. “But even then, you know how the Catholics are. If you leave, you might as well be dead. And I don’t think I want to take that chance with my afterlife.” 
        I remember when he first asked me about my beliefs, my relationship with God. How he saw it as believing in a meaningless existence. At the time I didn’t even blink at it, but now with what I’ve learned and experienced I’m not sure I’d agree. What does he think about my afterlife? 
        The questions will have to wait because I’m on a mission. “So not a pastor then…” I start thinking of every career I’ve ever heard of or come in contact with. My eyes wander, as if the grass, or the trees, or the walls of the church will inspire something within me. And one of those won’t get me to where I need to go. “What did you want to be before you became a Priest?” 
        His body stills as he considers the question. “Well, my parents wanted me to be a lawyer, so I wanted to be a lawyer. But then I got older and sort of liked the idea of being a teacher.” 
        “So then how did you go from teaching to being a Priest?” 
        “Well… there’s the issue with pay and being a Priest I don’t have to worry about that since I don’t have to worry about where I’m living. But my family was sort of always religious. M mother was raised Catholic and my father Protestant, so we’d go to church every few years. Easter here, Christmas here. I think the only time we went on a Sunday that wasn’t a holiday was when they were trying to stay sober. So, we didn’t go to church much. Which, based on how many Catholics I’ve met who don’t bother anymore… Not going was probably the best thing for my faith.
        “And He’d always been there, I guess. But I never really paid Him any attention. When I went to college, they wanted me to do something to prepare for law school and I wanted to study education. I enrolled in the education course without telling them, and when they found out they pulled my funding. I lost my classes, but once I got my finances sorted only the theology course had room left.” 
        I took his information in, maybe the most I’d ever received in one sitting. Somehow, he had a way of getting things out of me, but I still needed to tailor my strategy. But something was clearly working. Learning more about his parents sent a pang to my heart, and I thought about his own relationship with alcohol. And here I was, contributing to it. But I didn’t want things to get too heavy, not yet. “So, you took them, reconnected with God, and vowed yourself to him forever?
        Priest clears his throat and takes a swig of his beer. “Well, I graduated, and finished the course with a degree in religion and theology.” 
        “Did you ever go back to education?” 
        “Let me finish.” He laughs, and even seems a bit flustered. Like he’s not used to talking about himself. “No, I ended up at some community service firm, which wasn’t the worst, but I knew I couldn’t stay there forever. My drinking was getting worse, I didn’t know what to do with myself or where to go. Then one of my cousins, one of the family nuns, shows up looking to organize something, and she showed me the convent she was living in—”
        “Is that allowed?” I ask, my turn to interject. 
        “Yes, as long as I don’t see their private quarters,” Priest laughs. So much laughter despite our trend of conversation, and I couldn’t tell whether it was a good thing or not. “She was excited someone else in the family was showing an interest in religion, to the level she did, and after everything with my parents it felt nice to be… not appreciated, but seen? Recognized, maybe. And the convent just had this amazing energy, and I knew I wanted more. But Monasticism wasn’t really my thing, my drinking was very opposed to the ascetic lifestyle. But I still wanted to share what I’d learned.” 
        “Like a teacher?” I offered.
        “Like a Priest,” he says, and a certain somber quality falls over his face. I want to ask what he’s thinking, ask where his solemnity is coming from. 
        “God’s plan, right?” I ask, once again, trying to introduce brevity to our conversation. 
        Priest leans forward and clasps his hands together, bracing his arms on his knees. “You could say that. I used to think he was waiting for me. And I thought the fact that I only had access to religious courses meant I was finally seeing his path.” 
        A thought passes through my mind, and I don’t know if I want to say it. Even though I came here to see if I could try and convince him to leave the Priesthood, given everything I’ve learned I’m not sure if I want to. But there’s also something about the way he talks about the path he’s walked. Melancholy? Mourning? And so, I say it anyway, “Religion isn’t exactly a popular course to begin with, not exactly at the top of those lists telling you what makes the most money. And in the handful, I took, I don’t think I ever remember seeing a full room, except for some of the later classes with a handful of seats.” 
        I look at him, and he’s looking at me with a puzzled look. Like he’s also trying to figure out if I’m trying to convince him to leave the Priesthood. “But, I mean, it could have been God. Who am I to say?”
        He blesses me with one of his classic inward chuckles. “Do you remember when your Godmother asked me about callings?”
        I nod. “Extremely vaguely.” I’ve never made much of an effort to remember things about my Godmother. 
        “It might not have been part of His big plan, but I still remember going to my first class and just… I don’t know, feeling it. A certain… uh, lightness in my chest, I guess you could say. After everything, I reckon it was the most content I’d felt in a while at that point. Like he was beckoning me to join him. I felt it at the convent too, at the point I found a church and started going to mass. Haven’t stopped since, I just lead it now.” 
        “Why did you pick a Catholic church over another branch?” 
        “Probably the comfort, honestly. Even though church wasn’t the most exciting thing for me, it was either associated with holidays or a sign things were getting better. I guess it just made sense. God came back to me, so I went back to Catholicism.” 
        “And you found peace with God,” I offer, and he nods. “Does anything else bring you peace?” 
        Priest looks back in front of him and considers it for a moment. He sits up slowly, his hands still clasped in his lap. “I don’t know if there’s anything else that can make me feel the same way He can.” 
        I must admit, I’m crestfallen for a moment. Or I can stop being dramatic and just say it, sad. But he can’t see me, so I allow myself to sit in it for a little. “But what about when you’re not doing Priest things, how do you keep your peace?” 
        He shrugs and sits up fully, leaning his weight on the bench. “Even when I’m not doing ‘Priest things’, He’s still with me. So, then I’ll always have my peace.” 
        This was going to be harder than I thought, though I didn’t exactly know what I was expecting. I knew what I was getting into. Yet, at the same time… The last time I went down this road, I succeeded. Maybe not entirely, but it was something close to victory, nevertheless. So, something, whether it’s ego or intuition, tells me there’s another chance for success. Another chance for us. 
        “It’s hard to wrap my head around it,” I admit. But it’s not what I want to say. I want to tell him if he leaves the Priesthood, God will still be with him. That he can still have his peace. I let myself say a little bit of it, “Especially since there’s plenty of non-Priests who are really into God. Like my professors, I’m sure yours too. What do you think it is about him that brings you comfort?”
        “Hm,” Priest hums, taking time to reflect. “I think… the love I feel for Him is certainly part of it. And since it feels like he guided me to him… I’m not going to say I was anointed, but sometimes I feel like he elected me to the Priesthood. And once I started working towards it, I didn’t have to worry about other things anymore. Not my parents, not my brother— once we learned about that. I didn’t have to think about what to do with myself anymore, I could just focus on the connection with Him.” 
        “You wanted someone to tell you what to do,” I state, and he looks at me for the first time in a while. There’s a hint of recollection in his eyes, and I wonder if he’s replaying that night in his head. “If you didn’t have God guiding you, do you know what you want?”
        “What did you come here to talk to me about?” Priest deflects. I can’t tell if I’m edging too close to the line, the boundary of things we don’t talk about. Am I getting close to uncovering a temper I didn’t know existed? There’s something between us, tension? But that’s not quite it. I want to say it’s like we both know exactly what we want to do, but neither one of us wants to do it first. To go over the edge. I really am delusional because that might have been true in my office. Now it almost feels as though every word is laying a brick on his path, leading away from me. 
        “I asked you a question,” I retort. 
        Priest grins and quickly wipes it away with a shake of his head. “You know, I’ve really been wondering what the deal is with all these warehouse raves lately.” 
        I guffaw, a sound I didn’t even know I could produce. “I’m being serious!”
        “I know, I know… I think I’m making a joke because I don’t know what I want. Sure, I’ve got ideas. But if God kicked me out of the parish tomorrow, I’d be lost.” 
        “You don’t have someone to catch you from your fall from grace?” I ask. 
        His eyes fill with that certain sparkle that tells me I’m playing with fire. “It’s not just that,” he starts to explain. “This is all I’ve done for… I don’t even know how many years now. I know what to expect, what I’m supposed to be doing each day, where I need to be. If I don’t have that, what do I do? Where do I even start?”
        I take in the fire in his eyes, daring me, and sigh. When I look at him, in this moment, I see someone who (like me) is trapped in something they feel obligated to be in. Part of me feels Priest has convinced himself he’s experiencing God’s love to keep him in the clergy. It was the only thing that brought him out of a difficult time, and now if he doesn’t have that pillar of support he doesn’t know if he’ll have one at all. Was the fear of experiencing the same chaos and helplessness he felt with his parents’ rejection holding him back? I’m familiar with the feeling. 
        “I know what it’s like to be scared to leave.” I tell him. Henry flashes across my mind, and Claire’s own words about my lack of safety net echo among my own thoughts. “It’s called a leap of faith for a reason,” I tell him, appropriating my sister’s wisdom as my own. 
        Priest only gives me the sad smile I’m so familiar with, and in the blink of an eye I’m back at the bus stop. “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight,” he says. “For all my doubts, he’s there.” 
        “That’s easy.” I counter, “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.” It’s one of the only verses I know, mostly because it’s a favorite of Henry’s. There’s a flicker of surprise on Priest’s face, and I’m greeted with the impish glimmer in his eyes. “You’re not the only one who knows the Bible now.” 
        Priest laughs, still riding on his surprise. “I suppose I should have expected more from someone so drawn to God. “
        His words catch me off guard. Me? Drawn to God? “I wouldn’t necessarily say I’m drawn to him,” I defend. 
        “And yet you always come back to Him one way or another. Two Catholics, religious courses… You say you don’t believe in him, but I think there’s something there, bringing you back,” Priest posits. 
        I can’t necessarily deny it. On paper, Priest is right. Henry’s Catholicism played a role in our relationship, though mostly because there was a hole I desperately needed filled— not that one. “God might be the common denominator, but I wouldn’t say he’s the reason.” 
        “Then what else is it?” Priest asks. 
        Somehow over the course of this conversation, the reigns have been taken from my hands and placed into his. Now I’m not the one trying to bait him into a confession. Though, perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. Maybe I shouldn’t have expected success using the method on someone who deals with confessions for a living. He wants me to say it. I don’t know if I can. 
        “I took the classes to try to understand what it was about God that made you so devoted.” 
        “Do you? Understand?” There’s almost a childlike excitement to his question, eager for my response. 
        “I didn’t find Him compelling enough to devote my entire life to him.” 
        “So, why are you here?” 
        I don’t say anything. I don’t want to tell him I came here to try to convince him to leave the priesthood. If I do have a foot in the door, telling him my true intentions feels like an easy way for it to be slammed shut. Or would not telling him have that effect? “I just wanted to talk.” Third option, lying. 
        He sees right through it. “It’s already dark out, you’re sitting here talking to me instead of talking to your fiancé at home.” 
        I just look at him. The use of ‘home’ reveals a new fear hiding under the layers of delusion and pressure to act. Was my home with Henry? No, springs to the forefront of my mind as if I was engaged in a game of word association. Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember the last time I was truly home. “Is that such a bad thing?” I ask him. 
        “I don’t think Henry would appreciate it.” There’s a certain evenness to his tone I can’t place, can’t assign to some emotion, or thought. 
        “I don’t think he’d appreciate a lot of things.” 
        “Like you trying to convince your Priest to stop being a priest before marrying the two of you?” 
        “I’m not trying to convince you to leave,” I deny. “You’ve almost not married people for less.” 
        “Oh really?” Priest asks, overlooking my joke entirely. Uh oh. Maybe this is that tension I felt earlier, and it was actually frustration and resentment bubbling up. My worst fear, regarding him, quite frankly. That he’d resent me for what I’d done. “You come in here, ask me if there’s something else, I’d be willing to do, talk to me about leaps of faith… I know what you’re like when you’re angling for something.” 
        “Is it working?” I ask, and he laughs again. Incredulous. Maybe all hope isn’t lost. 
        “Well, I haven’t seen a fox since our first meeting, so that’s something,” Priest says. “But I don’t… I don’t think you actually want me to leave. I think you’re scared, and I’m just a familiar face.” 
        It’s almost insulting to listen to, referencing himself as if I would just cast him aside as easily as I’d done to others. Was that what I was trying to prove? Not to my family, but to him that I could be okay with the same thing for years on end? Did I worry he wouldn’t commit because of whatever stories I’m sure had been planted behind my back, all those years ago? 
        “You don’t know what I want,” I say. “You haven’t seen me in years.” 
        “You’re right. So then, help me understand.”
        My eyes fall to my lap, to the beer I’ve been nursing for too long. “A little part of me thought maybe it wasn’t just the Priest thing, that if I found another Catholic something would click and I’d be fine,” I tell him, and allow my eyes to rise to his. “But then I saw you, and realized I was wrong.” 
        A million different things flash across his face and, try as I might, I can’t possibly read them all. I imagine the prayer running through his head right now. I want him to tell me he thought he’d be fine too, that seeing me ignited something within him again. “I don’t think I can offer what you’re looking for.”
        My stomach drops, but I don’t know what I was expecting. For him to drop everything and run away with me? There are no tears inside me, just an overwhelming numbness which replaces the hope I was holding onto. Before he can say anything, I gather the bag with our garbage but leave the rest of the beer. “I should probably get back home to Henry,” I say as I stand up, throwing his words in his face even though it won’t have the desired effect. He starts to do the same, but I hold a hand out to stop him. 
        I walk around to the front of the church. Where I thought there were none, I find myself holding back frustrated tears. I’d built up this narrative, where I’d been thinking about him— waiting for him —for the past four years. Thinking about our time together, and what it might hold if we ever saw each other again. And in building this narrative, I’d also created a reality where he’d done the same. Seeing him again gave me the idea that maybe, just maybe, now would be our time. I’d get what I’d wanted for the past four years, but it turned out to truly be a delusion the entire time. 

⁂

        I take the bus home, and managed to avoid spilling any tears. They’d mostly subsided by now, but as I approach the door to the flat, I feel like I’m brimming with something. Anger, desperation, I don’t know. But when I open the door and see Henry, I’m sure of something. 
        He stands up from his spot on the couch, rising to greet me. I don’t even hear what he’s saying, I can’t hear him, we’re in completely different worlds. All I know is what I feel. My hands finding his jaw, pulling his lips to mine. My body pressing harder and harder against his, him leading me to the bedroom as I try to remove his shirt as fast as I possibly can. The cold air on my chest when he removes my blouse. Our soft sheets meet my skin as he lays me down. His lips on my neck, my chest, then my stomach. 
        I let him undo the button of my jeans and pull them down, and I watch as he does the same to his own. My heart is racing in my ears, pounding on my brow and temples. I watch as the briefs come off, and his cock is on full display. It’s not like I haven’t seen it before, but this time is different. His hands brush my hips, pulling my thong down. 

        Time stops for a moment, he’s inside. It’s done. 

        Now I can’t feel anything at all, and my brain wrestles for control. I need to tell him to stop, that we shouldn’t be doing this, that I shouldn’t be doing this to him. But I don’t want to because I need one Catholic to stand in for another. I don’t bother envisioning Henry as someone else, it doesn’t matter. In some way I think I’m still at the church, at least part of me is. 
        It’s over before I even register, and my brain relinquishes control to let me back into the real world. Harry’s panting, even though I don’t think he’s earned it. “Good thing I have time to build up my stamina,” he says, beaming. 
        He leans down and kisses me, before flopping next to me on the bed. I lay with him for a minute or so, until he falls asleep. When he does, I’m reaching for my nightstand and retrieve my bible from the drawer. I leave my clothes strewn about and go straight to the bathroom. I clear out my bladder and start the bath. 
        I’m looking at myself in the mirror as the steam starts to collect in the room, searching my eyes for something. Did the hope come back? Could I trick it into falling for Henry? Was the shine in my eyes the bathroom light’s reflection, or was that a new bud of love I could tend to until it grows? 
        In the bath I wash the day from my skin. The desires, frustration, ambition, desperation, all of it. I fucked up and I don’t want to know I did. Taking Henry’s virginity after confessing to our Priest I have no intentions to marry him. How many lashings is that one worth? Is repenting even possible? 
        I had returned the napkin to its rightful spot after using it to call Priest, and I hold it between my fingers as I mindlessly flip through the endless verses. I think about him, his words, “I don’t think I can offer what you’re looking for.” I turn them over and over in my mind, inside and out. Even though I try to scrub myself until I’m pure and empty, anger rises in my throat. Fuck him! How does he know what I’m looking for? How does he know he doesn’t want what I have to offer? But then the night we spent together surfaces, all the kisses we shared before and after. Maybe he knows what I have to offer, and he simply isn’t interested. 
        But I remember how he looked at the pre-cana, and how he looked at me. I remember how on that night; he told me he’d fall in love with me if we had sex. Did he mean it? When I asked him if it passed, at the meeting, he told me he wasn’t so sure anymore. And then he’s just going to turn around and reject me? I can’t accept it. I won’t. Because he might think he knows me, but I certainly know him. He’s just as scared as I am, and I know he refuses to see it because he’s wrapped up in some big godly blanket. Loving someone who will love you back, who will hurt you, who you have to love day after day after day is harder than loving some invisible man in the sky. I know that. And that’s why I know he’s scared. Terrified, even.
        And so, I know what I need to do. I need to embrace my fears, because knowing what will happen if I don’t scares me even more.

Notes:

in case anyone doesn't know, ascetic comes from asceticism which is a movement from early Christianity rooted in following in Jesus' footsteps (ie. having limited belongings, avoiding indulgences- v common in early Christianity as they LOVED!!! their wine- and overall just trying to be Jesus). this was looked down on by the early orthodox church (Catholicism) because (my words, google maybe) poor ascetic followers can't really contribute much to the church :/

and Monasticism is essentially that but doing it with your monk or nun friends <3 Which the church was fine with because??? I don't remember but my best guess is because they weren't diverting power from the church.

anyway... hope you guys liked this one <3333 snippets for this one have been floating around in my head for a while, happy that someone besides me will finally experience them lol

more where that came from, see you guys at the next!