Page 38 of Saint
Aiden in my thoughts, Aiden creeping into my fantasies and reveries andwhat ifs. A crush on a best friend’s straight little brother. It was almost like a joke, like the setup for a porn. It was a bad idea any way I sliced it.
He’s still a bad idea.
He’s still a bad idea.
He’s a bad idea and a monk and he broke my fucking heart and I’m engaged to be married and so why am I sitting here in a monastery, my mind running through a thousandwhat ifs?
What if the key around his neck is for what I think it’s for? What if he was about to kiss me that night in the cloister? What if hewasn’t?
Because I’ve seen, haven’t I? Those fireflies in the cloister? The way he looked at them?
I thought it was impossible to reconcile that lanky, flipping freshman—that reckless millionaire, that infuriating, adorable man who carried sprinkles in his pocket just for me—with this quiet, giant man who watches fireflies dance with reverence andpatience.
I thought it was impossible, and now I’m remembering that young college Aiden flinging himself into the pool for the sheer hell of it, for no other purpose other than living in the moment, and are they really so far apart? That careless freshman and this monk with the faintest traces of silver at his temples?
Or maybe it’s not how close or how far apart those two Aidens are. Maybe it’s about something else.
Maybe it’s the fireflies.
What if it’s the fireflies.
What if I went and found him right now
23
As I expect,shame is there to greet me the minute I wake. But what I don’t expect is everything else that comes along with the shame. Like smoke curling off a fire, like heat curling off a flame, there’s also loneliness and stubbornness and a longing that would surpass that of a king watching a woman bathe on a rooftop.
And then there’s something else, something that I can’t quite name. It’s there, translucent and untouchable as I pray vigils and attempt lectio and then pray lauds too. It’s there as I surreptitiously watch Elijah eat his breakfast from across the refectory. As Elijah tells me after we eat that he plans to spend the day writing, and so I’m free to attend to my usual duties.
It’s like I’m looking at everything through stained glass, warped and bubbled and shaded in vital, jeweled hues.
The storm is finally blowing in for real, and Brother Andrew asks me to go collect the last batch of wood I chopped, so he can stack it for seasoning before it gets soaked. I’m thankful for the chance to go out to the woods, to be alone with the creek and my thoughts, but it doesn’t help with the feeling that something’s strange, something’s changed. It must be that I masturbated last night, for the first time in years, but it can’t beonlythat. It’s not the familiar anchor of guilt I feel or even the sting of unrequited love, but something altogether apart. Like I’ve woken up in someone else’s life—butnot, because I still feel like myself too.
I don’t know. I don’t know, and I don’t think I can live with it. I have to forget Elijah. I have to leave my abbey and find someplace new.
I’ll feel better then, I know I will.
The drizzle is fitful and easy enough to work in, but I can see the dark edge of true storm clouds rolling in. Brother Andrew already told me not to worry about making it back for our afternoon prayers if the storm got bad, and I’m almost hoping it will. I’m almost hoping I’ll be stuck here today, and I won’t have to be around anyone else while I’m thinking stained-glass thoughts.
Especially Elijah.
I get the wood piled into the four wheeler’s little trailer and secure a tarp over it in the nick of time—right as I finish lashing the tarp down, the skies open and issue forth Noah-levels of rain. I check to make sure that the tarp is tied tight enough that the wind won’t be able to rip it off, and then I trot back to the hermitage, ducking my head to keep the rain out of my eyes.
But I’m not alone when I get there. I lift my head to see Elijah standing in the doorway, his hands braced on the frame and his face wet with rain.
I stop and stare from a few feet away, blinking water out of my eyes as he stares back at me.
For a moment, neither of us move.
And then he steps back into the hermitage. I follow him in, both of us dripping everywhere, me in my work T-shirt and jeans, him in a fitted button-down and cuffed jean shorts.
It’s dark in the hermitage—even when it’s sunny, not much light makes it in, and it’s hardly sunny right now. I stop a few steps inside, my eyes adjusting to the shadows as I watch Elijah pace, his thumb rubbing against his fingers in agitation as he does.
He is the only thing in my world that feels real now, the only thing that I can truly see. I’m hypnotized by him.
“I came here for you,” he says finally. His voice is strange.
“Here to the hermitage?” I ask. “Or to the abbey?”
