Page 35 of Property of The Grump

“I imagine this little space out in front of my house. I’ll decorate it all cute and fill it up with all the goodies I baked the day before.” She pauses and brushes her hand back through her hair. “I also make these really cute little creatures. They’re hand sewn, and I think they’d do well too. My friends seem to like them, but maybe they’re just being nice.”

“That sounds wonderful, sweetheart.” My mother rubs Wren’s knee in comfort. “I’ll be the first one lined up at your bake stand someday, whether I’m here or not. Heck, I’ll even give you my famous cinnamon roll recipe. If you sell that in this town, you’ll sell out of it in minutes. I used to make this one for bake sales all the time.”

“I’d love that.” Wren smiles and rests her hand on top of my mother’s. She’s never told anyone that cinnamon roll recipe. In fact, she’s guarded it her whole life. Not even her sister could get it from her. “I’ll cherish it.”

“I know you will, honey.” Mom taps Wren’s hand as she turns toward me. “The kitchen clean?”

I nod. “All set. We should probably get going.”

“I feel bad, Betty. You cooked such a nice meal for everyone, and then—”

“That’s okay, sweetheart. Gives you another reason to come back again. Plus, don’t forget if things get too crowded over at the church, you’re welcome to stay here. I’ve got plenty of room.”

“Thank you. I don’t think I’ll be there much longer. If Zane is as agreeable as he’s acting, I should be in the clear soon, and I won’t need the safety of the church as much as I do right now.”

My mother stares at me, her brows narrowed heavily as Wren steps through the front door and out onto the porch, the evening sun settling behind the mountain range as darkness closes in.

Chapter Twelve

Wren

Seven Years Ago

The church is quiet, every settling beam, every footstep, every sigh echoing through the small building like a megaphone. Even the light rain pattering outside sounds like a heavy storm.

Father Anderson sets out buckets to catch the dripping water that’s sneaking through the leaky roof. His footsteps slow and heavy. His shoulders squared. His head lost in thought. He’s barely said two words since we left dinner.

“Are you okay?” I say, swallowing down a lump in my throat.

“Yeah,” he groans, moving the bucket side to side as he tries to get the dripping from two separate spots collected into one bucket. “You?”

“Worried about you, I guess. Tonight was weird. I figured maybe you’d need to talk about it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I messed up. Now I have to fix it.”

I nod slowly, watching his massive frame stalk back and forth in the dim light shining down on the altar. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry you had to see me like that tonight. I shouldn’t have put you in that position,” he sighs. “I shouldn’t have these feelings about you, Wren. Every fucking ounce of me knows I should tell you to leave, that I should get distance from you, butthat’s the last thing I want, and the thought of sending you out into the world without me there to protect you makes my fucking skin crawl.” He pauses and stares toward me. “And that doesn’t even begin to touch the other stuff I can’t stop thinking about.”

“Like the stuff from the dreams?”

“Yeah,” he nods, “the stuff from the dreams. It’s on my mind all the time. What you’d feel like, taste like, sound like… it’s all-encompassing.”

“When was the last time you had sex?” It feels like a sin to even ask this question, but I do, every syllable echoing.

“Twenty years ago. Maybe… longer.” He shrugs. “It’s been a while.”

“So maybe that’s why you’re going crazy thinking you want me so much. Maybe if you jerk off or something, you’ll feel better.” I lean forward in the pew as I talk, the wind picking up outside, forcing me to raise my voice a little.

“Masturbation is a sin.” He stares at me as he says the words, his frame shadowed and dark. “I’m allowed no sexual release of any kind. This is a choice, not a punishment. I’ve been living this life for twenty years. I’ve made a vow before my family, before God,” he groans, turning toward the cross. “The people of this church look to me to be an example of Christ’s way. If I falter, some of them will lose faith not only in me, but in the church. One mistake and I hurt more than myself.”

“And who needs to know about the masturbation? You’ve been a man of God twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, for twenty years. Surely, God is okay with you taking a short break to relieve tension. Enough so that you can move forward with your mission.”

“I don’t think it works like that,” he says, walking down the aisle toward me. “The point of celibacy is to remain celibate. It’s about moral integrity. It’s about living Christ’s way. What Ichoose to do in private still affects my soul, which will inevitably affect the souls of others who follow me.”

“And this frustration isn’t affecting you? You deserve a moment to be selfish. You deserve to be a man. A human.”

He sits in the pew before me, his face wrinkled with apprehension that I want to kiss away.