Page 8 of Property of The Grump

There’s a momentary pause where I find myself growing more and more desperate to see the beauty God’s created with her, but I glance away before the sin devours me.

“Have you always done this priest thing?” Her voice is more somber now.

“Yes. I’m meant for the priesthood. I’ve known it since I was very young.”

“How does a personknowsomething like that?”

“It’s cliché,” I run my hand down over my beard, “but I believe wholeheartedly that God called to me.”

“What does that even sound like? I mean, did you hear his voice ordering you to the church?”

“Sort of, yeah.”

“So, you hear the voice of God, and thisisn’ta mental illness?”

I laugh and my chest feels full in a way it hasn’t before. “Not that I know of, though I’m not taking anything off the table.”

“That’s probably smart,” she says, standing in the booth, her dark hair falling in front of her face as she moves. At least I think that’s what I see. “I find that the voices are untrustworthy. Hell, I find most things are untrustworthy, eventually. This, though,” she pauses, and the floorboards creak, “I’ll remember this conversation. Thank you for listening to my nonsense. I’ve had a crazy week and… this was a nice reminder that there’s still good in the world.”

Lord, help me. I don’t want her to leave.

I tell myself the thoughts are pure. That I feel this pull because of the slight twinge of sadness in her voice, that I feel drawn to help, though I know deep down it’s more than that. Somehow, my body is reacting to her presence. It’s reacting in a way I’m not used to, in a way I can’t well define with words. Hell, I’m having a hard time defining the reaction with feeling. All I know is that I don’t want her to leave the booth.

“It was a nice reminder for me, too.” I grip the arms of the chair without thought, as though resisting the urge to get up and follow her out. Curiosity has never had me so intrigued. Not once have I ever wanted so badly to match a face to a voice.

“How did I remind you that there’s good in the world? I blew in here, didn’t know what I was doing, and rambled for fifteen minutes. I think I even made a joke. I’m sure that’s frowned upon.”

“Your intentions were pure. I can feel it. If you ever find yourself on a drive again, you know where to find me.”

“I do,” she says, shoes clicking against the hard wood before she opens the door and light filters into the booth that hadn’t been there before.

There are a thousand more conversations I’d like to have with her. A thousand more topics I’d like to explore, though they’re selfish and not at all in line with my mission.

I hold my rosary close to my chest, my grip focused on the first large bead after the crucifix as I pray and proceed to move along the beads. Usually, this ritual pulls me out of my head, drags me back to center, and reminds me of where I belong.

Right now, though, for the first time in my life, prayer isn’t doing a thing. All I’m thinking about is the sound of that woman’s voice, and how I get her back here again.

Chapter Four

Wren

Seven Years Ago

It’s probably not normal that I can’t stop thinking about the priest. It’s not a sexual thing. That would be crazy. I’m a married woman. Married women are only allowed to be turned on by their husbands and book boyfriends.

That’s the rule.

That said, I truly enjoyed the conversation I had with the priest earlier. So much so that it’s all that’s on my mind. I keep telling myself that he’s trained to listen and to ask probing questions. It’s his job to make a person feel heard, but if that’s the case, then maybe I do need the church, because I haven’t felt that good in ages.

That, or maybe I need an antidepressant. Tough to tell at this point. Either way, I’m on the little church’s website to see what Father Anderson looks like when Zane walks into the room.

“Who’s that?”

My chest tightens as I stare toward the broad-shouldered, inked-up man on the screen. I don’t know why I thought priests weren’t allowed to be tattooed, and I don’t remember them ever wearing jeans in the movies I’ve watched. I also don’t know why I wanted to know what he looks like. It doesn’t really matter what he looks like. “Father Anderson,” I say. “He’s a priest.”

“A priest?” Zane groans and grabs a tie out of the top drawer of the dresser. “He looks like a biker.”

“I know.” I slap the laptop screen shut and twist toward my husband, whose tone sounds like he’s in a bad mood already. Then again, when is he not in a bad mood? “What’s up?”