Page 14 of Switch Hitter

Because I’m Irish Catholic, and my family carries shame like heirloom silver.

And I’ve been raised to be the version of me everyone can understand, and I’m tired.

“I don’t know,” I whisper, and it’s the first honest thing I’ve said all day. “I just… I can’t stop thinking about him.”

Silence.

Here comes the fire and brimstone.

Then Father O’Shea’s voice softens.

“Sean,” he sighs, and the way he says my name makes my eyes sting. “God is not surprised by you.”

My breath catches, and I let go. Tears silently trickle down my cheeks.

“He is not disgusted by you,” Father O’Shea continues. “And love… real love… is not something that should turn you into your own enemy.”

My hands tremble in my lap.

“I ran,” I whisper, because that’s safer than saying what I ran from. “He tried to… be sweet. And I ran.”

“Why?” he asks.

Sweetness feels like a trap. Because if it’s tender, it’s real, and if it’s real, it can ruin me.

“I’m scared,” I admit, the words barely audible.

Father O’Shea exhales. “Then pray for courage,” he says. “Not punishment. Courage to be honest. Courage to be kind to yourself.”

My throat tightens until it hurts.

“And perhaps,” he adds carefully, “courage to accept that you deserve love that does not require you to suffer.”

“Yes, Father,” I whisper.

He gives me a penance that feels almost too simple. A few prayers. A moment of gratitude. An act of kindness toward myself.

Toward myself.

When I step back out into the church, the air feels lighter and heavier at the same time. Like I didn’t get absolution, exactly.

My phone buzzes again in my pocket, and I take a breath.

I check it.

Emiliano

You make it home, Cobre?

I stare at the message until my vision blurs.

Courage, not punishment.

Then I type back, fingers shaking.

Sean

Yeah, I’m home.