Not her. Not her. Not her, is the only thing going through my mind, and although it hasn’t happened since I took my first confession, I entertain the idea of running out of the booth.
“I’ve never quite done this before,” she murmurs. “I’m supposed to kneel here, yes?”
No! I want to shout. Go away. Leave. Never come back. Let me return to my safe, ordered life. My blessed calling.
The words are stuck in my throat, trapped there by either my stupor or my growing terror.
“I think I remember how this begins from what I’ve seen on TV,” Athaliah says in that same low voice, speaking more to herself than to me.
It’s an adorable tone, like a child self-instructing their way through a task.
I shouldn’t even be able to notice something like that in my current state of mind.
Out of my peripheral, I see her kneeling in front of the screen divider, her hands clasped before her. “Forgive me, Father, for I have—”
“Don’t do that. Stop.” It’s a barked command, one I hope isn’t loud enough to be heard throughout the nave.
Athaliah pauses, an utter stillness coming over her. “You will not take my confession although your faith—and your calling—decrees it?”
Her speech is proper. Perfect. Almost old-fashioned, even. Definitely out of place for this location and time.
She’s beautiful on an otherworldly level. It shouldn’t surprise me that she’s refined, as well.
“Your faith.”
It shouldn’t surprise me that she isn’t Catholic, either. I knew she wasn’t the first night she came in here. She stared up at the Christ on the Cross with a quiet, desperate longing I’ve seen many times—in the eyes of those that don’t believe, yet ache to connect to our Lord’s higher glory.
It called me to her as much as her gorgeous looks.
The internal struggle that ensues due to her comment is as much about my faith as it is about self-control.
I cannot turn her down. She’s right. Even if it kills me, I have to sit through this confession. It’s the right thing to do.
It’s what I was called to do, isn’t it?
Of course. I swore to help lost souls upon my brother’s death. To accomplish in this world what he didn’t get a chance to do.
But what are her motivations? Is she doing this to try and connect with God? Or is this because she knows I want her here, as she previously claimed?
“Shall I continue?” she asks politely after another few moments.
I stiffen in my seat, aching at her nearness, and swallow in an effort to loosen my throat.
Taking my silence as permission, she shifts on the step and readjusts her clasped hands. “Now, where were we? . . . Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned . . .”
My guidance. That’s what she’s waiting for. Instruction on how to continue. “It’s—been . . . you’re supposed to tell me how long it’s been since your last confession.”
“I’ve never confessed.”
Somehow, that doesn’t seem like a newsflash to me. “Then you follow it with ‘These are all my sins’ and you list them out.”
“What if they’re too many to unload in a single session? What then, Logan?”
“Father,” I snap, frustration mounting as I try to get my bearings straight. I still haven’t looked straight at her face.
Her stare is magnetic.
Hot.
It calls to me at the same time that I feel it on my profile.
Learning me.
Invading me.
Goading me.
“What happens when the sins span too far in time to be listed in a single setting, Father. According to your religion, what happens to the sinner then? Are they beyond redemption?”
“No one is beyond redemption,” I say automatically.
By rote, if I’m honest.
Do I really believe that? Sitting here, mind-spinning and confused, body aching to do crazy, possibly disturbing things to her, do I really?
“Then what is one supposed to do to earn your God’s forgiveness?”
That answer is easy. It’s the answer we always give and the only one that matters. I turn my head to finally stare at her, the word leaving me on an exhale. “Repen—” I don’t get to finish the word.
On the other side of the small window with its criss-cross mesh, her eyes are glowing bright hazel.
Air fails me and I can’t make a sound. I throw myself back against the wall of the confessional. Blink.
Her eyes are . . . normal.
Dark brown.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Again, wholly inappropriate, yet the question must be asked.
Among others.
“What are you doing here? For real.” It’s scary how fast my dialect is slipping back into its old form.
“I told you.” Her demeanor changes from serenity to that quiet, sad longing I witnessed the first night she appeared here. “You want me here.”
“I didn’t even know you existed until you came,” I growl, furious with her.
“True. That night . . . that night I was curious as to all this.” Athaliah motions to the world beyond the confessional; the cathedral I’ve come to love with every bit of my soul. “Why is it that your kind has become so enamored with these ideas.”
Your kind. What exactly does she mean by that? “They aren’t ideas.”
“Forgive me. Religion.” Her eyes twinkle with a teasing light, although she purses her lips to maintain a serious expression.
“Yes, religion. But also facts.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Of course I am! I wouldn’t be what I am if I wasn’t.”
That God is real. That his teachings matter. That we must all abide by them to save our eternal souls.
“Are. You. Sure. About. That?” She repeats slowly, one soft spoken word at a time.
It’s like an anvil aimed straight at the core of my psyche. Of everything I consist of. Every ounce of my beliefs.
Because, I am a believer of God. Of the teachings.
There’s . . . just some parts that don’t make sense. Bits that I’ve chalked up to human error. The gospels were written by man and we are flawed in our interpretation of things at times.
But how
