Page 13 of Switch Hitter

It hits my chest the second I step in.

Catholic guilt doesn’t live in your head. It lives in your bones.

I dip my fingers into the holy water and cross myself on autopilot. For a second, my grandmother’s hands are in mine, guiding the motion.

I used to think this made me safe.

Now I’m not sure what it makes me.

The pew creaks when I kneel. My knees remember this. So does my mouth shaping words I’ve said a thousand times, the ones that are supposed to scrub you clean.

I take out my rosary and silently pray while I wait my turn for the confessional, even though my heart is trying to climb out of my throat. There’s an old couple ahead of me, then a teenage girl with mascara smudged under her eyes, then a man in work boots who looks like he came straight from a job site.

Normal sins.

Normal lives.

What the hell am I doing here?

My phone buzzes in my pocket like it knows where I am and wants to humiliate me.

I don’t check it.

I already know what it says.

When it’s finally my turn, I slide into the booth and shut the little door behind me. The darkness wraps around me, familiar and suffocating at the same time.

On the other side of the screen, Father O’Shea clears his throat.

“Bless me, Father,” I whisper, voice tight. “For I have sinned. It’s been… six weeks since my last confession.”

“It’s alright,” he says gently. “Take your time.”

I open my mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Because what am I supposed to confess?

That I’m twenty-two years old and I can’t stop wanting a man?

That I let him push me into the chain link like it was a punishment I deserved?

That I ran when he tried to kiss me because a kiss feels like truth?

My throat burns.

“I’ve been…” I start, then swallow. “I’ve been doing things I know I shouldn’t.”

Father O’Shea is quiet and patient in all the ways a priest should be. “And how does that make you feel?”

A laugh tries to escape. It dies in my chest.

“Like I’m dirty,” I admit, voice cracking. “Like I’m breaking something in me that’s supposed to be… right.”

“Why do you believe you’re dirty?” he asks.

Because my whole life I was told there are only certain ways to be good. Certain kinds of love that count.