Page 39 of For I Have Sinned

Father Alexander

The entire time Father Keaton speaks, I’m not listening, which is rare for me. I’m always tuned into what he preaches. I take mental notes and absorb his words as he speaks, learning to become a better priest.

But not today.

As he continues to talk, my eyes remain on the back of Celine’s head.

During my entire time standing behind the altar, I felt her heavy stare. The nerves I felt before speaking to all the women had skyrocketed when I sensed her eyes on me.

Why had I all of a sudden been nervous to speak in front of her? Was it because I wanted my words to resonate with her? That I wanted her to take my speech on forgiveness to heart so that she would join me in the booth to confess her sin?

It was hard standing up there to speak without looking at her the entire time. The dresses that the women wear for Prayer are different than their usual ones. I knew that they were made of silk, but other than that, I never paid them any mind.

That was until today, when I saw Celine wearing it. It made her look elegant and regal. God made her look stunning in that dress and plopped her right into the front row as a test. He wanted to see if I would be distracted by her beauty, and as much as I wanted to be, I fought it.

Sure, there were some moments when I let my gaze linger, but I didn’t dare let it stay on her for long. I ripped my eyes away before someone could notice and continued reading my notes.

When I have the chance to lead Prayer, I always conclude by inviting the women to step into the confessional to discuss what is troubling them or any sins they wish to confess. That way, I can help them work through their concerns. If Father Keaton would allow me to only sit in the confessional, I would. I love helping people who are struggling with something inside themselves because I dealt with that myself before becoming a priest.

However, when I offered for them to step into the confessional during my talk, it was pointed directly at Celine. I want her to sit on the other side of the barrier to help her.

I want her to find peace with God and have a better life, but a sick part of me wants to hear her confess what is eating away at her. Even if she doesn’t give me complete details, I’d be content with professing to the act of touching herself.

I cough discreetly as I push the memory of hearing her coming undone out of my head because right now would not be the time for me to get hard. Father Keaton ends his talk and leaves the altar, going through the door off the side of the stage. Some women begin dispersing. Some stay to continue praying, but only a few. Celine looks to the side, towards the aisle, and discreetly glances over her shoulder at where I am standing.

I train my eyes on hers as I move back toward the booth. Without breaking eye contact, I open the door and slide into the compartment. Once the door is shut and I am surrounded by silence, I let out a long breath.

Taking a seat, my hands rest on my knees, my fingers tapping away as I wait.

Usually, after Prayer, a couple of women step into the booth, which means that when someone steps into the other side, I shouldn’t get my hopes up that it is Celine.

At the thought, I hear the door open and softly close. The woman takes a seat but remains silent. Above our heads is a dingy light in need of replacement, making it hard to see anything as we sit here.

When I turn my head to the side, I hold my breath when I see Celine’s features through the screen between us. The light over her barely shines down, but I wouldn’t mistake those lips and nose for anyone else.

“I’m not sure how to start this,” she admits softly.

“You haven’t been to a confessional at your old church?”

She blows out a low breath. “Nope. I always refused.”

Pride curls around me, knowing that I was the first person to get her into a confessional booth. “And why have you decided to come in here today?”

“I—” She pauses briefly. “What you said the other day, while I was admiring the chapel. That it’s not healthy to keep things in.”

“Keeping in the troubles you are experiencing may seem like a good solution until it builds up and becomes too much.”

“Trust me, I know all about that.” She sighs. “It continues to build until you explode. I don’t want to explode. I can’t afford to.”

My brows furrow, and my head tilts at her last sentence. What does she mean by that?

Although I want to know the meaning behind her words, I find myself asking a different question.

“What are you holding in, Celine?”

A moment of silence passes before she finally speaks. “God, this is so embarrassing. Shit, I mean—” I hear her lightly hit her forehead with the palm of her hand. I smile to myself, holding back the laugh at her cursing. “How do I begin this?”

“Ask for forgiveness.”