Page 20 of The Priest

“I will make everything clear,” Edouard whispers.

“It already is,” I reply.

“I assure you it’s not.”

The neighborhoods worsen. With each block the denizens look more wary and shifty-eyed, the houses in increasing disrepair. We arrive at St. Ambrose but he directs me around to the back of the building, checking over his shoulder before he unlocks a small door and ushers me inside. We walk down a long hall and then another key leads to his rooms, the same size as the last but far dingier.

As soon as we are inside, with the door shut behind us, he pulls me toward him, but I stand my ground. “No.” My voice wobbles but I clench my fists against his chest to maintain my distance. “Why did you abandon me the way you did?”

His eyes squeeze shut. “I didn’t abandon you,” he says. “They told me if I left right away, no harm would come to you, so I left. Didn’t you receive my note?”

“Yes, and it told me nothing. You gave me no idea if I’d ever hear from you again, and since the first words out of your mouth were that I shouldn’t have come, I suppose that’s what you intended.”

“No, of course it’s not. I meant to come for you in England once I knew you were safe. I was just worried that something would happen to you if the church discovered my plan.”

“Yet you’re still a priest,” I say coolly. “You’re still too scared to even embrace me in public, so something has changed.”

He releases me and his shoulders sag. “I’m sorry. I have a duty here. Until it’s discharged, I can’t leave. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t chosen you, Marie.”

I sag against the wall. I think of Henri’s words. He’s an adult. He could have left the church if he wanted to.

My brother was right. Even if Edouard doesn’t realize it, he is not willing to leave, not really. I need to think and I can’t do it with him so close, hovering over me with his perfect mouth and worried eyes.

I swallow. “It’s been a very long day. Is there somewhere I can sleep tonight?”

A muscle flickers in his jaw and his eyes darken. I think he wants to argue, but who knows? I seem to have misread him all along.

“I have a spare room,” he says, glancing past the parlor. “If you’d like.”

I hold myself stiffly as I edge away from him. “This way, I assume?”

I reach for my bags and his hand folds over mine. “Allow me.”

“I have them, Edouard,” I reply. “Good night.”

* * *

It’s only once I’ve completed my toilette and put on my nightgown that I allow myself to weep. What he said made sense and would be noble, even, were it true. Yet here he is, insisting he can’t leave, just as he did in Saint Antoine.

What a fool I am. What a ridiculous, besotted fool to think he’d leave the church for me. And perhaps I could guilt him into leaving by telling him about the baby, but that’s not what I want. I need to know he really chose me, entirely on his own, and not out of a sense of obligation.

Was it only a month ago that he was above me, unrestrained, hair flopping over his forehead, muscles braced? There was no sign of the priest in him then, and my God if I’d known how this would turn out I’d have stayed that night. I’d have stayed and refused to leave.

Will I ever have that again? How will I go through an entire lifetime without his lips and his quiet groans and the sight of him above me, jaw locked as he comes?

I twist in the sheets. I’d think that pregnancy should have ended all this craving, but instead it’s worse than it’s ever been.

I will never sleep, at this rate. I don’t dare leave in the middle of the night, but the moment the sun rises I will gather my things and walk to Gare du Nord.

Suddenly, the quiet room echoes with the squeak of a hinge – his door opening. My heart beats hard. Just knowing he’s ten feet nearer than he was is enough to set it off. I hear the soft tread of his bare feet along the floor and my body goes taut. He’s coming toward my room. He stops just outside the door and I can almost feel him now. I can feel the heat of his skin and his slow exhalations and his uncertainty.

I hear his hand as it wraps around the doorknob, and watch, in the moonlight, as it turns...just a millimeter to the right before it returns to its place. I am breathless, staring at that knob, praying it will turn once more. Praying I won’t hear the sound of him retreating to his room.

I will not call out for him. I won’t follow him, if he chooses to leave. I’m willing to be the apple the devil has offered him, shiny and red, but I refuse to become the devil himself, throwing myself in his path at every turn when he’s trying to do the right thing.

The knob turns, the door opens, and with two steps he stands at the foot of my bed. In the moonlight I see him – thinner than he was, though his wide shoulders still stretch against his undershirt.

“Marie.” His voice is guttural, a groan.