Page 31

THIRTY-ONE

BANE

The last of the congregation filters out, leaving the church steeped in hollow silence. My collar feels tighter without the noise to distract me. I should be relieved; my duty’s done now that the service is complete. But I’ve been distracted with thoughts of Moira the entire time I dealt with the receiving line.

Where is she? I scan the empty church.

I caught a glimpse of her earlier, a flash of wild hair and feral beauty tucked in the wings of the sanctuary. I tried to make my way immediately to her. But between Mrs. Sanchez’s tearful gratitude for the sermon and Bill Washerman’s desperate plea to pray over his ailing parakeet, she vanished.

I heard the heavy door on the left side of the sanctuary slam shut at some point, so maybe that was her? My pulse stirs in response.

I move through the darkened church, footsteps echoing against the old wooden floors. Shadows stretch long. She’s certainly not here anymore. I frown and push through the door, the cool night air biting.

The mechanical hum of the church’s outdated HVAC system is the only sound that greets me. I pull my phone from my pocket, thumb flicking the dark screen to life, and take it out of airplane mode.

No messages.

No missed calls.

Where the hell did she go?

She was just here. Why’d she run off right when I finished? Did she really think I wouldn’t see her? Is she afraid I’ll be mad at her for coming tonight after I told her not to?

I call her. It rings several times, then goes to voicemail. I grit my teeth, thumb hovering before I hit redial. Again—nothing but that hollow beep after a few rings.

My breath escapes in a hiss, tight with something dangerously close to fear. She was just here. Did she leave already?

I text her, pacing the cracked pavement behind the church, the cold seeping into my bones.

Me: I just want to hold you tonight.

I stare at the message, willing it to reach her.

Maybe she’s driving, and that’s why she’s not answering. Even though I know her car can receive my phone calls without a problem.

I call again.

And then I hear it—faint, like a whisper tucked between the rustling leaves and distant traffic. Ginuwine’s Pony . My head snaps toward the sound. It’s her ringtone for me.

To the right of the church, there’s a small garden. A cluster of trees meant to be a meditative space. The faint glow of a phone winks through the darkness before vanishing.

I sprint. My heart slams against my ribs.

“Moira!” My voice cuts through the night. Brittle winter leaves crackle under my feet until I see her—a silhouette crumpled on a large boulder, hands tucked under her as if trying to hold herself together.

Thank God. She’s here. She’s in one piece. But then I see the tremble in her shoulders and how her whole body’s shaking with more than cold. And how she’s sobbing.

“Moira!” She has a jacket on, but her legs are still exposed, and it’s freezing out here. “What are you doing?” I crouch down and pull her into my arms—or try to. She fights me and scrambles off the rock and back.

“Don’t touch me!”

I freeze, hands raised in surrender, though every instinct in me screams to gather her up in my arms to protect her from the cold and whatever’s making her cry so hard.

“Shhh,” I murmur. “Moira, what happened? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“No!” Her voice fractures on the word. She throws her hands up, just visible in the dim light filtering through tree branches from a streetlight. “Of course, I’m not okay! Have you met me? I’m fucked up! Fucking screwed up in here !”

She punctuates the words with sharp knocks against her own temple with her fist.

“Stop it.” My voice is firm. The command slips out before I can soften it. “You’re perfect.”

She laughs—a bitter sound. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve only seen what I let you see.”

“Fine. What don’t you want me to see?”

“This!” She screeches, spinning in a frantic circle, then jumping in place. “Fucking this ! The fucking ants under my skin. The itch I can’t scratch. I almost—” She flings an arm back toward the church. “I almost lured one of your church guys to the parking lot out back behind the church to fuck me just to stop the noise in my head!”

I absorb this information and nod, trying to keep my face non-judgmental. “Okay. Thank you for telling me that.”

“Thank you for—” Her face twists, incredulous. “What’s wrong with you? Did you hear what I just said? That’s fucked up! I’m fucked up!”

She’s luminous like this. So fragile and furious. So unfiltered. She thinks her ugly truths will make me recoil.

She couldn’t be further from the truth. Doesn’t she get it? Every time she’s so vulnerable with her rawest emotions—with her soul—she only makes me want her more.

She’s the opposite of the perfect bullshit pretender I am.

I step closer, slow and steady, like I’m approaching a wild animal. She could run if she wanted. She doesn’t.

“I don’t think you’re broken,” I whisper, closing the space between us. I finally wrap my arms around her, gentle but firm. She stiffens but doesn’t push me away. “I think you’re so, so brave.”

She stares at me, her eyes glassy and lips trembling. Finally, she manages a whispered, “Nobody thinks I’m brave.”

I squeeze her tighter to me as if that will make her believe my words. “Then nobody’s been paying attention. You live fearlessly. And you’re brutally honest. No one’s as brave as you, Moira.”

Her breath shudders out, and for a moment, she lets herself sag against me.

“I’m not brave,” she whispers. “I’m just crazy.”

I smile softly, pressing a kiss to her temple. “All the bravest people were called crazy first, dove. The prophets. Saints. Revolutionaries. They were the only ones brave enough to stand up against kings and dictators.”

She snorts. “Pretty sure none of them were trying to fuck randos in church parking lots.”

I chuckle, the sound rumbling through both of us. “Who knows? Maybe they just edited that part out of the scriptures and history books.”

Her fingers spasm on the fabric of my shirt and she blinks up at me. “But those are the best parts.”

I chuckle. “If only they’d had Kindles back then. The scribes were probably writing all the dirty parts on any leftover scraps of paper.”

I finally manage to get a small smile out of her, which sobers me.

I tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet my eyes. “What are you really doing out here, gorgeous?”

She swallows, her gaze flickering away. “I’m not good enough for you.”

Her words slug me in the guts.

She hiccups in a big breath, eyes landing somewhere around my Adam’s apple.

I shake my head, but she goes on.

“I mean, look at you in there. Being so holy and leading those people to like, God and stuff. And then I’m so bad and dirty?—”

I stop her the only way I can. I dip down and kiss her, cutting her words off. My hands slide up the sides of her body until I’m cupping the back of her precious head when I finally pull away.

“That’s nonsense,” I say, pressing another gentle kiss. A line from all that useless Shakespear I learned in school suddenly returns to me: Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged .

“Don’t you understand, love? You’re not the sinner here, and I’m not the saint. You’ve got it backward.”

She just shakes her head, looking confused.

“Come with me,” I whisper suddenly. I drop my hands down and thread my fingers through hers.

Because I can’t stand another second without her, and I need her to understand what I see so clearly.