Page 49 of When We Were Enemies

“Oh, I know. I’m making a mess. These must be antique.” I wipe away a trail of melted snow, and a pool of cold water soaks into my already-damp pant leg. “I can call a car in a few minutes. I’m waiting for a phone call. Or I could walk to the library and wait there. It’s not that far ...”

“No, no. Stay as long as you need. I don’t want you to get cold. One moment,” he says, returning to his office. I take off my coat and keep it turned in on itself to trap all the moisture. He comes back carrying a terry cloth towel, flipping on a row of can lights on the way.

“Here.” He passes me the towel, and I use it to dry the bench and then my face and hair. “Do you need coffee, tea?”

“Coffee sounds like heaven, but please don’t make a new pot for me.”

“Mrs.Thompson, our volunteer secretary, bought us a Keurig last year, so one cup of coffee is almost too easy.”

“Cameras and coffee machines—I’m impressed. But I don’t want to be a hassle. I plan to get out of your hair soon.”

“You’re no hassle, Miss Branson.”

“I’m sure you have better things to do than bring me towels and hot drinks—things like feeding and clothing literal refugees. That’s pretty amazing work you do, by the way.”

“I could tell it affected you when I saw you on base.” He pauses and searches my expression like he’s trying to figure out an interesting word problem or brainteaser. I wait for some pointed or deeply religious question, but instead he says simply, “Working with the families on base is humbling.”

“I told Mac he should talk to the people at Atterbury and possibly do a segment in the film about your efforts.”

“Well, I don’t know about that.”

“When do you go again?” I ask, finally warm and nearly dry, and blissfully distracted from the crisis I’ll have to address as soon as my phone rings.

“I teach a class there on Thursday.”

“A class? Like, a religious class? I guess I assumed most of the refugees were Muslim.”

“Oh, it’s not religious. I teach art therapy,” he says in a rush. Then I remember his background before joining the priesthood, and a new burst of respect ignites in me.

“That’s right. Your art degree.”

He shrugs like he’s uncomfortable with acknowledging his accomplishments. After making a career out of the egos of Hollywood stars and millionaire businesspeople, I find his modesty fascinating.

“You’ve got lots of layers there, Father.”

“One or two, I guess.”

My phone buzzes in my coat pocket, and I jump.

“Oh shit!” I say, digging through the rumpled pile of fluff.

“Your call?” he asks, not even flinching at my second swear word of the conversation.

“Oh God, I hope so.” I retrieve the buzzing device out of the coat’s zippered pocket. But it’s not my mom or her assistant or even Farrah. It’s Hunter. I want to talk to him, I really do, but a small part of me wants to hit the cancel button and call him back later, fill him in without Father Patrick listening in the background. That way I can keep talking to the unusual clergyman who still hasn’t told me his, I assume, tragic backstory that I want to know. No—that I crave to know.

“Your fiancé?” Father Patrick asks, seeming to catch on to my hesitancy.

I nod.

“You should get it.”

He’s right. Plus, how would it look to not pick up my fiancé’s call? Father Patrick is supposed to take us through the rest of our Pre-Cana. Marry us. Send us on our way into marital bliss. I wouldn’t blame him for judging me if I dodged Hunter so cavalierly.

I hit the green button and put the phone up to my ear. Father Patrick takes my towel and coat and excuses himself as I answer.

“Hey, babe. Got your message. Everything okay?” I can hear traffic sounds in the background. I’m guessing he’s in the back of a car in transit between meetings.

“Not really.” I try to whisper.