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Even after a year, my therapist can’t seem to help me answer these questions.
Oh—and I also have an inappropriate, unrequited crush on a former priest. Which my therapist has hadplentyto say about.
I finish my croissant and half of my coffee, and consider texting the driver to take me back home. It’s notmyhome, not exactly. Still, the cozy mansion where Viktor and Caterina live and have given me a place to stay is the closest thing I’ve ever had, and it feels like home to me. I have a room, privacy, my rent and board, all provided for me in exchange for helping to nanny their four children, and a generous salary besides.
Was it worth it? Am I better off?
I’m not quite ready to go back today yet, though, so I take my coffee and start down the street again. There are a number of places I like to stop on days when I decide to wander through the city—a favorite used bookshop where I pick up a couple of titles I haven’t read before. A vintage clothing store where I found the blouse I’m wearing today, a jeweler. I never buy jewelry, something about buying a piece for myself feels strange, but I like browsing through the cases. I always stop at the engagement rings, looking down at the twinkling diamonds in a staggering array of cuts and sizes, and try to imagine a man sliding one of those on my finger.
I can’t, of course. As beautiful as I find them, and as much as I’d like to have one of my own, I can’t picture anyone on the other end of the hand holding it out to me. I can’t even imagine myself on adate, despite how hard my therapist has pushed for me to do just that. And when I do actually manage to picture myself out at some restaurant, someone sitting in the booth across from me, it’s the one man that I absolutely will never be able to have.
My therapist has also had plenty to say about my fixation on the one person with whom a relationship is impossible.A defense mechanism, she called it.A trauma bond.
Max was there for me in some of my darkest hours, it’s true. And even he has only heard the barest of details, because I didn’t want the man I had a crush on, no matter how impossible, to hear all the sordid details of what happened to me. But I don’t think how I feel about him is the mental block designed by my damaged psyche to try to shield me from other men that my therapist thinks it is.
Eventually, I end up walking past St. Patrick’s. I pause at the huge doors and find myself walking up the steps, pushing the door open, and stepping into the dim, incense-scented entryway. There’s no Mass being held right now, so the church is quiet, and I walk in the rest of the way, dipping my fingers in the basin of water and making the sign of the cross out of habit. I’m not religious, but my childhood was spent in the Russian Orthodox church. Now I often go with Caterina and Viktor, to help with the children.
When I come here, it’s less out of a desire to actually be in church than to feel close to Max, because I’m missing him. A childhood spent in dubious foster homes and organizations means that the scent of incense and wooden pews, the gestures and rituals, all of it, doesn’t give me the sense of peace that I know it provides Max. For me, it looks like a show, a grandiose façade. I never say that to him, of course. We all find our peace in different ways. For me, it’s in imagining the handsome, dark-haired man who has slowly worked his way into all my fantasies.
He’s in Boston for another week, and I haven’t seen him in a while—not since Isabella and Niall’s second wedding. I hadn’t gotten to talk to him much that day, all of it was a whirlwind, but I remember catching his eye as I’d chased Yelena across the dance floor that had been set up, trying not to trip on the hem of my blue satin dress.
He’d looked exceptionally handsome in a charcoal suit, illuminated by the fairy lights strung through the trees and around the pavilion that had been erected for the reception. His hazel eyes had caught mine, and I’d felt my heart flutter.
I don’t know what the look of real desire in a man’s eyes looks like—but I can’t help but think I saw it that night. And that’s not the only time.
I know I shouldn’t nurture the crush that I have on him. I don’t need to pay a therapist an outrageous sum to know that. I know it’s never going to go anywhere, that I’m living in a fantasy every time I imagine his hands on me, his mouth on me, every time I picture a life in which he and I share our days. I know that I’m making up a future that can’t ever exist.
I know that the fact that I’m almost certain I can smell his cologne, sitting here, means I’m a little crazy. A little obsessed. But if it brings me comfort, is it really so bad—even if it’s a fantasy?
And then, as if my fantasy has materialized, I hear his voice behind me.
“I didn’t expect to find you here, Sasha.”
2
MAX
As much as I love Boston, I’ve come to find a sense of relief whenever I return to New York. I suspect it’s as much because of the people here that I know than the place itself, although I appreciate the city, too. It’s a place where almost anyone could run, hide, or disappear, and for a man like me, that’s proven to be a good thing.
At first glance, most wouldn’t suspect me of my past, I expect. Though it’s been years now since I had my collar taken away, I still dress mostly like a priest, in the comfortable uniform of black trousers and a black button-down. However, these days I keep it open at the collar. There’s no reason not to, after all, and a man deserves a little comfort.
As usual, when I returned from my business with Niall and the Kings in Boston, I headed straight for St. Patrick’s. Though I was never here in any official capacity while I was a priest, something about the place feels grounding, a comfort to me. I breathe in the scent of incense as I walk in, the scent of candles, the old wood and stone, and feel my shoulders relax as I step to the basin just inside and make the sign of the cross, genuflecting respectfully as I do, the action as natural as breathing.
Once a priest, always a priest.
But not without temptation.
The moment I look up, as if summoned by my thoughts, I see her.
My own personal temptation.
I can only see the back of her head, her hair, strawberry blonde and pin straight, falling down her back in a sleek, shiny fall that begs for me to run my fingers through it. She could be anyone, I suppose, any petite woman with that color hair in New York, but I know it’s her.
Sasha Federova.
The only woman in the world who has ever made me wish that I hadn’t taken those vows.
I know plenty would say it doesn’t matter. That I broke one, so why not the others? I’m no longer a priest in truth, no longer ordained. I’ve been stripped of all of it–or rather, I chose to walk away from it, in one night of blood and violence that I wouldn’t take back, not even if it meant my soul. I’ve doubled down on that since then, committed other acts of violence—one of those in service to her, and I wouldn’t take that one back, either.
