THE NEXT TIME SASHA came to see him—and he’d started thinking of it as coming to see him—he put product in his hair. He tried not to think about what that meant in terms of his vows, but it meant something and sat on his conscience.
He’d told himself that it was about the baptism that he needed to perform that morning. Jemma’s wife, Marie, wasn’t a member of the Church anymore because of the teachings on LGBTQ+ issues, but Patrick wanted to make them feel as welcome as he could, given his lowly position. It might get him in trouble, but it wasn’t like the bishop would really do anything about it. He hadn’t done anything but give Patrick a stern talking to before.
Besides, the Church couldn’t afford to lose a priest over something as innocuous as baptizing a newborn—no matter who that newborn’s parents were. He’d also performed their backyard wedding ceremony, but no one in the Church or at St. Bart’s knew about that. Sister Cortona might suspect, but it was one instance in which she cut him some slack and didn’t bust his chops.
Thank God.
Sasha and Hannah came in toward the end of the ceremony and sat in the back pew. Jemma held out her infant over the baptismal font for Patrick to perform the sacrament. Just some holy water and a few words and all the stain of sin wouldn’t be able to touch this little guy anymore.
He’d performed the rite hundreds of times, but this time he was a bit self-conscious about it and he flubbed a few of the words. “I baptize you in the name of the—uh—Father, the Son, and the—uh—Holy Spirit.”
It seemed fitting that his memory went wonky on the Holy Trinity when Sasha entered the room. But he had a job to do, and he would do it.
The fact that Jemma and her wife trusted him with their baby’s spiritual life was the reason he stayed. Patrick knew that the bishop—his boss—and a lot of his fellow priests in the diocese weren’t willing to baptize the children of LGBTQ+ couples, which was probably why Patrick had many members of the community as parishioners and the bigoted priests in the diocese didn’t.
Patrick knew the catechism back and forth. He knew all of the rules, and he followed most of them. But he’d also been raised to always do what was right, even when it was against the rules. And—despite the pope’s oblique references to a more inclusive Church that the other officials at the Vatican tended to walk back—the Catholic Church’s official position on LGBTQ+ issues was flat-out silly. Looking down at baby Sullivan, he could no more deny him the sacrament and blessing of baptism than he could quit breathing.
It was one of the reasons that he’d stayed in the Church once he’d started to suspect that his vocation wasn’t truly authentic. If he left, who would minister to the families in his parish in the way that they deserved? The bishop would probably replace him with some ultra-conservative prick who would preach homilies to increasingly empty pews.
And he might even fire Jemma because of the stupid “morality” clause in all the contracts that employees of the Church had to sign.
When he handed Sullivan to his teary-eyed and joyful godparents and they promised to protect him from hell—which Patrick knew existed here on Earth even as he had doubts about the meaningful threat of an afterlife—he felt more filled with purpose than he had in a long while.
Even when Sasha and Hannah filed into the last pew.
He was scheduled to meet with them after the baptism and discuss details for the fundraiser. Even though the timing was bad, he’d filled Jemma in on the financial situation with the pre-K program. She’d agreed to chat with Sasha and Hannah at the reception after the ceremony. They had an entire sheet cake, after all, and Jemma’s wife wasn’t keen on bringing most of it home.
After the mass, he found Sasha and Hannah chatting in the vestibule. His best friend’s wife greeted him with a huge smile and warm hug. Even though they could not be more different, he and Hannah had gotten along immediately. Patrick thought it might have something to do with the fact that they were the only two people on Earth who had no problem telling Jack Nolan that he was completely full of shit.
Sasha smiled at him, but no hug. That was probably better for both of them. “Hi, Patrick.”
He liked the sound of her saying his name far too much. A lump formed in his throat, and he nodded at both of them. “Jemma and Marie know you’re coming.”
“Are you sure it’s okay?” Sasha asked, even though he’d assured her it was fine three or four times via text. “We really don’t want to intrude on their celebration.”
“Jemma is really invested in this program. She built it from the ground up.” Marie was a high-powered lawyer at a law firm downtown, so they would be fine financially regardless. Still, the kids were important to Jemma, and Jemma was important to Marie. “And there’s plenty of cake.”
Sasha’s eyes got a little wide. “The grocery-store kind with super-sweet buttercream?”
“No other kind.”
They went into the atrium, where Jemma and Marie’s family and friends had gathered. Jemma spotted them and handed off baby Sullivan to one of his grandparents, who accepted the infant eagerly.
She rushed over to them. “Have you had cake?” Jemma walked them over to the refreshments table, where Sister Cortona was cutting into the positively giant sheet cake.
“I have no idea why you got this much cake for a smattering of people,” Sister Cortona grumbled. “And goodness knows your wife is going to stick me and Father Patrick with the leftovers. Neither of us will be able to fit through the rectory doors.”
Jemma laughed. “That’s because you’ve never seen my family eat cake before. And I’m sure we can find a good home for the leftovers that isn’t yours or mine.”
“You should freeze that corner piece.” Sasha pointed to one of the flowers that hadn’t been cut into. The frosting flowers had always been her favorite. “And keep it for when you want to celebrate something in Sullivan’s life. Or a day when he’s really driving you up a wall.”
“That’s a great idea.” Patrick hoped that he didn’t sound like a teenager with a hopeless crush. It was just rare that someone shared his cheesy sentimentality. If she shared his taste for corny jokes, he would really be in trouble.
Jemma didn’t seem to notice that he couldn’t seem to stop looking at Sasha, but he could feel Sister Cortona’s pointed gaze on him. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. If he wasn’t careful, she’d rap the back of his hands with a ruler and make him stand in the corner.
“That is a great idea,” Jemma said. “Patrick mentioned that you and Hannah wanted to do a bake sale to raise funds for the pre-K program?”
Hannah declined a slice of cake, citing a still-iffy stomach, but that didn’t keep her from launching into a pitch. “It was all Sasha’s idea. We’ve approached a group of our vendors and a few of the baking influencers we’ve been tracking on social media.”
“There are baking influencers?” Patrick asked, incredulous about the idea.
Sasha rolled her eyes at him. “If you had any presence at all on Instagram, you would know that. By the way, I started an Instagram page for the church. I sent you the login details so you can put photos up.”
Patrick could feel a flush crawling up his neck. He really should have thought of starting an Instagram page if he wanted to attract younger parishioners. But, according to his brother, Instagram was for “thirst traps.” Considering his lifestyle, he had no use for those. Especially since the only person who’d made him feel anything resembling thirst was standing right in front of him.
Because he’d agreed to work with her. To save the church pre-K program. For the Catholic Church that he was the pastor of. Maybe if he could keep reminding himself of that, he would be able to stop looking at her like a moony-eyed bastard.
“Do you really think we can raise twenty-five thousand dollars with a church bake sale?” That question came from Sister Cortona, ever the skeptic.
Sasha turned to her. “I absolutely think we can. We’ll have to make sure the invite list includes people from the surrounding community with deep pockets, but I don’t see why not.” Sister Cortona gave her a stern, narrow-eyed stare. “But if we don’t meet the goal, we have other options.”
Patrick found himself hoping that they wouldn’t meet the goal on the first try because that would give him more time with Sasha. The sensible part of his brain told him that he ought to be rooting for their success. Just because her excitement was contagious and he liked to hear her laugh didn’t mean that he deserved to spend more time with her.
What he deserved was time on his knees, praying to God that they met their goal with this bake sale and this stupid crush would go away.
“Listen, we’re going to do the best we can,” Hannah said before turning to Jemma. “We really think it would help if you spoke about the importance of the pre-K program. Maybe give some examples of the difference you’ve made.”
Patrick could sense Jemma’s panic at being asked to speak in front of a crowd. “I usually only talk in front of preschoolers. Influencers?” Her voice got high on the end.
“Well, if you don’t do it . . .” Hannah’s gaze lighted on Patrick. “We can always trot Patrick out. I know the gray-haired brigade will have their pocketbooks open if he turns on the charm.”
Patrick looked at Jemma. “I think Jemma should do it. If we didn’t have her on staff, the program wouldn’t be nearly as successful as it now is. She’s the one who’s really responsible for the increase in test scores. She won’t tell you all this, but she partnered with St. Bart’s food pantry to make sure every kid who showed up hungry the first week goes home with a bag full of nutritious food every week. All on her own.”
Jemma blushed. “I just—”
“I know you can do it, Jemma,” Patrick said. “Just speak from the heart, and I’m sure we’ll meet the goal.”
Patrick hadn’t meant to “turn on the charm,” but he could feel Sasha’s eyes on his face. As soon as he looked at her, she averted her gaze to something interesting on the atrium floor.
At least it wasn’t just him, and they were both acting like teens with inconvenient crushes.
AFTER THEIR TALK WITH Jemma, they went outside for pictures. Sasha stopped to hug Patrick’s friend Carlos on the way out, and he wondered whether she knew everyone. Then he remembered that Sasha had planned Carlos’s wedding reception.
She took a beat to introduce herself to Maria and cooed over the baby. Patrick could picture her with a baby so easily, and he wondered what kinds of people she’d been dating who didn’t want to give that to her. If things were different—if he was different—he would be jumping at the chance.
Once they were done with pictures and everyone—including Hannah—had left, Sasha was waiting for him, sitting on the steps leading to the sanctuary.
“Do you need more measurements for the bake sale?” He wondered why she’d lingered. More irritated with his reaction to her presence than her presence itself. “Or do you need something else?”
He didn’t know if he could give her any more sage advice about her love life. Every time he thought about her dating someone, kissing them, or more, he got ideas about her doing those things with him. It was totally inappropriate, and no amount of prayer and contemplation stopped the thoughts from coming.
It reminded him of when he’d had his first inklings of joining the priesthood. It had always been his mother’s hope for one of her sons. But he hadn’t considered it seriously until he’d started seeing signs—his mother’s favorite flowers in the patch in front of the seminary offices on campus, someone calling his attachment to routine monk-like—and then Ashley had dumped him. Apparently, his grief was boring, and she thought it was a “bummer” that he had to get up early every morning and go to Mass. His explanation that his mom had asked him to on her literal deathbed hadn’t been enough for her. That had been the last straw.
When he’d gone to Mass after she left his apartment, he’d felt an inner lightness. A sense that he was where he belonged.
He’d been starting to doubt that he was called to the priesthood before he’d started spending more time with Sasha. Being around her intensified those doubts. He hadn’t realized that he’d been missing that sense of lightness and belonging from his work until she’d brought it back.
He still derived satisfaction from baptizing babies, marrying couples, and helping people. But the routine that had saved him from his grief at his mother’s death didn’t make him feel settled to his bones anymore.
At times, the collar was too tight. It was ironic that it loosened when he was around Sasha and feeling his attraction to her. Maybe that was why he’d fought getting to know her for so long.
Sasha flushed. “I came back to look at the tables and see if I needed to rent some.”
“One thing we have are plenty of tables.” He motioned for her to walk around the building. It was a beautiful spring day, and it would be a shame to waste the time indoors.
Her soft steps in pristine white sneakers followed him. He didn’t know if he’d ever seen her dressed casually before. He hadn’t even noticed that she was more dressed down than anyone else at the ceremony. She looked younger, somehow, in a T-shirt and dark jeans, with her glossy dark hair pulled back in a ponytail tied with a scarf. But she didn’t look any less put together.
He felt like he was falling apart a little bit and hoped that her overly observant eyes weren’t seeing it. That was the thing about her that got to him. Even though she was scrupulously kind to everyone, he could tell when she didn’t like someone. It wouldn’t be obvious to someone who wasn’t looking carefully. But then, he’d always looked at her closely. He just hadn’t let himself think about it too much, because they’d never spent as much time alone before.
They got to the shed adjacent to the courtyard and he opened it up. “Behold the bounty of tables.”
Sasha gave him a crooked grin. “Good. I’ll just bring some tablecloths.”
“Perfect. We usually have plastic.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “It’ll class up the place.”
He was about to ask her if she needed anything else so that he could leave, but then his phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket and saw that it was his dad. He normally wouldn’t answer the phone when he was with a parishioner, but Sasha wasn’t a parishioner, and his dad never called without a good reason.
“Hold on, it’s my dad.”
“Of course.”
He picked up the phone and without preliminaries, his father said, “Patrick.”
His father hadn’t exactly seen eye to eye with him on entering the seminary. He hadn’t been inside a church since his wife’s funeral, not even for Patrick’s ordination. And he’d never gone to Mass with his wife. So, he never called him “Father Patrick”—Not calling my own son “Father.”
“What’s up, Dad?”
“Need you to come to the bar.” That’s when he noticed his father’s voice sounded strained.
“What happened?” Concern for his father’s safety replaced any thoughts about Sasha. His father’s health had been more frail of late. And even though he was supposed to be at peace with all of God’s whims—to trust that all was His will—he was afraid of losing his father. His father didn’t call him “Father Patrick” partially because he didn’t respect the institution of the Church. The other part of it was that Patrick wasn’t a priest when it came to his father. He was a son.
“It’s nothing. I had a little accident, but I need your help.” His father was an old-school tough guy, and to admit that he needed help was a really big deal. A lump formed in Patrick’s throat, and sweat slicked the small of his back.
“I’ll be right over,” he said as he hung up. He looked up to find Sasha still standing there, looking concerned.
“What’s going on?”
“My dad.” Patrick made a noncommittal hand gesture. “He said he had a little accident, and it sounded like he was hurt.”
“Oh no. Should we call 911?”
Patrick could kick himself for not thinking of that. “I said—I said I’d be right there.”
“Okay, I’ll drive you. My car is right in front.”
He could have argued with her or just walked off to his car. Inviting her further into his life was a bad idea. She knew his father in passing, but she wasn’t an emergency contact. Having her come with him when his dad could be seriously hurt felt really intimate to him. But her car was closer, and he was afraid. She would probably get them there faster and more safely.
So he followed her as she ran-walked to her parking space.
He tried to call his dad six times in the ten-minute drive to Dooley’s. He didn’t answer, and Patrick’s anxiety amped up another level every time the phone clicked over to voice mail. Every time he heard the recording, You got Danny. Send a text next time, he wanted to throw the phone.
“It’s going to be okay,” Sasha said, even though she couldn’t know that.
“That’s my line.” He didn’t know how to accept the comfort she was offering. He was usually the one doling it out. And, for once, it felt like a relief to let someone else bear the burden of keeping things together. He was so good at staying composed that he’d become a professional. But the prospect of being an orphan was really straining that ability.
After shifting, she reached over and gently touched his forearm. Though he’d thrown her out of the way of a moving car, he’d only been touching her for a few seconds. This lingering caress wasn’t meant to do anything but offer comfort, but it felt like more. He was so touch starved, it was as though his body didn’t know what to do with the oxytocin.
He didn’t want to push her hand away. She didn’t mean anything by it. He was the one with the problem having her around. Even if she’d noticed his attraction to her with her too-astute gaze, she hadn’t changed her behavior toward him.
SASHA DIDN’T LIKE THAT Patrick was worried. She’d seen him concerned, but she’d never been able to feel his anxiety spike like this. He and Chris—despite the latter being a total douchebag— loved their father. And Danny Dooley was a gruff but good man. If Sasha and her parents were as tight as Patrick was with his father, she would be apoplectic at getting that kind of call.
She didn’t flinch when Patrick pulled his arm away to grab at his hair. She’d hesitated to reach out because something seemed to have shifted between them when he’d saved her from getting run over. It was as though there was something unspoken between the two of them that had created a delicate tightrope they had to walk. Any touching could lead the tightrope to fray. If they fell—well, who knew what would happen?
Once they got to Dooley’s, Sasha parked the car while Patrick went inside. In her rearview mirror, she saw him tugging at the locked front doors. It was before noon, after all.
He ran around the side of the building to the alley, and Sasha followed him after she’d locked her car. Once inside, she ran through the back hall to the storage room, where she could hear the two Dooley men yelling at each other.
“I’m fine. How many speed limits did you break on the way over? Last fuckin’ thing I need is to put my son in the ground alongside my wife.” Mr. Dooley seemed fine.
“You call me sounding like you’re dying and then you fail to answer the phone, I’m going to break some speed limits.” Patrick sounded exasperated but relieved.
Sasha stepped into the room. “I’m afraid any law breaking is my fault.”
Patrick’s dad didn’t appear to be in serious distress, but he was sitting on the floor with his back supported by one of the shelves of booze. There was a pile of boxes and a broken bottle of whiskey next to him. When Mr. Dooley saw her, he smiled and then winced in apparent pain. “Why would you bring a pretty girl to see me looking like this?”
“Mr. Dooley, I was just at the church.”
“If I’d get a woman who looked like you visiting me, I might have to consider the priesthood.” Sasha and Patrick both laughed, but there was tension there. Mr. Dooley didn’t seem to notice because he followed that up. “Of course it’s wasted on this one. Such potential he had.”
“I’ll leave you on the ground, old man.” Outside of yelling at the kid who’d almost run them over, Sasha had never heard Patrick be anything less than beneficent, so hearing him tell his father off was sure something. She wouldn’t admit to herself how much she liked to see this side of him. The human side.
“No, you won’t. You’re worried about going to hell.” He reached up to where Patrick was crouched. Patrick gave him his arm and helped his—not small—father to his feet almost effortlessly.
Why did he have to be so strong? If he were weak, he wouldn’t be nearly as attractive to her lizard brain. But apparently, her avaricious, lustful nature was being tested with this one.
“What happened?” Patrick asked. His father looked like he was going to wave him off, but he pressed. “Did the employee that Chris and I hired for you not show up today?”
“He’s not coming in until nine.” Mr. Dooley stuck his chin out stubbornly, and Sasha saw the son in the father right then. “My back isn’t what it used to be.”
She could see it pained the man to admit it.
“Well, he’ll be on his own since you have to go home now.”
Sasha felt like she shouldn’t be there. This was a private conversation. “I’m just going to grab some stuff to clean this up so no one cuts themselves.”
By the time she got back with a broom and dustpan, a mop, and a bucket full of soapy water, Danny Dooley was on his feet and Patrick had taken off his priestly collar to move the rest of the pile of boxes onto shelves.
Sasha’s gaze stuck on the back of his head where drops of sweat raced their way down to his neck. She could picture the muscles moving underneath the black fabric, and it made her a bit weak in the knees.
She would have stared forever, but Mr. Dooley hobbled past her saying, “Like I said, an absolute waste.”
Patrick looked at her then, and she said, “I have a broom and mop.” When he reached for the broom, Sasha snatched it back. “I’ve got it.”
“Be careful of sharps. I avoided one trip to the hospital today. I’d like to avoid it altogether,” he said, but he let her get to work.
And she was careful not to get cut. She wasn’t careful enough to let her curiosity about what she’d seen between father and son go, though. “So, what’s the deal with your dad and you being a priest?”
“My dad’s not really a God guy.”
Sasha had to laugh at that. “So, how did you become one?”
Patrick was silent for so long that she figured he wasn’t going to answer.
“My mom was really devout, and she always wanted one of us to become a priest like her brother.”
Sasha tried to imagine Chris as a priest and failed instantly. Anything that didn’t involve being a jackass wasn’t going to be Chris Dooley’s calling. He was like a relative that you couldn’t get rid of because by containing him you could keep his damage levels under control.
“After she died, I just felt called. It was so obvious to me that I should be pursuing it that I couldn’t avoid it.”
“Did you want to avoid it?” Sasha couldn’t imagine trying to parse out a religious calling from her parents’ wishes. She’d been pursuing marriage to the “right kind” of man and having children so that she’d get their approval for as long as she could remember. Her parents would probably be thrilled if she decided to enter a convent—both because it would be something that they could brag about in the lobby of their church and they wouldn’t have to worry about her shaming them anymore. But they weren’t fervent believers, and neither was Sasha. If she believed and then felt called, it would be difficult to resist.
“Not at the time, no.”
Sasha knew one thing with certainty as she finished helping Patrick clean up and then went home—assured he could get back to the Church without her staying. Her crush on him had to go away, because he was where he belonged.