SASHA HADN’T CALLED FOR an emergency girls’ brunch in years, and not since before Bridget joined their group. But times were desperate. And, even though she was a relatively new friend, Bridget came through in the clutch in a huge way.
Bridget was divorced from and also engaged to the scion of an extremely wealthy and politically connected family that made the Finerghtys seem hopelessly bourgeois. And now that she’d fully embraced the idea of marriage, she enjoyed little more than giving away her ex- and future husband’s money. She said it was a “recovering Catholic thing,” but Sasha wasn’t willing to dwell on the concept of recovering and Catholic in the same sentence.
Hannah and Sasha had gone to Bridget and Matt’s house because she’d not only ordered brunch in, she’d arranged to have a hairstylist fix Sasha’s truly atrocious situation while they triaged the damage that Sasha had done in her—and Patrick’s—life.
She told them everything. Even the bar masturbation part. Both of her friends were truly shocked. A piece of pain au chocolat fell out of Hannah’s mouth, and she’d never before wasted pastry on something so inconsequential as one of Sasha’s stories about a man. Bridget, for her part, had finished three mimosas by the time Sasha arrived at the part where she’d cut her hair off so she wouldn’t fuck a frocked priest on his desk.
“I’m going to hell.” Of that, Sasha had no doubt. Still, telling two people who might understand was such a relief. She felt like at least half of the elephant crushing her internal organs was off her chest.
“We’re all going to hell,” Bridget said, motioning with her empty champagne flute. “I mean, I’m obscenely wealthy.”
“And I’m a total bitch,” Hannah added.
Sasha looked at her friend. She didn’t know how many times they were going to have to go over the fact that there was a difference between a bitch and the c-word. Hannah was a bitch, but she largely used her powers for good. Since she was in a delicate condition, Sasha pointed at her. “No.”
“Honestly, I don’t see what you did that was so bad,” Bridget, the lifelong Catholic, said.
Sasha put a piece of fruit in her mouth. She had been so sick about her inability to stop seducing Patrick, even though she’d really, really meant to, that she hadn’t been eating. “I cannot control myself around him.”
“Which I am totally grossed out by, by the way,” Bridget said. “He’s like my brother.”
“You were engaged to Patrick’s brother, which meant you were sort of engaged to your own brother.” Hannah had a smirk on her face that said she’d thrown that out just to get a rise out of her sister-in-law. While Sasha appreciated her friend’s effort at levity, this was a truly serious situation.
“Yeah, he was like my brother, which was one of the many problems with our relationship.” Bridget poured Hannah more orange juice and pulled another bottle of Veuve Clicquot out of the refrigerator. “Speaking of. The last time we talked, you were dating some guy who it sounded like you mildly preferred to major surgery.”
“Nathan is nice.” Sasha didn’t know why she was defending him. She didn’t want to have dirty sex with him. Which was fine. Because the only man she wanted to have sex with was definitely off-limits. Why weren’t her friends more scandalized by this? Patrick was their friend, too. Sasha was ruining his life. “Why aren’t you guys more upset about this?”
“Because the vow of celibacy is total bullshit. And Patrick is nothing like my brother, so I can see what a huge waste of—potential—that is.” Hannah grabbed another croissant. It was good that she hadn’t turned a little bit green even once this morning. “I think you should suck the celibacy right out of him.”
“Hannah!” Both Bridget and Sasha yelled at the same time.
“What? You both know I’m right.”
“I just wouldn’t have said it that way,” Bridget said. “Listen, the way I see it, there’s the letter of the law and the spirit.”
Of course Bridget would come at it like the prosecutor she once was. “Well, we’ve broken both.”
“And there has to be a reason for it. Did Patrick seem as into it as you were?”
Patrick had instigated the kiss beyond what she’d intended. She’d just been reacting, and then he’d acted. His touch had been possessive; thinking about it now gave her a chill. That night at the bar, there had been no question of who was in control: him. She could have said no, but she would have done anything he asked, short of a crime.
“Yeah.”
“So you’re both breaking the letter and the spirit of the law. This is a conspiracy and there’s no victim here.” Bridget shrugged.
“It’s not that simple.” There was a victim—multiple victims. Sasha hadn’t missed how the people in the parish regarded Patrick. They looked at him as though he were the Savior himself, and not just because his crooked smile was enough to turn water to wine and panties to dust. Even when he was stern, his compassion and generosity were a beacon. Even if she didn’t believe in God, he was a good man, and he brought something good to people’s lives. She refused to believe that she wasn’t one hundred percent responsible for his downfall, and she refused to participate anymore.
“Hannah, I need you to handle the carnival.”
Her best friend grimaced. “I’m in a delicate state.”
Bridget called her out. “You’ve been back in spinning for weeks now.”
“Fine,” Hannah said. “But I think you’re running away, and I think it’s a terrible idea.”
“My wedding’s going to be a mess. Again,” Bridget said with a laugh. She was getting married to Matt again two weeks before the carnival. Patrick would be a guest. “I fucking love it.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do?” Sasha asked, not really expecting an answer. She was already a disappointment to her family, and even though her friends wouldn’t judge her, she was worried that Patrick would grow to hate her. She’d seen his commitment to the parish, to the pre-K program, and whatever he thought God was. If she asked him to walk away from all that, and they didn’t work out as a couple, there was no way he wouldn’t grow to hate her.
She couldn’t survive that. She’d rather have to see Patrick from afar and wonder if they could have been something great than fail at a real relationship with him.
Sasha was saved from having to confess all that when the hairstylist arrived. When she saw the thick strand of hair that was sticking up on top of Sasha’s head, she blanched. But she recovered quickly, and said, “So, what are we doing today?”
“Cut it all off.”
PATRICK ENJOYED SPEAKING AT weddings. He loved baptisms. Even daily Mass—it filled him with a sense of routine and peace that had always felt elusive to him with his parents owning a bar. But he hated giving last rites.
He knew it was important and helped ease people on their way out of this world. But when it was over, he always felt like he’d absorbed the person’s panic and uncertainty. He didn’t know where to put it.
The day after he and Sasha kissed, one of his parishioners passed away. The only time he didn’t think about her in that twenty-four hours was when he was saying the words and just being there with a woman who hadn’t missed Sunday Mass in four decades. He’d heard her confessions every week since he took over from the old pastor.
She was a good person, but she’d confessed every one of her uncharitable thoughts. And Patrick wasn’t sure if she’d believed that she was free of sin before she’d died. He didn’t know that he’d offered her an ounce of comfort or whether she was filled with guilt as she took her last breaths.
He didn’t know what it was all for.
All he knew was that he would die with the sin of wanting Sasha on his soul. And he didn’t know if it was enough to condemn him, but it was enough to make him question why he was still here. As a priest. In a church.
He wondered if he still had faith. If he’d ever had faith or if he had just wanted to hide from all of the hard things in life—falling in love, having his heart broken, investing enough in personal relationships to really have it matter.
He was about to pour himself a very large scotch when his phone rang. Dammit. He hoped it wasn’t another emergency with a parishioner. He sighed when he realized that it was his brother. Chris probably just needed someone to hang out with, and that he could do. His brother didn’t expect anything or project any of his bullshit on him because he really didn’t dig deep enough to have any angst. Patrick wondered if he would be better off if he was more like him.
“Patrick.” That one word from his brother sounded wrecked, and fear pricked at Patrick.
“What’s wrong?”
“Dad fell.” Patrick’s heart sank. Their father wasn’t the most open and loving, but he had always been there. He was the kind of guy who didn’t say “I love you” very often but had all of your paperwork. If something was really wrong with him, Patrick wasn’t going to be able to hide from his pain behind his collar. “He’s okay, but we need to get him to the hospital to get him checked out.”
“I’ll be right there.”
When Patrick got to their house, Chris had coaxed their dad—limping—out the front door and onto the stoop. Patrick jogged up the walk and grabbed their dad’s other arm over his grumbling.
“I’m fine.”
“I’m sure that’s why you’re limping.”
His father grimaced. “I told this bozo not to call you.”
“Well, he did one non-bozo thing and called me.”
Chris snorted. “He was trying to change the light bulb at the top of the stairs.” The very steep stairs that weren’t up to any sort of code. He’d be calling Nolan & Sons—Jack’s dad’s company—to get a fix for that in the morning. Patrick’s dad didn’t like to take charity, but Sean Nolan was the only man cussed enough to get past Danny Dooley’s front door when he was in a fit of pique.
By the time they’d loaded their father into Chris’s car and gotten him checked out in the ER—nothing was broken, just a sprained ankle—Patrick was wrung out. He just wanted to go home and go to bed.
But after they got his Dad home and jointly carried him upstairs to his bedroom, he had to talk to Chris about how they were going to make sure their dad stayed home and in bed long enough to heal.
“Can you check on him tomorrow and cover at the bar?” Patrick asked.
Chris blanched. “I have a big case going to arbitration next week—”
Patrick didn’t know why it was this time that he snapped, but it was. “Of fucking course.”
“Dude,” Chris said, like it was an affront to have to pitch in like a member of an actual family.
“You always have a big case.” Patrick rubbed the spot between his eyebrows. “No wonder Bridget dumped you.”
That was way pettier than he’d meant to be, but he was at his wit’s end. His baby brother had shown up today, and he should be grateful. But all of the weight on his shoulders felt too heavy. His parishioners, his family, the fact that his feelings for Sasha weren’t going away—he was ready to collapse under the weight of it.
The fact that his father had called Chris instead of him today was part of it. Danny looked at his lawyer son as a success. Meanwhile, he looked at Patrick like he was some sort of disappointment. The only person in the family who’d understood him—his mother—had died, and he was alone.
Other than Jack, who was too busy getting ready to welcome a baby right now to bother, he had no one whom he could turn to if he was in trouble, and he was always the person who had to bear other people’s burdens. He’d willingly taken that on. And for the first time since he was a kid, he wished he could be as cavalier about other people’s needs and feelings as his brother was. As his father always had been with his wife.
He wished he could be more like his brother and take what he wanted. He wished he could shirk all of his commitments and not even feel guilty about it. And when he thought about obligations he would shirk and things he wanted—it all coalesced into one thing.
Sasha.
“C’mon. You always do this. It’s not like you have a swinging social life.” Chris was such a dick.
“Shut up.”
Chris laughed and walked toward the car, clicking the electric locks on his Tesla. “Let me know if you need me to pay any bills for Dooley’s. I’ll take it out of my mad money.”
Patrick picked up his pace as he followed Chris. Their childhood home had a hedge right next to the walk that they used to try to push each other into when either one of them was unaware.
It wasn’t kind or mature, but he couldn’t really do anything about what he truly wanted. So, he shoved his brother into the hedge and then jogged to his rusted-out Toyota before Chris could retaliate.