Crossed (Never After Series)

I DON’T KNOW WHY I’M HERE AGAIN.

Last night, coming to Father Cade’s home was easy to reason away, because I couldn’t get my mind off what Principal Lee told me, about how it was Cade who ensured Quinten would be included. I thought about it for the rest of the night and all the next day. It was on my mind during every single performance at work until my brain felt so frazzled I knew I had to see him. I needed to thank him properly, let him know how grateful I am that he’s here. So I left the Chapel, and instead of taking the bus all the way home, I got off two stops early until I was standing at the base of the stone steps to Notre- Dame, indecision weighing me down. It was the stony eyes of the gargoyles lining the entrance that spooked me away until I walked around the perimeter and decided to try the first of two small cottages at the back.

Honestly, I hadn’t expected him to answer. It was three in the morning, and any normal person would be sleeping. Any normal person wouldn’t be knocking on someone’s door.

Tonight, I don’t have an excuse.

But here he is again, answering the door in gray sweats and a black T-shirt, looking nothing like a priest and everything like a statue made by the gods.

My heart races at the sight of him leaning against the doorjamb with his hands in his pockets, and I curse myself for being weak enough to come here. He makes me feel, and I know better than to allow myself close to anything that threatens my control.

But it’s nice to have someone who doesn’t sneer at me when I walk past or think I’m the reason bad things happen.

“Salut, petite pécheresse. Back again so soon?”

My stomach flutters at the nickname. I almost looked it up, curiosity getting the best of me, but stopped myself. Not knowing is better, because what if it’s something sweet? Or worse, something that’s not.

His eyes scan the open space behind me before coming back to rest on me, and I wonder if he’s worried that someone might see us. I also wonder if he’s even allowed to have me back here or if it’s a rule I’m forcing him to break. Guilt starts to rear its head.

He gestures for me to move inside again, the same as he did before, and I shake the thought away.

I’m living in the moment. I can worry about everything again tomorrow.

We walk through the doorway, and I take in the small space. Last night, I was too shaken, so nervous from being here that while I saw everything, I didn’t get to soak it in.

Tonight, I take my time lapping up every detail. There’s a log fireplace crackling in the right-hand corner of the living room surrounded by bookshelves and a cozy oversize recliner next to it with an open book turned down on the end table. A large couch with worn plaid fabric takes up the majority of the space, and a small oval coffee table sits in the center, a vase of white flowers perched right in the middle. There’s a television fixed to the wall, but it’s turned off, reflecting the glow from the fire.

To the left is the kitchen, a small mobile island in the center, painted forest green with an oak cutting board for its top. A tea kettle sits on the gas stove, and a dark green hand towel is draped over the faucet in the sink.

It’s so…different from what I expected. So normal. I guess it’s never occurred to me to think about how priests live. That they have a life outside their job.

And that’s what it is at the end of the day, isn’t it? It’s a job just like any other.

“Cup of tea?” Cade asks, already moving through the small living room and into the kitchen.

I clear my throat. “Sure.”

Maybe I should be following him, but I stay in the living room instead, moving to the bookshelves that surround the fireplace, tilting my head to read the titles.

Frankenstein.

Middlegame.

The Art of Alchemy.

Suddenly, a tingle trickles down my spine, Cade’s breath on my neck.

“See something interesting?”

His voice is low and raspy, and it makes the hair on the tops of my arms stand to attention. “Alchemy is an interesting subject for a priest.”

He nods, jaw ticking. “I like to be aware of all practices. Helps my faith be well- rounded and secure.”

I turn around, allowing a small smile to grace my features as I take the cup of tea from his hand. “I didn’t expect your place to look like this, I guess.”

A piece of dark hair falls on his forehead as he grins, and when he pushes it back, I’m struck again by how attractive this man is without even trying.

Not for the first time tonight, I question what the hell I think I’m doing and then soothe my unease by reminding myself that there’s a boundary here that can’t be crossed. Despite how out of control he makes me feel, nothing can happen between us. Nothing will.

So it doesn’t matter if he makes my stomach tense and my heart pound. Because he’s a priest. He’s taken his vows. He’s married to the church. And I’m not even sure if I actually like him or if he’s safe. So out of bounds that my defenses lower, and I’m able to ignore the way he puts me on edge.

He’s taken a vow of chastity. And there’s a type of safety net in that.

“And what did you expect?” he asks.

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “When it comes to you, I’m starting to think I shouldn’t expect anything.”

That stray strand of hair falls in his face again, and I reach out before I can stop myself.

He jerks away almost violently and winces, a slight hiss leaving him as his entire body stiffens.

My hand flies back to my side. “Sorry. Are you okay?”

He chuckles, but the sound feels forced. “It’s better if we don’t touch.”

“Why?”

His eyes darken, and heat splits through my middle, striking between my legs.

“I think you know why.”

My mouth goes dry as I nod. Because he’s right. I do. A little piece of that safety net disintegrates with his words. I had assumed this was one- sided.

I must zone out or get lost in the moment, because next thing I know, he’s turned toward me fully, his other hand reaching out and smoothing away the furrow in my brows. Even though he just said we shouldn’t touch.

Even though I agreed.

“You’re much too beautiful to look so sad, Amaya.”

My chest squeezes tight. “You have to say things like that because you’re a priest.”

He shakes his head, stepping in closer, his hand coming up to cup my cheek fully now, sending my heart careening off the cliff it’s been teetering on.

“Non,” he whispers. “I shouldn’t say that because I’m your priest.”

My breath hitches as I stare at his face, my eyes dropping to his lips and then back up again.

I want him to kiss me. I know it’s impossible and so, so wrong on a thousand different levels, but… I want him to kiss me.

Clearing his throat, he steps back, taking the still- full cup of tea from my hands and spinning around to set it on the coffee table.

“It’s late,” he says.

Disappointment sinks inside me like a rock, but it mixes with a heavy dose of relief. “Yeah, I’m…I’m really sorry I bothered you, Father.”

I use his title to remind myself of who he is. Of what he is. “Cade,” he replies sharply.

“What?”

He sighs, running a hand through his mussed-up hair. “When it’s just the two of us, you can call me Cade.”

Calling him Cade feels personal, and I don’t want us to be personal.

But I don’t listen to the warning sirens blasting through my mind, and I nod slowly. “Okay, Cade.”

“I’M surprised you even want Quin involved,” Dalia says the next evening, scrunching her nose.

I tilt my head as I drain the pot of macaroni shells, confused by her statement. “What? Why wouldn’t I want him included?”

Moving to the side of the sink, I cut open the foil packet of cheese and pour it in the bottom of the heated pot before grabbing the macaroni, dumping it back in, and mixing it.

“Quin!” I yell. “Dinnertime!”

The pitter- patter of footsteps comes down the hallway, Quinten appearing in the kitchen doorway. “Finish this first and then dinner,” he says.

“Deal.” I nod.

I don’t know what “this” is, but he loves to barter, and usually I allow the compromises, wanting him to have a sense of self- agency.

He smiles, and the sight of it makes my chest warm. When he goes to his bedroom to finish whatever task he was on, I put my attention back on Dalia.

“I mean, it’s called the Festival of Fools, Amaya,” she continues. “It’s ableist as fuck.”

“Well…yeah,” I reply slowly. “I’m not a fan of the title, but what can I do about it? You want me to keep Quin from being able to be part of something to make a statement?”

Guilt swims through me, but it’s irritating to have Dalia talk to me like I haven’t agonized over every aspect of anything involving Quinten.

I shake my head, mixing the shells and cheese to keep it warm. “That won’t do anything except keep us in solitude and ostracize us even more.”

“You don’t know unless you try.”

I slam down the wooden spoon, splatters of orange skating across the counter. “I have tried, dammit. You really think I sit by and do nothing? The first year after my mom left, I went to the county meeting, begging them to change it.” I spin around, crossing my arms over my chest. “And do you know what they said? ‘It’s tradition. It’s not about you. It’s about history.’ And then I went the next year. And the next. And the fucking next.”

“Oh,” Dalia says.

“Yeah, oh. And fuck you, Dal, for assuming.”

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I just…” She sighs, rubbing a hand over her face. “He’s my little dude, you know? I can’t stand the thought of anything hurting him.”

Empathy douses my anger. “Yeah.”

Dalia glances down the hall. “I just worry he’ll look back one day and think we were complacent, you know?”

I grab a bowl from the cupboard, scooping the shells into it and moving to the table where she is. Sitting down, I reach out and grip her hand in mine. “I get it, okay? Believe me. But the truth is that we can only protect him so much, and even when we do, we’re still going to live through it. It’s painful sometimes to realize that other people don’t understand or…or don’t care. And it fucking sucks.” Emotion clogs my throat, tears burning behind my eyes. “It sucks to know you have the best kid in the world and can’t protect him from everyone else’s ugliness.”

She nods.

“But he’s got me.” I shrug. “And now he’s got you too. And he knows, Dalia. He knows we’d burn the world just to make him smile. And I have to believe that one day, he’ll have others. Not everyone can be as awful as the people in Festivalé, right?”

Dalia sniffles, wiping a stray tear from the side of her cheek.

“You’re right. I’m just a sensitive bitch.” I laugh, squeezing her hand.

“Do you think he even wants to be in the play?” she asks.

I shrug. “He seemed excited about it when I told him. Quin!” I holler out again, standing up and walking to his room.

He’s on his iPad, his finger moving furiously over whatever app he’s playing.

“Dinnertime, dude. Just bring it with you.”

He grabs it without ever looking up and makes his way into the kitchen, climbing into his chair and picking up the fork to his side, stabbing one piece before slipping it in his mouth and going back to his game.

I watch him as he eats one shell at a time, ensuring none of it makes a mess and that none of it gets on his hands.

My chest feels heavier after my talk with Dalia, but the love I feel when I look at Quinten eclipses any amount of hardship I could ever endure.

“Quin,” Dalia says. “You excited about the play?”

“Yes or no?” he says, his legs starting to kick violently. If he was standing, he’d be jumping in place right now.

“Yes or no?” Dalia repeats, asking him.

“Yes!” he squeals.

I look over at Dalia with a beaming grin, as if to say, See? Told you.

The alarm on my phone beeps and I jump in place. “I’ve gotta go.”

There’s only twenty minutes until the next bus comes by, and I have to work tonight.

Dalia waves me off. “Yeah, yeah. We’ve got it under control here.”