Sinner (Priest, #2)

by Sierra Simone

I can almost hear the hymns in the back of my mind, taste the stale-sweet paste of a communion wafer on my tongue.

Bro get god out of here

We were baptized into the Church of Cancer,

First lesson in the Church of Cancer catechism? Thou shalt give Dad something to do.

I’ve been the one to bear the brunt of Mom’s illness and Dad’s stress because Tyler’s too far away and Ryan’s too young and Aiden’s too flaky and Lizzy’s too dead.

and how the fuck am I ever supposed to get past the fact that this is Elijah’s little sister? Someone I held as a baby? Oh my God, I’m going to hell. I don’t even believe in hell and I’m going there, and what’s worse is that she believes in hell, probably; she believes in all this stupid stuff; she’s giving her life to the same church that killed my sister.

I don’t even want to know what the undercarriage looks like.” “Don’t think about my undercarriage, you pervert,”

Fuck. Gonna come.

Well, fuck, now I feel kind of lonely for me too.

“I want you to have sex with me,” she says. Well, shit.

She beams up at me like a star pupil who’s just delivered a perfect answer, and I stare down at her like a teacher trying very, very hard to suppress a boner he has for his student.

“Never argue with a budding theologian,” my brother laughs. “We like being the smartest one in the room too much.”

What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m worth twenty million dollars! I’ve snapped companies in half like kindling over my knee, and yet I can’t even be cool for one dinner? For long enough to make a fucking pot pie?

“I’ll be happy to show you all the things other than talking you can do in my lap, sweet girl.” SEAN BELL. FOCUS.

The most selfless people, the most driven people, they need permission to take care of themselves; they need someone who will put them first because they won’t do it for themselves.

“For a month,” I repeat. “Until you marry Jesus or whatever.” Details, details.

My body breaks in half, every part of me from my toes to my chest to my thoughts twist into a knot and then snaps,

One night in and I’m like a fucking convert to the Temple of Zenny.

But I can’t stop. It’s like watching a tornado carve up a prairie field, like watching hail tear through leaves and roofs and dirt. It’s happening, and all I can do is take shelter.

Of course I’m only joking that I want to spend the rest of my life with the most beautiful, fascinating, sexy woman I’ve ever met. It’s all a joke. Ha ha ha. Hilarious. Oh my God, I’m so fucked.

“I can’t get angry. If I get angry, then I’m the Angry Black Woman. If I admit to having my feelings hurt, then I’m being too sensitive. If I ask for people to treat me thoughtfully, then I’m being aggressive. If I joke back, then I’m being impertinent or sassy. If I cry, then I’m hyperemotional. If I don’t react at all, I’m intimidating or cold. Do you see? There’s not a way I can react where I win. I can’t win.”

And I realize those flashes of shame and defensiveness are there because I’m just as guilty as Sophia or Hayley. Maybe not tonight, maybe not in the exact same ways, but I’m still guilty. Of assumptions and careless words. Of unkindness and disrespect. Not once ever in my entire life have I been put in a position like Zenny was tonight—a position that she’s put in every day—and with deep, ugly regret, I recognize times that I’ve been on the other side of it. The times when I’ve been the garbage goose person, the one casually spraying a room with my entitlement. I’m not innocent of harm and the thought is painful.

That doesn’t change reality, but I’m willing to navigate it with you.

I can’t explain it because I don’t understand it. I don’t understand myself, even. I only understand that I love her.

She’s Elijah’s little sister and much too young for me, and she only wants me for sex, but I love her.

Tragedy

God, the fucking irony of a sinner loving a nun. It’s agony. I’m dying.

she’s a writhing angel in my arms, falling from heaven and touching ecstasy all at once,