I run the slippery tip of my lip gloss tube over my bottom lip then trace it with my tongue. A tangy chemical they claim to be apple tickles my taste buds and I scrunch my face.
A week.
It has been a week since I saw the Father’s son, Caleb.
I shiver.
Six grueling, painful days have passed and, finally, the seventh day is here. Sunday. It’s my new favorite day of the week and not for the reasons it should be. If my parents knew the foremost holy day of obligation has been tainted by my sinful thoughts, I’d be locked in my room for the rest of my life.
I disgrace my religion by showing up to Sunday Mass only to lust over a boy who doesn’t know I exist, and the guilt it stirs doesn’t go unfelt. I was going to fake sick to get out of today, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I need to see him again. I thought about him so much that by Wednesday, his face became obscured in my mind and I haven’t been able to pleasure myself adequately since then. I need to refresh the memory. From the exact shade of his hair to the darkness in his eyes.
I have to memorize it.
“Really, Cassia? Lip gloss to Sunday Mass?”
I snap my attention from my clenched lap to the rearview mirror where Dad’s large, brown eyes flick between me and the road. I frown, confused.
“It’s just lip gloss…”
His fingers tighten around the steering wheel and I swallow the frustration that pricks at me. So I messed up once. Big deal. I’ve only had sex with one person. It’s not like I go around whoring myself out to every guy that bats an eyelid in my direction. Doesn’t he recall what it’s like to be young? The raging hormones, the urge to explore yourself and the opposite sex?
Science tells us it’s normal so why doesn’t religion? Why would God give me the ability to feel these things, but forbid me from acting on them? God wants his children to be happy, right? Well, riding Caleb’s face until I see stars would make me very happy.
“It’s unnecessary. Unless you’re trying to impress a boy?”
I roll my eyes and groan, earning a look of warning from Mom. “Maybe I’m trying to impress a girl.”
Mom gasps and turns her attention out the window. A homosexual comment. Oh, the horror! This is where she checks out. Once I go toe to toe with Dad she no longer has an opinion. Hell, she no longer exists, leaving me to defend myself.
I flinch as Dad laughs, swiping a frustrated hand over his forehead. His laugh isn’t the kind of laugh that means he found what I said funny. He didn’t. It’s the kind of laugh that instills fear in my chest and makes me wonder how far off he is from pulling over and dumping me on the side of the road.
“Are you that far gone, Cassia? You spit these dark, venomous words and challenge your parents constantly. This is not how we raised you!”
Dropping my stare from his, I slip my lip gloss into the pocket of my light blue summer dress and grip the small, black Bible on my lap. Fighting him is pointless. At the end of the day, I live in his house and I am his daughter. Like it’s said: you must honor your father and your mother. I roll my eyes again. It’s a good law God has placed, but he never had parents, did he? He never had someone hanging over his head telling him what to do and what not to do. No one scolded him for making the earth round or for giving women breasts, and I bet no one harassed him for wearing lip-gloss when he wanted to, either.
Silence falls in the car and I keep my head down, feeling every sliver of shame he wants me to feel. It hurts. It hurts knowing I’m not the daughter they so desperately want me to be. I blink back tears that threaten to spill over the rims of my eyes. What’s wrong with me? Why am I wired so differently? Why do I feel these things when it’s clearly wrong and dirty? How do I stop the feelings from manifesting? I run my finger along the golden edge of my Bible, patiently waiting for the answer to magically appear. Like always…It doesn’t.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when the sound of the indicator clicks throughout the car. I lift my eyes. Up ahead, the beautiful Caen Limestone Church looms. It truly is gorgeous, nothing like the modern church we attended in Bismarck. While picturesque and majestic, it also has a sense of Transylvanian darkness about it. The stained glass windows that queue along the walls of the structure, and the rusty, metal spikes that line the roof make me want to explore every inch of the mysterious building.
Less than a mile ahead, the smooth tar road changes to loose gravel and Dad cautiously approaches the sea of cars in the parking lot ahead. If wearing lip gloss pissed Dad off, I’d hate to see what a loose pebble hitting the paint on his new SUV would do.
Eventually, we roll to a stop and Mom wastes no time leaping out of the car and into the fresh air. I don’t blame her. The car reeks of disappointment and disgust. For the same reason, I open my door and slip out into the bright morning sun. The warm breeze blows my hair into my face and strands stick to my lips, but I don’t swipe it away. Instead, I let it hide my face. I don’t feel pretty like I did when we left the house this morning. Now I feel…worthless. I feel like a cheap whore and it’s courtesy of my own father.
Fantastic.
I squeeze my Bible in my hand, pressing it firmly against my side. I don’t normally bring my Bible to Sunday Mass. There’s no need for it, but when I picked it up this morning, Dad smiled and I figured bringing it along would make him happy. God knows it couldn’t have pissed him off any more than he already was. I also figured it’d take me longer to sweat through the leather cover as opposed to the thin program sheet they give you when you walk in.
I trail behind Mom and Dad as they make their way toward the stone steps. In the gap between my parents I see Father Andrews standing at the top offering handshakes and welcoming everyone into his church. I can’t tell if my stomach floats or takes a dive when I don’t see Caleb. Either way, it feels sucky.
I turn my gaze down to the tiny, gray stones under my feet.
“Oh, look.” Mom says to Dad. “There’s Father Andrew’s son, Caleb.”
What?! My heart leaps into my throat as I misplace my foot and stumble into my parents. The only thing saving me from face planting the pebbles at my feet is Dad’s jacket. I clench it in my hands for a split second before I manage to correct my footing and straighten my posture. They glance over their shoulders at me.
“Sorry.” I say, smoothing my clammy palm down the front of my dress. “I slipped on a rock.”
“Pay attention to your footing, Cassia.” Mom chastises. “I don’t want you to injure yourself before church.”
Sure. I’ll just wait until after the service to break my ankle.
“How does Father Andrews have a son anyway?” I ask. “I thought priests were like nuns. You know, celibate and all.”
Dad’s eyes meet mine and the first thing I notice is his eyebrow and the way it’s cocked in suspicion. I shrug.
“It’s decided case by case.” He states, exhaling. “From what I hear, Father Andrews was married first and then he converted soon after his daughter was born. His wife and daughter died eleven years ago and though he was married, he cannot remarry now that she has passed on. There are a lot of technicalities you wouldn’t understand.”
Why? Because I’m only nineteen? I roll my eyes again. I know things about sex and relationships he couldn’t even fathom. Alas, no matter how hard I try, I’ll forever be seen as a little girl instead of a woman.
We climb the stairway one by one and underneath my feet, the stone steps feel like they’re liquefying, making it increasingly hard to stay level. Every cell in my body knows that with every foot I plant on the hard ground is another one closer to him.
I stare at the rocks, desperately trying to work up the courage to lift my gaze before we make it to the top. They feel uneven against the soles of my flats.
“Mr. and Mrs. Claire.” Father Andrews greets them.
My heart beats fast. Shit. I’m not ready! I’ve run out of time. They exchange pleasantries—pleasantries that don’t last as long as I’d have liked.
“You’ve met my son Caleb?” He says, uncertainty lightening his tone at the end.
“We’re yet to meet.” My father replies. “Hi, Caleb.”
“Mr. Claire.”
I resist the urge to drop my head back and use the Lord’s name in vain. No one, and I mean no one, should have a voice like that. It reminds me of gravelly pieces of honeycomb drowned in melted milk chocolate…which isn’t messed up. Like, at all.
“Please, call me Marcus.”
No! I know what comes next and I’m not ready, dammit!
“This is my wife, Linda, and my daughter…” Dad steps to the side, exposing me to Caleb and Father Andrews. “Cassia.”
Holy f—mother of green eyes. I clench my Bible, but it can’t help me now. Father Andrews extends a casual hand to me and I like it. I like that he’s a lot more easy-going than the Father at our old church. Stepping forward, I slip my hand into his.
“It’s nice to finally meet on a personal level, Cassia.”
I smile. “It is.”
I drag my gaze to Caleb and my breath halts in my throat. He’s within reach and I can’t fucking breathe. Through parted lips I inhale and it’s shaky, sounding like a magnitude nine earthquake in my ears.
Dad plants his hand on my shoulder and I’m thankful for it. It lessens the chance of me fainting and rolling backward down the steps.
As Dad engages Father Andrew again, Caleb’s eyes flicker over Dad’s protective hand and I see Hell flaring in the deep depths of his glorious green eyes. Then they lock with mine and I’m speechless. Can my parents feel it too? The way his hard body radiates such an arresting impression of powerful sexuality? It’s like he’s an industrial magnet and I’m a tiny piece of scrap metal.
“Hi, Cassia.”
Dead. I am dead! I’ve imagined my name falling from his lips more times than any psychiatrist would consider healthy, but it doesn’t compare to the real thing. Nothing ever compares to the real thing.
“Hello.” I say, my voice quieter than I would have liked.
Angling his head on a slight tilt, he locks me in his captivating stare and I have to force myself to look away for my own sanity.
Heat pools in my cheeks and if my parents see, it’s off to Antarctica.
I feel so innocent standing in front him. Is that stupid? From a distance he makes me feel wild. He makes me feel like every bit of the sexually perverse woman that I am, but up close…well…he makes me feel like a virgin. I feel vulnerable knowing he can tear me apart at any second. If anyone asked, I’d deny it, but God knows just how bad I want him to bare his teeth against my skin…so I’m doomed right from the beginning, really.