Max

I love walking arm in arm with Stoner. Never in a million years did I imagine myself feeling so normal and at home with a kid from high school.

But he is certainly not a kid anymore, and neither am I.

Every time I come home to Chicago, I feel like a child. I am always surrounded by my family. Everything happy or sad hinges on whether my sister is having a good day.

And obviously, I don’t have a husband or kids of my own to act as a buffer. That fact on its own is enough to make me feel like I’m stuck in at the age of 18 in their eyes. It’s not that I set out to be single at the age of 38. It’s just that I love to work. I love growing my business. I’ve dated guys here and there, but nothing has panned out. Some of them couldn’t handle my crazy work hours. Others didn’t want kids. Still others just didn’t have … that thing. That spark. Something was always missing.

But with Stoner, much like I feel with Joy, I’m a whole person. I feel valued and important. Not that my awesome parents don’t value me. They do. They’re just preoccupied so much of the time with Sam. But with Joy, and now with Stoner, I am an individual.

I am interesting to someone.

After a couple of blocks, he leads me into a coffee shop that I’ve never seen before. It looks shiny and hip and new. The server brings us menus and it is all desserts.

At one a.m., this is exactly what I need.

We chat about home and the neighborhood and the city. He tells me he was there to see the Cubs win the World Series.

“It was the best night of my life,” he says. The way he smiles, showing his adorable crows feet and all his dimples, I believe him. I want to brush my lips against every ridge and crease on that masculine face of his.

“Until now,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“That was the best night of my life until tonight,” he says.

My cheeks heat and I glance down at my coffee.

“You know how to make a girl feel special.”

His eyes crinkle at me and I’m swooning. Lust ripples through my deepest, darkest places. Does he know what he’s doing to me?

“It’s not a line to make you feel special. If I say it, it’s true.”

I must be beet red in the face. “Can I just take a minute to absorb that? Because that is the sweetest thing anybody has ever said to me.”

He looks at me a bit more seriously then and says, “I really hate it that that’s true. You deserve to be told sweet things every day. Every minute of every day. Much sweeter than that, in fact.”

“Keep piling on the compliments because it’s working on my self-esteem,” I say, the teeniest of lumps forming at the back of my throat. I swallow down the teeny lump with a sip of the delicious, strong coffee. No way am I letting tears crop up when a truly good guy is trying to woo me.

That’s what this is, right? I ask myself. He’s not just hitting on me. It feels … bigger than that.

Stoner sets down his coffee and puts his hands around mine. “I have some things I need to tell you.”

“Oh shit, are you married?”

“No! It’s about Saint Emil’s.”

I swallow again and wait for it.

He looks down at the table, rubs his face, rubs his hands through his hair, and begins to tell me his story.

Like me, Stoner had started school at Saint Emil’s in Kindergarten. Monsignor Roberts had first invited him to the rectory when Stoner was 13.

It had been right around the time Stoner’s dad, an accountant to some powerful people, went to prison. The family had been caught up in a massive statewide government corruption investigation, and Stoner’s dad was collateral damage.

Monsignor Roberts had made Stoner feel special when he was going through that difficult time. In reality, the old priest was grooming the kid for unspeakable acts.

While Stoner tells me the whole, painful story, I put a hand on his. I let him squeeze it as he continues.

“I was in acolyte training and we were alone. He said he had to talk to me about something, so we went back to his office at the rectory. I didn’t think it was a big deal.

“It was all innocent enough at first. He was taking a special interest in me because he was worried about me not having a father figure at home.”

I listen intently. The details make my stomach churn. Not because I’m repulsed by him, but because I’m so goddamned angry that anyone would prey on a vulnerable kid like that.

“I didn’t say anything to my mom, for years. Not until well after high school, when others stepped up and made accusations of their own. Older people, with more influence than I or my mom had. It had been going on for decades. I was finally empowered to speak. To this day I kick myself for not beating the shit out of the guy, but my therapist says it’s not my fault.”

“It’s absolutely not your fault,” I say, squeezing his hands inside mine.

“The bastard died before he could be prosecuted. But we all got a settlement. And that’s why the church, school and rectory closed. And that’s why my mom has so few friends left in the neighborhood. A lot of people resent us for the lawsuit. I just wanted you to know. In case that freaks you out and you don’t want to get involved with me any further.”

I try not to gasp audibly. I don’t want anything I do to seem as if I’m in the least bit put off. “What makes you think I wouldn’t want to get involved? Because some wrinkled old asshole in a clerical collar did things to you when you were a hurting little kid? No, that’s not who I am,” I say as I strive to maintain eye contact with him, though he keeps staring down at the table.

“OK good,” he says, finally looking up at my eyes. “Because I want you to come over and say hi to my mom tomorrow. She would be happy to see a friendly face from the past. She always liked you.”

I feel honored that he would think my presence would cheer up his mother.

“Of course I will.”