I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2)(28)

And, sure, he’s insanely attractive—and I kind of hope his hands end up on me again—but it’s more than just that. Chase may very well be one of the most real people I’ve met in a long time. I want to get to know him better, see if my impression of him, now that I’ve officially met him, holds true. And I want to give Chase a chance, like I promised. Heck, maybe it’s time I take a chance of my own, live a little.

Lord knows—literally—that I hide myself in this church. I wrap myself up in the role of the poor girl who lost her little sister in a tragic accident, the young woman whose parents cast her aside like a ragdoll. I keep myself from living in the present by clinging to the past, holding fast to guilt and grief. I’m good at it; it’s what I know. It’s been my life for four years now, but frankly it’s getting old. Maybe it’s time to stop and reassess.

I glance in the rearview mirror; the iron gate at the cemetery is barely visible now that everything is filling in green. Sarah would want me to live; I know this in my heart. I think of Chase. He clearly wants nothing more than to move on from his past. So why can’t I let mine go?

Maybe I can learn something from this man I misjudged. Maybe it’s time to reconsider this life I am living, let this old life go and start anew. Father Maridale counsels me all the time to make peace with the past, he tells me again and again that there’s nothing wrong with moving forward. He says I have a right to live my life, a duty, in fact.

I long to embrace his words—so much so that it sometimes hurts—but, honestly, I am terrified. What if I can’t move on? What if I try and fail? What if I get close to someone—say, someone like Chase—and everything blows up in my face? What if he gets to know me, maybe even grows to care, and then finds out the truth of what happened the night Sarah died? After my mother, I don’t think I can handle another person turning away.

But life is about taking chances, I remind myself.

I turn the key in the ignition and the Neon comes to life. One thing for certain, Chase has made me feel a lot of things today, things I thought I’d never feel again—excitement, giddiness, lust, possibility. But the most important one—the one I want to cling to like a girl who’s been stumbling around for too long in the dark and has just spotted a sliver of light—is hope.





Chapter Three


Chase


I find Father Maridale in the sacristy, just where Kay said he’d be. But he’s not working on a homily, no. Maybe he was—there is an open Bible on his desk—but, at the moment, the priest who has given me a shot at redemption is leaned back in a swivel chair, talking on a cell.

I hesitate at the open door, fully prepared to turn around, come back later if need be. However, Father Maridale spots me and motions for me to come in. He gestures to a chair situated next to the desk. I don’t want to sit right where I can hear his whole conversation, so I point back toward the nave, and silently mouth, “I’ll wait out there.”

Father nods and I leave him to his call. Once I’m back in the nave, I sit down on one of the pews in the front and stretch out my long legs. The view up here is vastly different from the one I’m accustomed to in the back. Up here, everything seems bigger, more in your face. The altar, the richly colored Holy Trinity fresco—they’re all larger than life.

As I soak it all in, my artistic side takes note of the texture and detail in the fresco, while layered decades of incense and melted candle wax fill my nose. I breathe in deeply, glance around, I think I like it up here. Maybe this is where I should sit next Sunday at Mass. Closer to God, closer to Kay.

Just as I’m seriously considering making the move—like maybe the front is where I’ve belonged all along—a statue of to my left, some saint, catches my eye. I have no clue who the plaster sculpture is supposed to represent, but shit, whoever painted the features did a damn good job. The eyes are remarkably lifelike, disturbingly so, especially since they’re directly trained on me. I know it just looks that way from this angle, but I nevertheless find myself scrubbing a hand down my face, and mumbling, “Not you too.”

I then turn my back on the saint.

Hell, I’ve had enough of real people judging me in this supposedly sacred place; I sure as f*ck don’t need statues doing it too. I know it’s my own guilty conscience causing all this grief. My succumbing to carnal weakness last night has apparently made me paranoid.

I remind myself that, at least, I stayed away from the drugs. I just wish I’d stayed away from Missy as well. Not that I feel especially bad about all that occurred. I just wish the person the acts were committed with didn’t attend this church. Does that make me a hypocrite? Yeah, probably.

Suddenly I have a far more disturbing thought. Jesus, I hope to God Missy doesn’t share what happened outside the Anchor Inn with Kay. Surely she wouldn’t mention that she was toting around coke, or that she offered to share, but the messing around part…

Girls and their gossip, I know how that can go. There are more than enough tales still floating around about me and my past, and Kay’s heard too much already. Our discussion today shed light on that unfortunate fact.

Kay Stanton.

I lean back against the hard wooden pew, think about the pretty girl who always sits right about here. I finally know Hot Chick’s name. And I like it, I like her. Kay seems, I don’t know, sweet. Something I sometimes forget women can be.