Collared(70)

“Mrs. Delaney’s room?” I ask.

She lifts her tablet to check.

“Father Costigan?”

Her eyes lift away from the tablet. “Room 542.”

I hurry down the hall, feeling like it’s the last room in this never-ending tunnel. Actually, it is. I skid to a stop when I come to the end of the hall. The door to 542 is partly closed, but I hear him inside. I can see him too.

I can’t see Mrs. Delaney because he’s blocking her, but I can see her weathered hand swimming in his. The skin looks thin, frail . . . cold. I’m not Catholic, but I know enough from the times I went with Torrin to his church. I know what the last rites are. I know the woman whose hand he’s holding is dying. Soon.

He finishes his recitation, crosses himself, and then he’s quiet. He doesn’t say good-bye and turn to leave now that it’s done. He doesn’t pat her hand before setting it on the bed. He stays. He keeps holding her hand.

I know the woman’s crying. I can hear her, and I can tell by the way Torrin’s jaw grinds together. He’s never been able to handle a woman crying well. But he lets her cry, staying still beside her the entire time. Her hand stays solidly in his the whole time.

Mrs. Delaney sniffs, and her thin fingers curl around Torrin’s hand. “You’re a bright light in this dark world, Father.” Her voice carries out of the room, then she slips her hand from his. “Thank you.”

He moves for the door, but before he goes, he rests his hand on the foot of her bed. “Be at peace.”

“Now”—she exhales like all of the pain and fear has been emptied from her—“I am.”

He smiles, but his jaw’s still straining, then he heads for the door. I creep back a ways because I don’t want him to know I was listening in. I don’t want him to know that what I just witnessed might have been the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

He doesn’t look surprised to see me when he steps into the hall, but he doesn’t say anything until he closes the door.

“What’s the matter?” he asks in a hushed voice. I can tell sound carries up and down these halls like the scent of disinfectant.

For a minute, I’d forgotten. I’d been too hypnotized by what just happened in that room. “Have you seen the paper today?”

I begin to pull it out from under my arm when he stops me. His fingers curl into my arm, and I think about the kiss that could have been.

He takes in a breath through his nose. “I’ve seen it.”

I hadn’t been expecting that answer. “You have?”

“The one with a picture the size of a soccer ball of the two of us? Yeah, I have.”

“And you’re not concerned?” I let the paper fall open in front of him.

He doesn’t look at it. “About ‘Father Torrin’s Torrid Love Affair’? No, considering it’s a lie, I’m not concerned.”

I turn the paper around to make sure I didn’t see the picture wrong the first time. Nope, still looks like if things aren’t, they’re about to get plenty ‘torrid.’ And why the hell are they referring to him as Father Torrin when even I know you call a priest by his last name? I know why though—torrid and Costigan don’t pack the same punch. “And what about the picture? This doesn’t worry you?”

I shake the paper in his face, but he still won’t look. “It’s a picture. It doesn’t tell the whole story. It can’t show what came before and what came after. If people are going to let a perfectly timed photo and a fancy headline form their opinions for them, that’s not my problem.” His forehead creases when he looks at me. “Are you worried?”

“Very.”

Now his removed expression shifts. Concern takes its place. “This is going to make things worse for you, isn’t it? They’re going to send more reporters to your front door. You won’t be able to sneak out without them following you . . . speaking of . . .” He motions at me. “What are you doing here? By yourself?” He scans the hall, probably looking for my parents.

“Forget about that right now. I’m here—we don’t need to talk about how I got here.” I drop the paper at my side. “I’m not worried about how this affects me. I’m worried about how this affects you.”

“How will this possibly affect me when it’s trash and lies?”

“Because you were about to kiss me”—I wave at him like that explains it all—“and you’re a priest.”

I notice one of the nurses down the hall turn her head toward us. Torrin does too. Taking my arm, he leads me into an empty waiting room.

“You were about to kiss me too,” he says, moving in front of me, “knowing exactly what I am.”

I could deny it. I could argue. I don’t because he’s right. “I shouldn’t have. You’re right, I do know what you are.” My eyes lower to his neck. “I shouldn’t have.”

“Want to try that again? With a little conviction this time maybe?”

The way he says it, the way he closes the space between us, makes me back up because there it is—the urge. The longing. The pull. The attraction. It’s still there. A decade later, and it hasn’t diminished. It hasn’t stayed the same.

It’s grown.