Page 35 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

And I remember wanting to ask them what about me? What’s God’s plan forme? To carry this guilt without a clue where to put it? To never again feel a shadow of the raw, unfiltered love I had for her? I hadn’t been strong enough then to save her. To undo the systematic brainwashing her small church had been performing on her since she was a baby. That none of this would have happened if they hadn’t convinced her so thoroughly that Jesus would save her—that she was safe at all.

But the truth is, I believe in the Rainbow Bridge more than I believe in heaven. All I knew—all I know—is Trinity is gone, and Jesus couldn’t save her, but one of those people could have. All she had was me, though.

“Hey.” I turn at the sound of my boss’s voice.

His brow is drawn, and he’s reaching for my shoulder. I flinch, and he drops his hand. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. Yeah. Sorry. You didn’t have to leave if you weren’t ready.”

“Too late now,” he says. “You don’t look great. You need me to call my driver?”

I balk. “No. I’m good.”

“Should I go?”

I look up at him and consider the question. I don’t love that he’s seeing me like this, but it’s too late to unring the bell. Still, his persistence is confusing. My mouth looks like I was beat up—a mess of busted blood vessels, bites and hickeys. As much as I loved the distraction last night, today is meant to be a reset, and it’s felt like one, which is both welcome and necessary for us to continue working together. But while we can glide past the physical part of the evening, what we can’t undo is the conversation that preceded it. We know things about each other now—personal things we can’t un-know. It barely occurred to me to decline his invitation to come with me this morning, even though I knew I could. It felt more natural to say yes.

Still, I’m not sure what got into him last night—or what would make a straight man want to kiss another man andonlykiss him. Whether he makes a habit of this when he’s out of the country, or if being the assistant to a man like him comes with certain expectations. I only skimmed the contract.

I wanted that kiss, though. Every raw, rough, unexpected second of it.

He looks different to me today. I’m noticing things about him I think I’ve avoided noticing in the past. Like how thick his dark, wavy hair is. How young his brown eyes look—maintaining a boyish glint despite the creases on the rare occasions when he smiles. The fact that his skin is flawless and glowing—not a pore for miles. He has dimples, too, not that I see those now. I noticed them for the first time yesterday when he smiled. They’re just another surprise—one of many on his often stern, square-jawed face.

I’ve always considered him objectively handsome, but what I see now is insanely hot, which proves how much dead Jesus wrecked me. Or was it Michelangelo’s perfect rendering of the face of a girl I once loved more than I loved anything?

Maybe Gibson’s just hot.

“All right. You know where to find me,” he says, taking a step away.

It took me too long to answer, but I don’t mind that he’s leaving. I don’t feel like myself, and I need to find that guy if I have a prayer of making it another night with Gibson in Rome without doing something even stupider than I did last night.

I don’t linger much longer at the Vatican. After a slow walk around the square, I find my way back to the river and hang out on the bridge awhile, watching the water rush beneath me. I might as well still be drunk for as numb as I am. I can barely feel the breeze on my face or the sun on my skin. I hear the people passing and smell the river, but my body feels dead. I don’t even have the sense of my heart beating, or air moving through my lungs.

And yet there’s a scream building in my head. Rage and regret and rumination I can’t shake no matter how much I write, how many friends I have, or who I take to bed. Nothing helps. I can’t move on.

So what the fuck is next?

I’m not even mad at Jesus anymore. He looked too pitiful. But I’m not happy with myself. It’s hard to be angry with God or even the church when the real problem is staring me in the face every morning in my bathroom mirror.Why the fuck can’t I let go?

Just as I’m about to let out the rising scream and risk being taken to an Italian mental institution, a memory of the woman’s screams from last night shifts my thoughts.

She was shackled to a bench at her wrists and knees—her back strapped down, and her ass arched high. The slap of a rough hand reddened her ass, and I’d witnessed her passage from pain to something beyond suffering.

I may not know how to ask for what I need in Italian, but surely someone in that dungeon knows enough English to help me safely let out this scream.

The man guardingthe door cocks his head at me as I approach, making me wonder if I’m as wild-eyed as I feel. But as his gaze drops to my mouth, I remember what I look like today.

“How can I help you, Signore?”

“Is there anyone down there who works with beginners?”

“Beginning what?” he asks, his accent thick and gaze suspicious.

Too bad they don’t have a menu I could pick from. Just point to what I think I need and have someone give it to me. “Is there any chance we could talk on the other side of the door?”

“Of course.”

He unlocks the door, and in seconds, we’re both in the dark, violet-lit stairwell. “What are you looking for?”

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