Trinity

I was right. There’s barely enough space on my side of the closet to hang the few dresses and jeans I have. Even the four cubbyholes on my side of the cabinet are barely large enough to fit a pair of shoes.

After shoving as much of my clothing into the closet as I can fit, I shove my almost-empty bags under the cot.

I perch reluctantly on the creaky bed with my thick bible in my lap, tracing my fingers over the gold title embossed on the white leather cover. I flip it open and take out the photo nestled between the first few pages.

My father’s stern eyes stare out at me from a decade past. Despite his no-nonsense expression, he looks dashing in his full clerical vestments.

I wish I had a photo of mom too. Even better, the three of us together. But my parents considered photos a form of vanity, much like having more than four sets of clothes to rotate out during any given week.

Makeup? Please.

Jewelry? That money belongs in the church’s coffers.

If they knew they were going to die months before my eighteen birthday, would things have been different? Would we have spent less time in church and more time in the park, or going to the beach, or playing ball in the backyard?

Nope.

I open the first drawer and put the bible inside, shoving it as far back as I can.

I have no intention of reading it. I only brought it along because Mother had always treasured it. I didn’t even know about the photo until I accidentally dropped the book on its spine while I was collecting my things from our house a week ago.

Twenty-seven days.

Not even a month since they’ve been gone, and it already feels like a lifetime ago. I only remember bits and pieces since then, and most of those I try to forget.

Fuck you.

I kick the drawer closed with my ballerina pump, and there’s the unpleasant sound of something wooden splintering.

“Already destroying school property on your first day?”

I rush to my feet and whirl around. There’s a guy in the doorway, leaning with his shoulder against the jamb.

He’s tall and lean-muscled with a sharp nose, angular jaw, and hooded blue eyes.

Even with his military-style haircut that leaves little more than a layer of fuzz on his perfectly shaped head, he looks like a fashion model. We didn’t have magazines around the house, but I saw them once or twice in the library. He’s wearing Saint Amos’s school uniform, but his collar is loose, his tie crooked.

A smug smile carves a dimple into his cheek. “You miss the turn off for Sisters of Mercy?”

He runs his gaze down my body before snapping them back to my eyes. “Or did your parents want a boy so bad they never told you you’re a girl?”

I shake my head, and stagger back when he slips inside the room.

“Can you talk?” He glances about the room as if the answer doesn’t concern him. “Or are you an orphan and a mute?”

I’m starting to wonder the same thing, because I seem incapable of forming words. It doesn’t help that he keeps moving closer, and the only way to keep my distance in this tiny room would be to climb over the bed.

“’Cos I’m pretty sure they’d tell the hallway monitor to expect a mute orphan.” His eyes flicker to me. “Especially one as adorably fuckable as you.”

Hallway monitor?

Adorably…fuckable?

My cheeks flare with heat. “Excuse me?” I bark out.

“Aw,” the hallway monitor croons, pouting his lush lips. “You just became slightly less tragic.”