Page 356 of Bad for Me

Fuck.

“You know what? Maybe this isn’t the best time–,” I rushed out, my hands shaking, my nerves frayed. I was sitting on the other side of a small divider from Father O’Leary himself, and I’d just as much as admitted I had a fucking crush on him. “Sorry to have bothered you, Father. Perhaps another time–”

Before he could say another word, I darted out of the confessional booth and scrambled for the cover of the crowd around it. I hoped against hope that he didn’t recognize my voice, that he didn’t see me going in or coming out, that all this would blow over so I could go back to pretending I hadn’t just completely embarrassed myself in front of the new, hot priest–

I sat in the back of the pews, mortified and scared to death I sat too close. I could practically feel God himself staring down at me, and if there were a spotlight shining down from the fucking clouds above, it wouldn’t surprise me one bit.

I managed to make it through Mass. I also managed to keep my mouth mostly shut around Father O’Leary, who the church had welcomed with open arms and an eagerness that didn’t surprise me. We’d all taken to him with the shine of a new penny, and his presence livened up the whole congregation every Sunday.

And then came the Volunteer Circle.

It was something unique to our church, as far as I could tell. A bunch of our older ladies got together and organized it a few years back. It had been a thing every Sunday–those of us inclined to volunteer, or those with community service requirements, or even sometimes kids in high school looking for their required community service for graduation, would meet up and make a list of things in the community that needed to be addressed. Then, depending on the job, the level of need, and the urgency behind it, we’d sign up people best suited for the jobs and split up. A divide and conquer approach.

I didn’t believe in all this religious shit, per se–that was alwaysherschtick–it still felt nice to help our community. Things got done, and we all took pride in our work.

This week, I was the odd woman out, stuck on my own working on a pet project of mine. The local greenhouse had donated a ton of fledgling trees that wouldn’t survive the winter unless they were put in the ground, and last year’s floods had eroded a good portion of the riverbanks. The plan was to plant these saplings, anchor them down, and hope they had a chance to take root and grow, restoring the structural integrity of the shores around our community.

Last week, I’d enlisted a few strapping young men to help me cart the trees to their final locales, but this week, they’d been conscripted to other projects, so I was on my own. Not the most challenging job I’d ever tackled, but it would be taxing for one woman. Instead of a one-day job, it might have evolved into three.

But nothing in this life I’d chosen to live was easy. What was one more difficult task?

Unable to stand the gossip mongers for much longer than a few hours, I opted out of hanging around to listen to their ceaseless prattle. I shouldered a heavy backpack that was already stuffed full of gardening supplies, then headed out the front door after checking in with our local church bookkeeper, Margie.

Margie had been around as long as any of us here, and she knew the ins and outs of everything that went on in this church. More to the point, nothing escaped Margie's notice. So when she happened to catch a glimpse of me side-eyeing the priest, I knew there would be questions I didn't want to answer. So I bailed.

I wasn't about to explain to a woman old enough to be my grandmother that I was crushing on the man chosen to lead us all spiritually.

I could hardly admit it to myself.

5

SCARLETT

Three hoursinto my difficult Sunday afternoon, I decided that planting a riverbank full of trees alone was one of the biggest mistakes I could have made. My shoulders and back ached, my leg muscles were screaming, and sweat poured down my brow and my back like a river itself. With no end in sight to the number of trees still lined up to be put into the ground, I heaved a sigh and swiped my arm across my hairline, hoping to catch some of the perspiration there before it dripped into my eyes.

Somehow, I almost missed the figure heading straight for me in the afternoon glare from the sun.

Clad in gray sweatpants and a worn black t-shirt was none other than Father O'Leary himself, a shovel thrown casually over his shoulder and a grin on his face that I couldn't help but mirror until I remembered the events from the confessional.

Okay, okay, don't make things awkward. I could do that.

I sighed and straightened my shoulders, tossing my head back with a decidedly confident air. If this were the hardest task I'd face today, then it wouldn't be a bad day, after all. I could do this.

My palms were damp with moisture, the grip of my trowel slipping from my grip as I hurried to wipe it away on my pants. Father O’Leary raised his free hand in greeting from about twenty feet away, breaking the silence with his raspy Irish lilt.

“Hey there! Thought you might like some help.” His hand gestured around to the remaining trees to plant, shifting to settle his shovel head in the dirt at his feet. “You were the only one signed up for this job, so I decided it was time to get my own hands dirty.”

My nerves were on high alert. Our old priest had never bothered to come out and help the volunteers. Though, that might have had something to do with his advanced age, too. Still, I nodded toward a nearby unplanted tree, even as my brain whirled with doubt and suspicion.

“Sure thing,” I echoed, turning away from him in a desperate attempt to keep my cool. “If you wanna start over there with the maples, I’ll go over here and work on the pines.”

Silently, the two of us made short work of the trees, and by the time dark fell, not a single hole was left unfilled. Each tree had a new home, and with luck, they’d take hold of the ground and stabilize it before the next big rain filled the river to the brim.

I was covered from head to toe in dirt, and Father O’Leary fared no better–it was even in his hair. When he moved closer to take my shovel for me, a not-so-innocent urge to run my fingers through his hair and dislodge the flecks clinging to his gorgeous, curly locks. A dangerous thought–I could feel my fingers twitching at my sides.

He swiped at his brow with a hand and gave me that grin guaranteed to melt the panties off a lesser woman.

Hell, they were melting off me as we spoke.

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