Page 52 of Of Angels & Absolution

“What does it say?” he asks.

“What?”

He nods towards my necklace. “It has an engraving on the back, yes? I catch glimpses when you toy with it in class, but I’ve never caught the word.”

“Oh,” I say, my cheeks heating with the knowledge that he’s been watching me that closely, noticing me in his class, remembering how I fidget. “It says SHAME.”

I turn it over to show him the letters I’ve rubbed with my thumb so many times they’re beginning to wear away.

“Shame,” he repeats. “Interesting choice to have put on a cross. Do you imagine that’s what Jesus would want associated with the way in which he died?”

“No,” I say quickly. “I mean, it does say that, and yes, I use it to remind me of my own shame, my sins. But it stands for the Quint. I think we were a little bit proud when we figured out our initials spelled the word—Saint, Heath, Angel, Mercy, Eternity. Iwouldn’t have liked it by myself, but they owned it, so I did too. We all got them. Matching necklaces of shame.”

I laugh feebly and slip the cross back under my shirt, feeling silly.

“And you still wear it,” Father Salvatore says. “Even now.”

“I still love them,” I admit. “Maybe I had ulterior motives for getting close, but I do.”

“Do you think any of them still have their necklaces?”

I snort out a laugh. “No. They probably flushed them down the toilet.”

Father Salvatore rests his chin on his shoulder as he looks at me, and it’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. I’ve never pictured him like this, hanging out and talking, like a person and not a priest. But he’s not so old, not that much older than us. He must have friends, sit around talking with them, wearing jeans, doing regular things. Before I can ask what he likes to do, he speaks.

“What are these ulterior motives you mentioned?”

“Oh—nothing. I just wanted to find out the truth, you know. What happened to Eternity.”

“Ah yes. The noble goal.”

“Is it?” I ask, tucking my hands under my thighs. “How do you determine that?”

He smiles a little, his lips smooth and slightly red, and I can’t stop staring. “Determine what, lamb?” he asks.

A wobbling, melting shimmer climbs my spine, and I can hardly breathe. He cannot use that word right now, when he’s sitting so casual, chatting with me like we’re not a priest and his congregant, like we’re a man and a woman.

“How do you know right from wrong?” I manage. “Who makes the rules?”

“You listen to yourself,” he says. “The answers are inside you.”

“What if the answers inside me are wrong?” I whisper, searching his night-dark eyes for the truth, for some flicker of judgment. I don’t find one.

“They’re not,” he says firmly. “I think you know that. If you look inside yourself and let yourself believe it, you’ll know.”

“Then why does it feel so wrong?” I ask, my cheeks heating again.

“What feels wrong?” he asks, his voice low, alluring.

I swallow hard. “What we’ve been doing. What I’ve done.”

“What have you done?”

My lashes flutter as I dart a gaze up and then back down, knotting my fingers in my lap. “You know. You saw.”

“Tell me. Say it out loud, Mercy.”

I gulp down my nerves, my core trembling at the command in his rich, low voice. “I touched myself,” I whisper, my cheeks on fire.

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