Page 3 of Sinner
“Anytime, Father.” She retrieves her jacket, now mostly dry, and slips it on. “Good night.”
“Good night, Caterina. Be safe.”
I follow her to the door, watching as she steps out into the night. The rain has stopped, leaving the streets slick and shining under the streetlights. She pauses at the bottom of the steps, looking back once with an expression I can’t decipher before disappearing around the corner.
I stand in the doorway, staring at the empty space where she was, listening to the fading echo of her footsteps. The cold night air washes over me, but it does nothing to cool the warmth spreading through my chest. I remain there, watching long after she’s gone, as if some part of her might return.
Eventually, I close the door, pressing my forehead against the cool wood. The church feels emptier now, hollowed out by her absence. I return to the kitchen and pour her untouched coffee down the sink, watching the dark liquid swirl away.
“Give me strength,” I whisper to the empty room, unsure if I’m asking for the strength to resist or the strength to endure.
No answer comes, and if it does, I’m not sure I’ll have the strength to listen.
Chapter 2
Caterina
I rise before dawn,the air still holding that peculiar chill of early morning as I dress for the final day of St. Francis’s fall food drive. It feels important to look nice but not too nice—this delicate balance of caring without seeming like I’m trying to impress anyone.
Especially not him.
The church parking lot is nearly empty when I arrive, just a few cars I don’t recognize and his modest sedan. The back doors of the parish hall stand open, and I can hear the scrape of cardboard boxes being dragged across concrete floors.
I smooth my hands over my simple white blouse, tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and step inside.
Father Moretti stands in the center of the hall, directing two teenage boys on where to place stacks of empty boxes. He’s removed his clerical collar, wearing instead a simple black t-shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He lifts a heavy box of canned goods, the muscles in his forearms flexing with the effort, veins visible beneath tanned skin.
My mouth goes dry. I look away, heat rising to my cheeks. What kind of person notices a priest’s forearms? What kind of sinner have I become?
“Caterina!” His voice carries across the room, warm and pleased. “You’re early.”
I force myself to meet his eyes, praying my face doesn’t betray me. “I thought you might need help with setup.”
“Perfect timing. We’re organizing stations.” He sets down his box and walks toward me, gesturing to the room. “Canned goods here, produce there, bread and bakery items along that wall.”
He’s close enough now that I can smell him—clean soap and coffee and something uniquely him. I focus on the clipboard in his hands instead of the way his t-shirt stretches across his shoulders.
“Where do you want me?” The words come out before I realize how they might sound.
Something flickers in his eyes—so brief I might have imagined it—before his expression settles into its usual kindness. “How about the registration table? You’ve got a way with people.”
“Of course.”
More volunteers arrive, filling the space with chatter and movement. The parish hall transforms into a bustling marketplace of charity. Father Moretti moves through it all with effortless grace, directing, thanking, and encouraging. I watch him from my post at the entrance, the way he kneels to speak to children at their eye level, the gentleness with which he helps an elderly woman find a seat.
When our eyes meet across the crowded room, something electric passes between us—a current of recognition, of shared secrets. I look away first, busying myself with paperwork that doesn’t need my attention.
Hours pass in a blur of faces and names, checking lists and handing out numbers. The hall grows warm with bodies and conversation. I’m explaining the process to a young mother when I feel his presence behind me.
“Excuse me,” he says, his voice close to my ear as his hand settles lightly on the small of my back, guiding me slightly to the side so he can reach past me for a stack of forms.
His touch burns through the thin fabric of my blouse. Five fingers, splayed just above the curve of my spine, lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary. When he moves away, I feel the absence like a physical thing.
The young mother is still talking, but I’ve lost the thread of her words.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “could you repeat that?”
At noon, someone brings pizza for the volunteers. We gather in the kitchen, paper plates balanced on knees and perched on countertops. I find myself beside Father Moretti, our shoulders almost touching in the crowded space.
