Page 113 of Ugly Truths
My father’s older sister, Georgia, is directly behind us, along with her husband, Philip. I lean over the back of the pew to greet them and introduce Elena. We don’t see them often. Gatherings with the Wellsside of the family were never exactly warm, but Georgia had a decent relationship with my father. They had another sister who passed away young, and with both my grandparents gone, they’d grown closer as they aged. Still, I don’t know much about this woman, even while tears shine in her eyes as she claims how unfair it is for a good man to be taken so young. All I can manage is a pained smile before turning with Elena to sit.
Religion has never been a cornerstone of our family life. I suppose I’m technically Catholic, though we didn’t practice beyond Confirmation and the occasional Easter service. Still, I can’t deny the beauty of Catholic architecture. The cathedral is breathtaking, especially in the late morning light. Rays of sun stream through the stained-glass windows, casting bursts of color across the polished stone floors. The arches of the ceiling seem to stretch endlessly upward, allowing every murmur in the crowd around us to echo.
One beam of light falls directly in front of Elena’s seat. It catches her profile when she leans forward, the soft glow accentuating the curve of her cheekbone and golden streaks in her eyes.
“Do you need anything?” she whispers over my lap to Natalie.
My sister shakes her head, her lips pressing into a faint, thankful smile. Natalie reaches across me to pat Elena’s arm. “I’m fine, thank you,” she answers. Then she leans back, her attention shifting to Davey, who murmurs something in her ear.
We don’t get another moment to speak before the priest emerges from a side door and approaches the altar. The room quiets immediately, save for the faint shuffling of feet and the rustling of hymnals as the congregation settles. I try to focus on what he’s saying and the cadence of his voice as he begins the service, but the words blur together.
For most of the service, my gaze is pinned just above the priest’s head, fixing my focus somewhere between the intricate carvings and the towering crucifix behind it. Being in a church feels like using a muscle I haven’t flexed in years. I still know when to make the sign of the cross, when to mumble the correct responses, when to stand or kneel, even ifI don’t think about what any of it means anymore. It’s automatic, like driving when you’re too tired to remember how you got from point A to point B.
What keeps me tethered to the present, though, is Elena. She doesn’t move to follow any of the cues. She sits beside me, attentive and respectful, but not a single word leaves her lips. The hand she might have used to sign the cross stays firmly clasped in mine and only lets go when I move to kneel or stand. The moment I'm back in the seat, she's reaching for me without looking, her thumb brushes lightly over my knuckles.
The corner of my mouth twitches at the irony of someone with the last name Cross not having any ties to religion. Maybe it's not all religion, just this one. I’ve never asked if she believes in anything, and the thought amuses me more than I care to admit.
The priest’s words blend into a monotone hum that feels endless. None of the siblings or Georgia chose to speak, all citing that it’s too emotional and we couldn’t possibly give a speech worthy of our father. Those stories are only half-true. Jeremy’s always been a shit public speaker. As for Natalie and me, I don’t think either of us can stomach more of this charade than we absolutely have to.
And thank whatever divine power out there that my father insisted his casket only be present at the burial site. At least I’m spared the task of carrying his dead weight out of here.
Just a few hours.
That’s what I keep telling myself. A few hours of holding back the eye rolls, of nodding politely while people wax poetic about a man they barely knew. Then I can take Elena home. Maybe I'll take her out for a nightcap. Not because I particularly care to drink, but because I want an excuse to keep looking at her in this dress.
My eyes trail over to her lap, the fabric hugging her legs as she sits so perfectly still beside me. My gaze moves to the way the bodice cinches at her waist, emphasizing every graceful line of her. The high neckline is supposed to make the dress modest, even sweet, but nothing ever looks modest on Elena.
Luis also noticed this earlier, taking in the dress as Elena approached him to say goodbye. His gaze lingered too long. I’d been sitting in the adjacent room, listening to their conversation, pretending not to care, when she said that one quiet comment that cracked open something I wasn’t ready to face.
“I’m here until he tells me to leave.”
I’ve barely let myself think that far ahead. Hell, I’m still working on letting go of the anger. Most days, it feels like I’m making progress, but then there are moments where I still want to blame her for everything, even though I know she’s not at fault. Peter forced her into this, and my father has no one to blame for his evils but himself; yet, knowing that doesn’t stop the thoughts from existing. Right now, I can’t promise that I won’t always feel this way. Even though she wronged me, Elena doesn’t deserve to spend her life dealing with that.
And then Luis, without a moment's hesitation, interjected to tell her she was always welcome to stay with him. I couldn’t believe my ears. She dragged him into this mess, and yet there he was, acting as though none of that mattered.
It wasn’t just the audacity of Luis propositioning Elena in my own home that enraged me; it was the fact that he could offer her so readily what I couldn’t. The thought of him trying to take her and give her something I wasn’t ready to made my hands itch to strangle him.
Now, sitting beside her, I can’t shake how she made Luis pause. She could walk into a room wearing a paper bag and still be the most stunning woman there, but this dress feels like it was made to torment me. It hints just enough without giving everything away, leaving me to fill in the blanks. And I can’t stop. My mind wanders, remembering what’s under the fabric, the curve of her back, the line of her neck. Every movement she makes is deliberate, poised, and yet so effortlessly sensual.
It’s maddening.
Without thinking, I lean closer, my lips brushing the sensitive spot just below her ear. She smells of coconut body wash and her subtle vanilla perfume. The faintest hitch in her breath betrays her, and she glances at me from the corner of her eye.
That soft, almost inaudible puff of air she takes in makes my cock twitch, and I smile against her skin, lowering my voice so only she can hear.
“Ever had sex on an altar before?”
Her response is immediate; fingers squeeze mine, warning me to behave, though the small smile tugging at the corner of her lips says otherwise. That expression sends my mind spiraling.
She’s so composed, so beautiful, and all I can think about is ruining her. Messing up that carefully pinned hair, wrinkling that perfect dress, leaving marks on her skin that she’d have to explain later.
My thoughts grow darker, more vivid, until the burn of lust low in my stomach is the only thing I can concentrate on.
Lost in those fantasies, I almost miss Communion. I’m jerked back to reality when Natalie tugs my forearm, her expression making it clear she knows I might skip it. She wouldn’t have been wrong, but appearances matter today, so I rise and follow her lead.
The rest of the service feels like it drags on for another eternity. Finally, the priest begins explaining how the funeral procession will work, asking attendees to remain seated until the immediate family has exited first. I’ve never been more thankful to fall into that category.
The second it’s our turn, I’m on my feet, pulling Elena up with me. She threads her fingers through mine without hesitation.
