“Hey! What was that for?”
“You know exactly what.”
Grinning sheepishly, he rubbed his scalp. “I was joking. I’ll behave.”
“Good.”
We ate breakfast in silence, then listened to Brother Aurelius as he read from the Rule of Saint Benedict. I couldn’t help but notice how Harley never wandered too far from me. Apparently she felt comfortable by my side.
Which made me uncomfortable. As a teen I somehow had constantly garnered girls’ attention, which had made me nervous. That wasn’t any different now. I hardly ever got in touch with the opposite sex. Thursday evenings, when Matt and I played soccer with a group of teenagers, was pretty much the only exception. And those girls still found men gross.
At eight-thirty we headed back over to the cathedral for Mass. The closer the time came to go on that drive with Harley, the more my habit stuck to my sweating back and chest. Why had I told Father Cruz that it wasn’t a problem to escort her to her home? It was one. A big one.
After Mass, as we stepped into the fresh air, I was sweating more than I did while chopping wood on a hot day. Father Cruz stopped me and Harley on the sun-bathed stone steps.
“Make sure you’re back for Midday Prayer.”
I nodded. Sure hoped it wouldn’t take us that long. Harley had mentioned something about living just outside Glam City, which meant about an hour drive. Ten minutes of packing, then a one-hour drive back.
“And work extra hard in the afternoon to make up for what you missed this morning. The grass won’t cut itself.” He winked, then ambled off.
“Do you mind driving? I’m . . . exhausted.” Harley shielded her eyes from the sun as she looked up at me. “Wait, can you even drive?”
“I’m a monk, not a monkey.”
That elicited a chuckle from her. She dug in her jeans and held up the key fob of her VW.
“We’ll take the pickup.” I pointed at the monastery’s 1996 Ford F-150 parked in the gravel lot. My driver’s license and everything I needed was in there.
“Okay. I just need to grab something from my car.”
Gravel crunched under our shoes when we walked to it in silence. The view from up here was probably the most beautiful on the island. Rugged, lush mountains rose behind the monastery and cathedral, jungle surrounding us and stretching all the way down to civilization and the ocean. Glam City wasn’t for me, but the way its skyscrapers glittered in the dark at night was nothing short of breathtaking.
A moment later, Harley and I were on the windy road down the mountain. Thank God she sat as far against the door as possible. The cab in itself felt crowded enough as it was.
“Can we turn on the radio?” she asked.
“It’s broken.” We’d never bothered fixing it, and I didn’t mind. Secular media was something I tried to avoid as much as possible. Anything secular, really. As long as I was inside the monastery, it wasn’t an issue. But as soon as I left—which happened a lot because I currently attended seminary at Darkwater Refuge University—there was no way around it. It was a good preparation for when I became a priest. Father Cruz and Father Andrew both left Saint James almost daily.
Not even ten minutes had passed—we were still carving one sharp turn after another—when Harley nodded off, her head resting against the window. The relief that flooded me was ridiculous. There was no reason to be so wound up. She was just a woman who needed help, and my job was to provide it.
For the remainder of the drive, I prayed protection over Harley. Thank God traffic wasn’t too heavy.
Just outside Glam City, I reached over and nudged Harley for the second time today because my voice alone didn’t stir her. “We’re almost here.”
And for the second time, she jerked upright, then deflated. The directions she gave me led us to a lower middle-class neighborhood with several apartment buildings. I parked along the curb and got out to get her door.
“Thanks.” Smiling at me, she stuffed something into the back of her jeans and pulled her cardigan over it. I didn’t even want to know what that was.
She scanned our surroundings like a hawk—much like Wentworth would—when we ascended the outdoor stairs leading to the second floor of the four-story building. Cataloging threats. Her hands trembled when she stopped in front of the second door and unlocked it.
“Ignore the mess.” She entered the short hallway with vinyl floor and beige-painted walls.
I followed her inside, the smell of artificial citrus filling my nostrils. Something else hung in the air I couldn’t identify. It was too subtle. Aftershave, maybe? “Do you want me to close my eyes?”
She chuckled. “If you don’t mind?”
Shoes were piled up carelessly next to a wooden dresser, an open wall closet revealing jackets of all kinds. We passed a tiny bathroom sitting in the dark, then a closed door. Had to be the bedroom, because the hallway ended in a living room right after it. Again, small but cozy, with an orange tweed sofa, a glass coffee table, and a bookshelf stuffed with thrillers. No TV.