Confession (4)

Father Julian’s POV

I bolted out of the confession booth and didn’t see Candy again. It was hard, but I had fixed my rosary. I went to confession, and though I withheld the specific details of my sins, I confessed them. I said my prayers more often than I ever had before. I also avoided the booth; another priest had taken my place. It was a struggle to resist the temptation to check if Candy had come back, or to keep from stopping at Sin’s Delight when I drove past.

I was getting better, or so I hoped, until that fateful morning at Mass.

I stood behind the pulpit and looked out at the familiar faces. Some looked pious, a few bored, many expectant. And then I saw her. She was tucked into the back pew, wearing a high-necked dress. Her eyes were boring into mine.

The sermon I had prepared vanished.

"Temptation is not a silent whisper," I began, my voice lower than usual. "It is a loud noise in a quiet room." I stared into space for a moment, my thoughts wandering. "It is the memory of a touch that makes the skin on your arms crawl even in the presence of the Holy Spirit. It is the scent of vanilla in a room full of incense."

I gripped the edges of the wooden lectern until my knuckles turned white. The congregation was so silent you could hear a pin drop.

"We speak of the flesh as a vessel, but sometimes, the vessel is a furnace," I said, my gaze fixed solely on the back of the room. "We pray for deliverance, but do we truly want it? Or do we secretly crave the burn? Do we find God in the light, or do we find Him when we are gasping for air in the dark, our bodies betrayed by a desire so sharp it feels like a blade?"

The congregation shifted uneasily.

“As Christians, we must acknowledge the sweetness of the fall." I shook my head. “No, we cannot pretend it doesn’t exist; otherwise, fewer people would fall. Temptation is alluring. You are caught in the space between duty and desire.”

The older parishioners exchanged unsettled glances. The Deacon cleared his throat, a warning, but I was gone. I was preaching to the only person who understood. Candy leaned forward, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across her face. She was watching me unravel in front of God and everyone else, and she seemed to be enjoying it.

"For some," I whispered, the microphone catching the hitch in my voice, "the only way to know mercy is to be completely consumed by the sin. To feel the fire until there is nothing left but total surrender and the name of the Lord on your lips."

I abruptly closed the book. My face was flushed, my heart hammering. I could feel the throb in my lap, the familiar, shameful bulge against the silk of my robes. As the choir began the hymn, she didn't join in. She simply stood, adjusted the strap of her bag, and winked at me before slipping out the side door. She had heard my confession, and she knew I was far from cured.

I was back in the confession booth the next Friday. Days of fasting and discipline went down the drain the moment she stepped inside. I was done for. I knew it when she sat down and let out that soft, familiar sigh.

“Hello, Daddy. Candy has missed you so much…”

There was nothing innocent in the way she said it. Behind the screen, I closed my eyes and could almost see her face, the flush on her cheeks, the darkness in her gaze.

“How did you know it was me?” I asked. My voice was a wreck.

She chuckled lightly. “I know a lot of things, Father Julian.”

The sound of my name, my actual name, sent a violent shiver through me. It felt hotter than "Daddy" ever had. I pictured her naked, sprawled across a bed, gasping that name, and the sheer anticipation made me shudder.

“That was quite the show at Mass,” she whispered, leaning closer to the wood. “You sounded like you were talking about us.”

“There is no ‘us,’ Candy,” I rasped, the lie flowing freely. “We are here for your soul. You need to repent. You need to look toward God for the strength to leave that life behind.”

“Why would I want to be saved by a God who makes you suffer like this?” she countered. I heard her shift, her clothes rustling. “You’re so hungry, Father Julian. I can hear it in your breath. I can hear it when you go silent. You try to steer me toward heaven, but you’re the one stuck in hell.”

“I am trying to help you,” I insisted, my fingers fumbling for my rosary.

“The men who touch me don’t have to hide who they are,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “They don’t whip themselves in the dark because they liked a kiss. Who is really in ruin here?”

My throat bobbed. “How did you know?”

“I know a lot of things,” she answered.

Then, a stifled sob came from her side of the divider. It sounded so small, so broken. It tugged at me; I couldn't stay still. I stood up, pushed through the heavy velvet curtain, and stepped into her side of the booth, breaking the final rule of confession.

The small space was filled with the scent of her vanilla perfume. Candy was hunched over, her head in her hands.

“Candy, look at me,” I whispered.

She looked up, her eyes shimmering with tears. I reached out, intending to offer a priest’s comfort. I took her hand. I meant to hold it for a second, to be the shepherd, but the contact was a lightning strike. My thumb traced the back of her hand, and the air in the booth changed.

She didn't hesitate. She lunged forward, her mouth crashing against mine. I didn't pull away. I met her halfway, my mouth opening to hers in a starving claim. As our tongues tangled, the last of my resolve snapped. The rosary I had been clutching slipped from my numb fingers, clattering to the floor.

I groaned into her mouth, my hands losing their battle as they gripped her waist, hauling her up until I could feel every curve against me. She tasted like mint and wine and everything I wasn't allowed to have. I kissed her back with a ferocity that terrified me, my hands wandering lower, pulling her hips into the hard, aching proof of my desire. For that moment, I wasn't a priest. I was just a man dying of thirst.