A Little Too Far (5 page)

“Safe neighborhood?”

I get up and go to the window, swinging it open and looking down at the passersby in the street below. “It seems fine, but I’ve only been here a few minutes, so . . .”

“You should get the lay of the land . . . find the best route to school and a grocery store for whatever staples you need while it’s still light.”

I lie back on the bed, feeling the cool cotton of the duvet calling to me. “I’m really tired. You know I can’t really sleep on airplanes. I’ve got all day tomorrow, though. Orientation’s not till Thursday.”

“Okay. Well, get some rest then, and we’ll talk more tomorrow.”

“Okay, Dad. Sorry to keep you up.”

“Not a problem. Love you, kiddo.”

“ ’Night.”

The line goes dead, and I drop the phone and rub my eyes.

I don’t realize I’m sleeping until a heavy bass rhythm shakes the bed. I open my eyes to find the midday sun that was beating down on me when I explored the patio gone. It’s past dusk, just the hint of maroon on the horizon. I haul myself off the bed and go to my front window. People stroll my little street in groups and in couples, hand in hand. As I watch, many of them disappear into the door next to mine, and I realize that the single-story building next door that my patio is situated on top of must be a bar or a club or something. Music pours out the open door, and a couple dances in the street just outside.

I bring Julie’s food stash with me to the kitchen and tuck my meager supply into the cupboard. I find the bathroom, a tiny thing off the corner of the sitting room, and pee, then wash up and splash my face. When I come out, I hear laughter in the street. I climb out my patio door and feel the bass rattling the floor under my feet. The summer breeze feels cool now that the beating sun is gone. I move toward the ledge and look over the edge at the gathering crowd in front of the bar below. I should find out if there’s a store nearby.

“Ciao bellezza.”

A skinny boy with curly black hair, probably a little younger than me, is looking up at me. He holds out his arm in my direction and smiles. “Ti amo. Vuoi essere la mia prima amante?”

His friend jabs him in the arm and smiles up at me. “Facci salire, bellezza! Vogliamo provare il tuo letto!”

I have no idea what they’re saying. I shrug and smile down at them. “Sorry.”

“Ah! Americana!” the second boy shouts. “My friend say you beautiful.”

“Oh . . . thanks.”

“You come for . . .” He mimes tipping a bottle to his lips.

I shake my head. “Not tonight.”

He grabs his friend’s arm and drags him closer. “He turn eighteen today. He love you. He want you for his first lover.”

My eyes widen, and all of a sudden I feel the need to check that my door is locked. “Sorry,” I say again, backing away from the ledge, but when I look up at the balcony across the street, there is the oldest, most shriveled woman I’ve ever seen standing there staring at me. The road is so narrow that she’s only about ten feet away, and I can see every pruny detail. Her thin white hair is pulled back in a tight bun, and I swear her wrinkles have wrinkles. She’s so hunched that I bet she could kiss her belly button, which makes her look about three feet tall. Her sharp gaze shifts very deliberately to the boys down below as the English-speaking one calls, “Please, beautiful lady! Take us to your bed!” then back to me, and she tsks. I mean, seriously tsks. She sticks her finger out at me and flicks it up and down three times as some clucking noise comes out of her shriveled lips, and, if it’s even possible, her face creases deeper as she narrows her eyes at me.

I duck back inside and close everything up tight, deciding there’s really nothing I need out there that can’t wait until tomorrow. When I’m satisfied no one is getting in, I strip my clothes off into a heap on the floor and fall into bed. The sheets feel rough against my skin—so Italians aren’t big on fabric softener, apparently. But I know what
is
soft. I get up and dig through my things in the armoire for Trent’s shirt, which I admittedly stole. I slip it on and crawl back into bed, and I’m out before my head hits the pillow.

And, once again, I dream of Trent.

T
HE SUN IS
bright in my window when I wake up, and it’s obvious that early morning is long gone. I roll on my side and grab my phone, looking at the clock. Eleven.

And then I notice I have a text. It’s from a few hours ago. I click it open.

Lying in bed thinking abt you.

I read Trent’s text a hundred times. He’s in bed . . . thinking about me.

I remember fantasizing about him while I touched myself the night before I left. Is he doing
that
kind of thinking? Or the kind where he showered a thousand times before bed and wants to slit his wrists because he still can’t get my stench off him?

I start to type in the question, but my heart squeezes into a knot, and I delete it. I used to be able to say anything to him, no matter how mortifying. Now I can’t even ask a simple question.

I’ve ruined everything.

I’ve never felt guilt like this before, and it’s compounded by the knowledge that, given the chance, I’d do the same thing again. And again. And probably again. But the truth is, although I won’t deny that some of my dreams of Trent last night involved degrees of nudity, none of them were about sex. I dreamed of when we were younger, and he held me when I cried over my dead mother. I dreamed of times we sat blowing dandelion balls in the backyard and talking about things I don’t even remember now, but were the center of our fifteen-year-old universe. I dreamed of our living-room wrestling matches, which I could only win by cheating and squeezing the ticklish spot below his kneecap—his Achilles’ heel that only I knew about. I dreamed of our endless Warcraft quests. And I dreamed of the times we’d just sit together for hours while he played his guitar, and I sketched.

I’ve never had to try to impress Trent or pretend I’m something I’m not. He’s always known all my warts. He knows that I only shave my legs when I absolutely have to, and how much I hate to lose, and that I bite all the skin off the insides of my cheeks when I’m nervous. He knows how insecure I am about anything to do with myself—my art, my looks, my body, my clothes. He knows that I’m the penultimate people pleaser, and he knows all of the really bad decisions I’ve made because of it. Peer pressure and I are old friends—which is why Rick and I did it without protection the night we lost our virginity. He said he’d be careful and pull out. He said it would be okay. He said he’d waited a year for me, and I couldn’t take him that far and not follow through. So I followed through.

I’m sure there are lots of other things Trent knows about me that I don’t even know about myself. I feel like, in a moment of weakness, I traded my only real friend for a few minutes of gratification.

But,
God,
were they gratifying.

Sleeping with Trent is probably the most selfish thing I’ve ever done. No one pressured me. No one pushed me. I wanted it just for me.

I lie back and run a hand down my body, remembering the feel of Trent’s hands doing the same.

Shit.

I have to stop thinking about it. I have to shake the memory of sex with Trent from my head and remember the thing that really matters. I lucked into the most amazing family anyone could ever ask for. I’m not going to risk destroying it because I’m horny for my stepbrother. I have to let go of the lust and the guilt and move on. It sounds good in theory.

Now I just need a plan.

Chapter Five

T
HE CHURCH IS
very old, with sculptures in every corner and crevice. The only light in the room filters through cut-glass windows that stretch to the high ceiling above. Carved beams held up by immense wooden pillars support the ceiling, and most of the walls are ancient, painted frescoes, some of which are starting to crumble. The art history major in me wants to study them for hours, but that’s not why I’m here.

When I see the carved wooden confessionals at the back, I freeze. Do I really want to do this?

Oh, God.

I dip my shaking fingers into the holy water and cross myself as I move to the back pew. The act of contrition seems like a good place to start, so I kneel and fold my hands in front of me, bowing my head and closing my eyes.

“My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart. In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against you whom I should love above all things. I firmly intend, with your help, to do penance, to sin no more, and to avoid whatever leads me to sin. Our Savior Jesus Christ suffered and died for us. In His name, my God, have mercy. Amen.”

I sit back in the pew, chewing the inside of my cheek, and look up at Jesus on the cross above the altar. Will he forgive me for having sex with my stepbrother? My face scrunches as the feeling of Trent on top of me flashes in my memory. But as much as it mortifies me, sitting here in a church and all, my body reacts without my permission, my pulse rising as an electric tingle races through my groin.

I’m going to hell.

I’ve just about convinced myself that no one’s home, and it’s okay to leave, when a door to one of the confessionals opens, and a white-haired woman steps out. She moves to a nearby pew and kneels, crossing herself.

I breathe deep and pull myself to my feet, walking slowly to the open confessional. I hesitate at the door, but then remind myself that this is Italy . . . where they speak Italian. I can confess my worst of sins, and the priest probably won’t understand a word. I step in and close the door, then kneel in front of the thick red curtain separating the saint from the sinner.

“Nel nome del Padre, e del Figlio, e dello Spirito Santo. Amen,” a deep sandpaper voice says from the other side of the curtain.

I cross myself as the priest prays the Sign of the Cross, then bow my head and close my eyes. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been . . . well . . . a whole lot of days since my last confession. Probably a year or more. I accuse myself of the following sins. I . . . used the Lord’s name in vain at least . . . oh, God—”
Shit!
My hands fly to my face. “Like that . . . I just don’t think about it, and it comes out of my mouth. I’ve done it thousands of times. Maybe a million. Twice just since I walked into this church.” I shake my head at myself. “I’m terrible. But that’s not the worst. I’ve stolen from my friends. There was this scarf I got for Sam for her birthday that I decided to keep . . . so I guess it’s not really stealing, but it felt like it, and there were the flip-flops that Katie loaned me that I never returned—I even brought them with me to Italy. And I swore at my stepmother when she wouldn’t let me go out with my boyfriend until I cleaned the bathroom, but I knew he had this big romantic thing planned for our three-year anniversary and I was pretty sure we were going to have sex . . . which I guess I also need to confess . . . I had a lot of sex with my boyfriend before he turned into a douche—pardon my French . . . or English, I guess—but that was almost a year ago . . . when I still had a boyfriend. . . . and, what else . . . I sort of cheated on a history exam last semester because Drake Mulhollan left his book open where I could see it, and during finals I wished my roommate dead one day when she was having sex with her boyfriend all freakin’ day so I couldn’t get into my room to get my books—she didn’t die, by the way . . . I mean, my wish didn’t come true or anything like that . . . but I wished it, which I’m pretty sure is a sin. And then there was the time I lied to Dad about the dent in the car . . . and the baggie he found in my backpack wasn’t really oregano . . . which, oh yeah, there was the pot thing too, but it was just a phase so . . .” I trail off, recognizing the fact that I’m babbling on to avoid the actual reason I’m here. I breathe deep and wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. “And I stole my brother’s T-shirt . . .” I swallow hard, “after we had sex,” I blurt, then I’m running downhill again, words tumbling out of my mouth before I even think them, “and it was truly mind-blowing. It’s all I can think about, and I want to do it again and, oh God—
shit
! See, I just can’t stop myself from saying oh God. But my brother is so . . .” I growl in frustration and grab fistfuls of my hair. “. . . incredible. He’s just fucking incredible—pardon my French. I’ve never felt the things he made me feel, you know . . . and God, I think I might . . .” I yank my hair as I shake my head hard. “I don’t know. It was just sex, right? I mean . . . as much as he made me feel, it was just . . .” I bury my face in my hands. “He’s my brother. Why can’t I stop wanting him?”

“That is a question you will have to answer for yourself,” the voice says from the other side of the curtain.

“
Oh God!”

“That would now be a million and seven, by my count. I hope you brought your rosary to Italy as well as your friend’s flip-flops.”

“You speak English!”

“I do, child. Is there more you are in need of confessing?”

“Hell, no!”

“Hmm . . . Well, then. Let us pray. O God, whose only begotten Son, by His life, death, and resurrection, has purchased for us the rewards of eternal life, grant, we beseech Thee, that meditating upon these mysteries of the Most Holy Rosary of the Blessed Virgin Mary, we may imitate what they contain and obtain what they promise, through the same Christ Our Lord.”

I hang my head and mumble along with the Final Prayer until he adds, “We are mere mortals created in your divine image, Lord. Please help your sheep to find the path to salvation and bless them with your mercy and grace for all the days of their lives. Amen.

“Do you come to the Lord with free mind and heart, ready to accept Jesus’ guidance and absolutions of these sins?” he asks me.

“Um . . . yeah. I mean . . .” I add as my mind clears and I remember the drill, “. . . I am sorry for my sins and ask Jesus to forgive them as well as any I have forgotten to confess.”

“Very well. You will be more mindful of your thoughts in regards to taking the Lord’s name in vain?”

“Yes, Father.”

“And you will respect your parents?”

“Yes, Father.”

“And in the matter of your incestual relationship—”

“No!” My stomach lurches at the word “incestual.” “Oh, God! He’s not my
brother
brother!”

“Pardon?”

“He’s my
step
brother.”

He clears his throat. “Well . . . I’m assuming you’re not bound in the sanctity of marriage?”

I throw up my hands. “Did you not hear a thing I said? He’s my
brother.
”

“I’m not sensing contrition.”

I’d almost swear I hear amusement in his voice, and I pinch myself to be sure I’m not trapped in some warped self-flagellation dream triggered by my vast and immeasurable mind-blowing-sex-with-my-brother guilt.

I breathe deep and hang my head. “I just can’t believe it happened.”

“It sounds as though you need more than forgiveness for your sins of the flesh. You need to find a way to redirect your lustful energies.”

“Yes, Father.”

“I might have a suggestion. For your penance, you’ll pray the Hail Mary fifteen times, then see the Reverend Moretti in the rectory across the street.”

“What for?”

“He will have a project that will keep your mind occupied and your heart full.”

“In other words, he’ll keep me out of trouble.”

“Idle hands are—”

“—the devil’s workshop,” I groan with a roll of my eyes at Dad’s favorite saying. “I know.”

“I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

I cross myself as he says it.

“Go in peace.”

“Thanks be to God,” I respond automatically as I stand.

“Just knock on the door across the street,” he says as I open the confessional door. “He’ll be there.”

I rocket out of the confessional, and because I’m looking back at the curtain and not watching where I’m going, I don’t see the thing in front of me until I slam into it. All the air leaves my lungs in a whoosh, and it takes me a second to get my breath back. The thing is a person or a horse. I know this because it’s warm, it moves, and it’s bigger than me. That’s all I know for sure until I turn around and see him.

“Oh! I’m sorry, Father,” I say with a bow of my head when I see the person I’ve stumbled into is wearing a black button-down cleric’s shirt and a white collar. He’s taller than Trent, so something over six feet, and though he’s slender, I can tell he’s no stranger to the gym. He’s cut and solid—which I know because he barely budged when I ran into him, and yet he left me breathless. He’s got a hint of dark stubble on his cheeks and chin, where there’s a dimple, and I’d guess he’s older than me, but not by a lot. Maybe midtwenties. His wavy black hair is combed off his face, and, with his high cheekbones and straight, narrow nose, he looks like the half-naked guy in the Abercrombie jeans ads in my
Elle
magazines. Except he’s not half-naked. He’s in a priest’s collar.

And I’m staring at him.

With his dark eyes and olive skin, I’m expecting Italian to pour out of his mouth when he opens it, so when his glance flicks to the open confessional door then back to me, and he lifts an eyebrow, and says, “Greater sins have been perpetrated, I’m quite sure,” in a mild Italian accent, my knees go a little weak.

“Speaking of which”—I tip my head at the pews behind him—“I have a few Hail Marys, so . . .”

He steps aside, and one corner of his mouth curves up. “Then I’ll let you get to work.”

I brush past him and kneel in the pew, but my eyes have a will of their own. As I pull out my rosary and recite my first round of Hail Marys, they follow him to the altar, where he organizes things on the table for the upcoming Mass.

“Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” I close my eyes and mutter it out loud to bring my focus back to why I’m here.

When I’ve completed all fifteen Hail Marys and lift my head, the altar is empty, and I’m alone in the church. I stand, then genuflect at the end of the pew before scampering out through the vestibule into the bright, summer day. Across the street is a two-story beige stucco building that looks nothing like Father Green’s rectory at home. There are no markings, so I’m not even sure it’s the right place. I cross the street and hesitate for a second before knocking on the big wooden door, figuring I’ve got nothing to lose. If no one answers, I gave it the old college try, so I’m pretty sure that means I’m still absolved.

But when the door swings open a minute later, I’m struck speechless. It’s the priest who knocked the wind out of me—and just looking at him does it again.

“Can I help you?” he asks with the hint of a smile.

“Um . . . Father . . .” I don’t even know his name. “The priest taking confession at the church sent me over here. He said to ask for the Reverend Moretti.”

“You’ve found him.”

“You?” I feel my eyes widen.

He steps aside and gestures that I should come in with a sweep of his slender hand. “This surprises you?”

I step past him into a small entryway. “It’s just . . . aren’t you a priest?”

“I’m not a priest . . . yet.” He turns and leads me into a sitting room off the entry. It’s small and dimly lit, with a gold, velvet-lined chair and a love seat surrounded by bookcases full of books that look ancient. He picks an open hardcover up off the love seat and sets it on a side table. “Sit.”

I do. “But you dress like a priest.”

He lowers himself smoothly into the chair across from me. “I’m a transitional deacon. There is a period of reflection between the time a priest finishes seminary and he can be ordained. I’ll be ordained in eight months, at Easter observance. Then you can call me Father.”

“So you could still change your mind?”

He shakes his head. “No. I’ve been called by the bishop and taken my vow of celibacy.” He smiles, and something mischievous flashes in his eyes. “It’s all over but the crying.”

“Oh. So, Father . . . what’s-his-name . . .” I say, waving my hand toward the small window at the church across the street.

“Reynolds . . .” he finishes for me, leaning toward me with his elbows on his knees.

“Reynolds? That sounds American.”

“It is. This parish is part of the Pontifical North American College. We’re all American or Canadian.”

Great. I managed to stumble into the only English-speaking church out of about a thousand within walking distance of my apartment. “But
you’re
not American.” I know this because he’s got that delicious accent that, when he says certain words, sends a little shiver running over my skin. And he’s dark, black hair and charcoal eyes set in flawless olive skin.

He raises his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, your accent. And you look . . . well . . . Italian,” I say with a flip of my hand at the window, in case he forgot where we are.

“Never judge a book by its cover,” he says, picking up the book that was open on the love seat. He flips it for me to see. On the cover is an artist’s rendering of a black-haired boy in black-rimmed glasses with a giant mouse’s head that he’s wearing like a pointy hat. Curled up on the giant chessboard that the boy’s folded arms rest on is another giant mouse, which still seems to have its head. There is an assortment of chess pieces on the board, and above it all is the title:
Harry Potter el la Pietra Filosofale.

My face scrunches in confusion. “That’s a really screwed-up cover.”