Abigail (1)

Abigail (1)
~ Abigail ~

I hate the way the catechist looks at me.

“This is the Lord’s table. Catholics who are properly disposed and in a state of grace may come forward to receive Holy Communion…”

His gaze crawls over my skin, lingering where it shouldn’t, even as the sacred announcement spills from his lips.

“Those who are not Catholic, or Catholics who are not prepared to receive,” he continues, “are invited to remain seated, or come forward for a blessing with their arms crossed over their chest.”

He finally tears his eyes away and returns to his seat beside the altar railing.

I let out a slow, quiet breath.

Beside me, Calista sits perfectly still, her face a picture of devotion. But hidden inside her church bulletin is a torn page of erotic fiction.

Calista and I have both served at Saint Peter’s since we were old enough to volunteer, though Father Romanus rarely lets us serve up front. He prefers the altar boys.

Around us, the pews begin to clear as the congregation rises. Almost everyone here is Catholic. Almost everyone claims to be in a state of grace—including Calista, who’s just waiting for her turn to step into line.

A few rows ahead stands Daniel, her secret boyfriend.

What Calista doesn't know is that I've been seeing him behind her back.

What Daniel doesn’t know is what Calista and I really are to each other.

To him, we're just inseparable best friends who sit together every Sunday because our hyper-religious mothers forbid us from hanging out anywhere else.

Our mothers are convinced that spending time together outside the church will lead us astray.

They have no idea how wrong they are.

Right now, though, boys aren't my primary concern. The catechist is.

He's taking a very specific interest in me, and I recognize the pattern.

He isn't the first man at Saint Peter's to look at me that way.

I've seen it three times before. Every time, it started during Mass.

The choir breaks the silence with a boring chorus everyone knows. The congregation joins in, their voices echoing off the tall ceilings. Calista sings along seamlessly, her eyes flicking down to read another line of her hidden story.

Row by row, the pews empty. People shuffle toward the altar, receive Communion, and return to their seats with solemn faces.

It's the routine. It's what the catechist drilled into us during Sunday school.

Finally, it’s our turn.

Calista neatly folds her bulletin and slips out of the pew first. I follow right behind her, keeping my chin down and my eyes glued to the floor.

When we reach the altar rail, we kneel together and make the sign of the cross. As Father Romanus approaches, Calista's face shifts effortlessly into an expression of profound grief. Tears shimmer in the corners of her eyes.

Fake tears.

I look toward the altar, biting back a laugh.

Father Romanus reaches us, placing the host on our tongues. We make the sign of the cross again, rise, and walk back to our pew, chewing slowly.

Calista keeps her head bowed in prayer for several seconds, looking every bit as holy as she did before, then sits back and unfolds her bulletin again.

I look straight ahead toward the sanctuary. The catechist is watching us. When our eyes meet, he gives me a small, deliberate nod before turning away.

Confirmation received.

He’s hooked.

. . . .

Mass ends quickly as usual.

Outside, the courtyard fills with chatter. Calista heads straight toward her mother, who's currently locked in conversation with the wealthy widow of Elder Jonathan, one of the men who once lusted after me.

Across the yard, Daniel catches my eye. I flash him a quick smile. He winks back before turning to leave with his father.

A sudden smack against my arm snaps me out of my thoughts. I spin around to find Calista’s younger brother grinning up at me.

“Hey, Jason,” I say.

He laughs, shoves a folded scrap of paper into my hand, and darts away into the crowd.

I unfold the slip just enough to see the handwriting.

I recognize it instantly from my confirmation certificate.

The catechist.

I fold the note back up, drop it into my handbag, and zip it shut.

A moment later, Calista slips up beside me, her expression instantly clouding over. Every time she talks to her mother, her mood sours.

But I never judge her for it. My mother is just as annoying.

“She’s coming home late again,” Calista mutters, handing me the torn page from her bulletin. “Here. That was the last chapter.”

I slide the paper into my bag beside the note.

“Where’s Jason? I thought he was with you,” she says, scanning the crowd.

Right on cue, Jason runs back toward us, completely out of breath. Calista grabs him by the shoulder, brushing dirt off his shirt. “Where were you?”

“Playing with Uncle Micah,” he replies innocently.

My throat tightens at the name.

I remember the basement. The locked door. The way Micah ignored every word I said.

I haven't forgotten it. I never will.

“What are you doing around Uncle Micah?” Calista’s voice turns sharp, her disgust for the man clear. “Stay away from him, Jason. Don't ever play with him again.”

Jason nods quickly.

“Sick bastard,” I mutter under my breath, watching Micah mingle near the church doors.

We leave the church grounds and join the stream of people walking down the main road. I live farther out than Calista, but we share the same path for the first few miles.

“So,” Calista asks, leaning in closer as the crowd thins out, “do you have another book I can borrow? I finished that last one.”

“You mean the one about the dick sucker?” I laugh.

She grins. “Yes! But do you actually believe a man can stay inside a woman that long? Can they really make your legs shake like that?”

I scoff softly.

I don't like talking about my experiences with men. Most of them care more about their own pleasure anyway.

“You’re asking me about men?” I raise an eyebrow. “Have you ever had a thing with men?”

She shakes her head, looking away.

I roll my eyes. She tells me everything about her frustration with Daniel, but I've always suspected there’s more going on behind closed doors.

The way Father Romanus looks at her isn't just lust—it's ownership. I have a gut feeling something is already going on between them, but I keep that observation to myself.

“Which man in town are you even thinking about?” I lower my voice. “Or do you already have someone in mind?”

She laughs, waving a hand off. “No, I don’t. And I'm not thinking about any man.”

We reach the picket fence around her house.

Jason trots ahead, leaving the two of us at the entrance. The moment he’s out of earshot, the last layer of Calista’s church-girl persona melts away.

“Be honest,” she says, leaning against the gate post. “When was the last time your legs actually shook in your bedroom?”

“The day I used that cucumber you sold me,” I shoot back without missing a beat.

She makes a face, and I wipe a hand over my eyes before we both break into quiet laughter.

“Same here,” Calista admits, grinning. “The last time I used one, I was terrified it was going to snap inside me because I couldn't stop shaking.”

“In your bedroom?” I fold my arms, waiting for the punchline.

“No,” she says, shaking her head with a devious smirk. “In the garden.”

I burst out laughing, slapping her on the shoulder.

“You’re a badass,” I tell her, shaking my head.

Calista wipes a tear from her eye, shoving my arm back playfully. “Me? You’re worse. Have you forgotten what you said about Uncle Micah?”

I laugh out loud, pulling my bag tight under my arm as she turns to walk up her driveway.

I wait until she's almost at the front door before turning toward home.

My smile fades.

My fingers tighten around my bag. The catechist's note is still inside.

I haven't opened it, and I don't know why I'm suddenly afraid to.

But I know one thing.

He didn't write it to wish me a blessed Sunday.