randal

Still, though, there are moments, days, when you remember why you left in the first place, why you claimed over and over that you’d never come back. 

Like all small towns, it’s practically a gossip mill, and rumors travel faster than you’d believe. Not a day goes by when you don’t hear whispering behind you, and most of the time you try not to let it bother you. Sometimes, though, it really gets under your skin.

The weirdest part to you is that they all know you. The people muttering behind you when you’re in line to pay for your groceries carpooled with you to elementary school. The women whispering as you walk to the coffee shop counter lived next door. They could ask you questions, talk to you like normal people, even confront you in the street if they so pleased. But instead they keep to their glares and their whispers, the scandalized glances and knowing looks. 

You always try your hardest not to get upset around Phoebe, who’s still too little to understand that your anger is directed at something abstract, untouchable, rather than at her. Today, though, when you use your lunch break to drop Phoebe off with your parents for an afternoon trip to the zoo, you can’t keep it under control for much longer. 

The neighbors are outside, just sitting on their front porch like they own the street. You pass Phoebe off into your mom’s arms with a kiss on her chubby little cheek, and you’re smiling until the words travel to your ears. 

“Poor girl,” one of the women clucks, and you’re not sure if they’re talking about you or your daughter but it sets your blood to boiling all the same, “doesn’t even know her father.”

Your own father looks to you with sad eyes, something comforting dying on his lips as you turn and get back in your car, slamming the door. Luckily for you, Phoebe didn’t notice, happy to play peek-a-boo while your mom buckles her into the car seat. Your anger hasn’t dissipated by the time you return to the rectory, and you slam the door behind you. 

The wind had helped, and the sound rings out through the building. A flush of embarrassment runs through you, and it only increases tenfold when Jud appears from his own office. 

“I’m sorry, that was rude of me,” you say before you can receive the scolding you’re certain is coming, but the words sound wooden. 

“Something wrong?” Jud asks, and there’s not a hint of anger or disappointment in his voice, and it’s more than you can handle. You shake your head forcefully, even as tears well in your eyes. Before the tears can even fall, Jud crosses the room to reach you, to wrap you in his arms and press you to his chest. 

It’s nothing more than helping someone in need, than doing what needs to be done, but you don’t think you’ve ever been held like this by anyone. It makes you feel safe and loved in a way you haven’t felt for so long. For awhile, it’s been you doing the loving and protecting and caring. You can barely remember what it feels like to be on the receiving end. 

Once your shoulders have stopped heaving, Jud leads you gently to the couch, his arm wrapped protectively around your back. The teartracks still stain your face, and you feel the stain of shame on you, something deeper than the keen embarrassment you’ve often felt around Jud, like he can see your thoughts, your soul.

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?” He asks as you sniffle, his hand on your back moving in soothing circles. You’re so close to him your knees touch.

“It’s not a big deal,” you say even as you swipe angrily at the tears that seem to cling to your lashes, “I think I’m just overtired.”

From the way he looks at you, you know Jud thinks you’re lying. Even so, he doesn’t push you, just sits next to you in the silence, continuing to rub his hand up and down your back. You want to slump into him, to have him hold you again, but instead you gather yourself and take a breath.

“I’d thought we’d progressed enough as a society not to whisper about people.” Your voice is quiet, and you’re worried your shame is coming through in the cracks. You’re not ashamed of who you are or what everyone else might think you’ve done, but you’re ashamed that you’ve let them get to you so severely. 

“I don’t think people ever know when to mind their own business,” Jud sounds like he understands, even though he couldn’t possibly. He might sympathize with you, but he’ll never know the way your chest aches when you look at Phoebe, your perfect girl. She’s always happy, always giggling or babbling at you like you’ll understand, and she looks at you like you’re all that matters. You’re terrified that one day it’ll stop, that she’ll hate you for the choices you made, for the choices you keep making. 

“And I do know who her dad is, by the way.” You feel the need to explain, to tell your story before someone can tell it for you.

“It wouldn’t matter if you didn’t.” Jud has a way of always sounding so earnest, so honest, that gives you no choice but to believe him. 

“He’s a fucking asshat, we’re better off without him.” The comment makes Jud smile, like a schoolboy who can’t help but grin at cursewords. A surprised little laugh comes from your own mouth, and while a flood of embarrassment would typically follow for cursing in front of a priest, you feel nothing but a warmth in your chest. 

Over the next few days, you realize that the comments have stopped, or at least the ones muttered while you’re in earshot. You’re not sure how, but you’re certain that Jud had something to do with it. It’s strange to you, how quickly he’s become someone you don’t think you could manage without. You’ve gone so long without anyone in your corner, carrying the burden for everyone else without having someone to help you along, and now that you do, you’re a little unused to the feeling. 

You tell yourself that’s why you hesitate so long to call him, even though you know he’ll pick up. You don’t want to bother him, especially not with something you can handle yourself, but when the clock ticks closer and closer to when you should be arriving at the rectory, you finally dial his number and hope it goes to voicemail.

“Hey.” Even though his voice is tinny coming through the speakers, it’s such a relief to hear his gentle voice that you almost want to cry.

“Um, I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be a little late this morning.” You give the nurse an apologetic smile for making a phone call with her in the room, but she just shrugs and smiles back, giving you a pat on the arm as she leaves you alone with Phoebe and the paperwork for her prescription. 

“Everything okay?” Jud must be in his office, you can hear papers shifting around.

“Yeah, it’s alright now,” you press a kiss to Phoebe’s head, “I had to take Pheebs to the doctor last night, she wouldn’t stop crying and she had a fever. She’s got an ear infection, but they gave us antibiotics so she’ll feel better in a few hours, they said.”

“You could’ve called me,” you hear a chair scraping against the floor, hurried footsteps follow.

“I didn’t want to be a bother.” The footsteps stop. You hear Jud sigh through the phone and you can practically picture his expression, the mixture of worry and exasperation and something soft that passes over his features so often in your presence. 

“You’re never a bother, not to me.” Jud clears his throat, shaking off whatever emotion had been coloring his voice, “Are you sure you still wanna come in today?”

“Of course. I’ll be there in like thirty minutes.”

You get there sooner, Phoebe exhausted and finally asleep in your arms. Just like that first day, Jud meets you outside. You pass him your daughter without a second thought, and grab your bags from the backseat. When you hold your arms out again, he just shakes his head, and Jud carries Phoebe inside, with you trailing behind. 

Even though he looks like he doesn’t want to, like he’d be content to hold Phoebe all day long, he sets her down in her pack-n-play next to your desk. That was a new addition, something Jud claimed was covered by the diocese somehow but you weren’t convinced. Regardless, you were grateful for it.

Phoebe sleeps most of the morning, with Jud poking his head into the room every once in a while to check on the two of you. When he comes by and she’s awake, he can’t help but grin, and even though your daughter is more grumpy than you’ve seen her in a while, she smiles back as best she can. 

“You wanna help me with something?” You ask as you reach for the bag by your feet, resting a hand on Phoebe to keep her steady.

“‘Course, anything,” Jud replies, already crossing the room to reach you.

“Hold her still so I can give her the meds?” You sit back up with the syringe full of pink liquid. “She’s gonna scream her face off otherwise, probably knock this to the floor.”

Jud lifts her softly, shushing her gently as she gristles as the movement from her comfortable position in your lap. He holds her tightly, and Phoebe relaxes in his arms, leaning back against his chest like there’s nowhere she’d rather be. She’s content enough for you to give her the antibiotics, even though she frowns like she’s been tricked. 

That becomes your routine whenever Phoebe needs to take your medicine, and even after the ear infection is gone, Jud has taken to holding her whenever you need a break. He says that she gives excellent feedback on selecting Scriptures or writing homilies, and you just laugh. Phoebe clearly loves him, or at least the doting attention he gives her, because she’s always happy to be with him. There have been times where you considered calling him when she won’t fall asleep, certain he’d be able to get her to sleep in seconds, but you’ve always fought the urge, certain that it would be crossing some unseen line, bring you to a point of no return. 

“You’re right Pheebs, I think the meaning is a little abstract,” Jud mutters, holding your daughter steady on his lap with one hand and a pen in the other. 

“She giving Mass input again?” You ask from the doorway, grinning when Jud jumps, Phoebe giggling beside him. He’s unusually jumpy, you’ve noticed, a little more skittish than you’d expect someone of his size, his stature to be. You’ve wondered about the reason for it, but you keep your questions to yourself. 

“Yeah, she’s got an excellent grasp of Scripture,” he jokes, and you wander closer to his desk. 

“It’s also time for her snack,” you say as you shake the container of baby puffs in your hand. Phoebe’s eyes light up at the sound of her favorite food, her arms stretching over her head for you to pick her up. Jud laughs softly.

“Traitor.” Despite the teasing name, his voice is impossibly soft, and he leans over to press a kiss to the crown of her head. Phoebe preens under the affection, even though she quickly forgets and whines for her snack again. You hoist her into your arms, kissing her on the cheek as she grabs for the container you’d set on the desk. 

“I’m the one that gives her snacks,” you shrug as Phoebe starts pulling puffs out of the container by the fistful. 

“You’re more than that.” The conversation had been light and playful, but his tone shifts towards sincere. The words are so genuine they steal the breath from your lungs, and where you’d usually argue against that claim, you just nod. That seems enough for Jud, who smiles up at you before returning back to what he’d been writing.

Over the next few days, it feels like your head is constantly spinning. You feel so out of sorts, so off balance, and it seems like there’s nothing you can do. Still, you keep showing up to work, keep doing the best you can for Phoebe, and while it might not show on the outside, you feel like a complete wreck. There are so many things you can’t seem to wrap your head around, so many little moments and looks that you want to analyze for hours and hours, but doing so won’t do you any good. It’ll only make things worse, to replay those gentle touches and soft words over and over again, but you can’t seem to help yourself

Maybe it’s your own fault, for letting Jud become so important to you. You don’t think you’ve ever had such a genuine connection with anyone, and you definitely haven’t in recent years. It should make you feel good, to have someone you know you can rely on for anything, but it tears you apart. You’re greedy, and you want more, want what you can’t have. You think it might be slowly killing you. 

“No Phoebe today?” Jud asks sometime after lunch. It had been an unusually hectic day, and while you normally find yourself craving Phoebe’s nearness whenever she’s gone, today you were lucky that she was safe and occupied somewhere else. 

“My mom took her to the library, there was some sort of playgroup,” you explain and Jud nods. He lingers for a second, like he has something else to say, but then he just turns and leaves. You return to your work, trying to finish as much as possible before the weekend comes. 

There had been an influx of donations you needed to keep organized, and a few requests for different church groups to be formed or to have funds reallocated and moved around. You didn’t have any power to do that, but just keeping everything organized was difficult enough. By the time you finish, Jud had left hours ago, going to join the Friday night men’s group that meets at the church. 

After making a note for yourself for Monday and throwing your bag over your shoulder, you turn to leave. Something catches your eye, though, a shape thrown over the back of the couch. Your curiosity gets the better of you, and you walk over to inspect it. It’s one of Jud’s black shirts, and when you move the fabric through your hands, you realize one of the buttons is close to falling off and there’s a tear in one of the sleeves.

Based on the needle and thread placed on the table next to the couch, Jud had been trying to fix it when he needed to leave. You know he’s adept enough at sewing, you’ve seen him sew shirts before, but everything had been so crazy lately. A quick glance at the time, and you find yourself sitting down on the couch, your bag abandoned to the floor and the shirt in your lap. 

It doesn’t take long, but you make sure your stitches are tight and neat. A messy job would defeat the whole purpose, so you take care with every pass of the needle. When you’re done, you inspect your work, and a faint sense of pride runs through you. Carefully, you fold the shirt and place it back where you’d found it, and finally leave for the night. 

You don’t expect to see Jud in any capacity until Sunday, and you’re certain you won’t be able to actually talk to him until you come into work on Monday morning, but when there’s a knock on your front door Saturday night, a part of you is unsurprised to see Jud on the doorstep. It’s just you, your parents having gone out for dinner and Phoebe taking a nap. Jud doesn’t seem to know what to do. 

In all the time you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him quite like this. He looks like he hasn’t slept at all, like he’s survived some sort of disaster. Even the way he stands, the way he carries himself, seems different somehow. Still, you don’t hesitate before inviting him inside. 

“You fixed the shirt,” Jud says instead of accepting your invitation, like it’s the only thing he’s capable of thinking about. It’s not a question, either, as if he’s run the scenario over and over in his head and he knows it’s the truth. 

“Yeah, you seemed busy yesterday, it didn’t take long.” The sureness you’d felt the night before about your actions had all but disappeared, leaving only an odd sense of guilt growing in your chest. You feel like you’ve done something wrong, even though deep down you know you haven’t. Once the feeling takes root, you can’t shake it. 

“You fixed it,” he repeats again, like he just can’t believe it. There’s no hint of anger in his voice, only something mystified and awestruck, a witness to a miracle. 

“Come inside,” you insist, thankful when Jud finally listens. He doesn’t look as out of place as he once did, and you’re quick to usher him to the couch, completely unsure of how this is going to proceed, of what he came here for. For a moment, Jud doesn’t seem sure either. 

He rests his hand on your knee like he needs a lifeline, something to keep him moored. You could brush the touch off, if you wanted to, or explain it away, but instead you cover his hand with your own. In this moment, you think you’d do whatever he asked of you. Silently beside you, Jud thinks the same thing about you.

Even when the touch turns to a grip, there’s still something gentle about it. It’s the way you’d hold on to something you don’t want to lose, something you care about. Your head’s already been spinning the last few days with thoughts of him, and this certainly isn’t helping. If you knew what was good for you, you’d ask him what he’s doing or ask him to leave. Instead, you shift the way you’re sitting so you’re facing him completely. 

Either Jud doesn’t notice the shift or he’s too wrapped up in his own thoughts because his gaze stays firmly on the coffee table, as if he’s afraid to look at you. You, though, have no such reservations, and you’re grateful for the chance to look at him without the weight of his gaze staring back. 

With the way his head is tilted, you get a perfect view of the top half of the tattoo on his neck, always just visible beneath his collar. You drink in the sight of him, the slope of his nose and the curve of his jaw, in a way that is entirely inappropriate when looking at a priest. You take in the tension of his shoulders, the way he keeps swallowing thickly, the look in his eye just visible from where you’re seated. 

He doesn’t look remorseful, or scared, or upset. It’s not fear but hesitation, from what you’re not sure, but you’d like to think you know him well enough by now to be certain. This is the look of a man who’s considering making a choice he can’t take back. 

“Jud,” you say softly, trying not to startle him, trying not to break the silence that has encased the two of you. He turns towards you, brows drawn down and eyes clouded with something you can’t name. In all the time you’ve known him, you think this is the only time you’ve seen him look uncertain of anything. 

You could say you don’t know what you’re doing, that your body is moving of its own accord, but you’re entirely in control when you lift a hand to settle on the side of his face, thumb under his cheekbone and fingers curled around his jaw. You know exactly what you’re doing when you lean forward, and so does he. 

One might expect it to be rushed, a hurried colliding of teeth and tongue, fingers grabbing and holding and bruising, something rough, the result of a snapping of tension, of restraints. But this is soft, and gentle, and tortuously slow. Your touch on him is sure but featherlight, and his own hands move from your knee to your waist, settling beneath your ribs. 

The uncertainty is gone, replaced by something deeper and lighter than desire. Your other hand comes to rest on his shoulder, needing the sturdiness to keep you planted. Without touching him, you’d be certain this was all a dream, a culmination of the thoughts that haven’t left your head for months. 

The way Jud kisses you, you’re certain you’ve never really been kissed before in your entire life. It should feel wrong, you should feel some sense of guilt or shame, but you feel lighter than you have in years. Somehow, it feels like you were always meant to end up here.