Priest (Camren)

CHAPTER 11

After men's group, I stopped by my office to grab a rosary and a small pamphlet containing some basic prayers and walked into the sanctuary, knowing that Camila would probably be there early.

What I didn't know was that she'd be standing directly in front of the altar, staring at the cross, the late-dusk light pouring through the windows and staining her in dark jewel tones, sapphire and crimson and emerald. I didn't know that her shoulders would be shaking ever so slightly, as if she were crying, and I didn't know that all the doors and windows would be closed, trapping the lush, incense-scented air inside.

I stopped, the greeting on my lips stalled by the stillness, by the heavy weight of the quiet.

God was here.

God was here, and He was talking to Camila.

I felt every kiss of air across my skin as I walked closer to her, heard her every exhale, and when I reached her, I saw how goose bumps peppered her arms, how tears ran silently down her cheeks.

There were a thousand things I should say, but I couldn't bring myself to interrupt whatever moment this was. Except that it wasn't truly interrupting, because I felt invited into it, like I was supposed to be part of it, and I did what felt right: I wrapped my arms around her.

She leaned back into me, her eyes still pinned to the cross, and I just held her as we both let the moment wash over us, bathe us in the dying light and the silence. Shadows crept along the floor and pooled around our feet, and the seconds ticked into minutes, and slowly, slowly, we drew incrementally closer, until every inch of her back was pressed against me, until my nose was in her hair and her hands were twined through mine.

The closeness of her and the closeness of the divine all at the same time was euphoria, bliss, and I was almost dizzy with it, feeling both at once, intoxicated by her and intoxicated by my God. And in the face of this numinous encounter, there was no room for guilt, no room for critical self-analysis and recrimination. There was only room to be present, be there, and then she turned in my arms, tilting her face up to mine.

"You feel it too?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Is it always like this for you?"

I shook my head. "Once a week, maybe. Sometimes twice. I know people like my confessor who feel it every moment and people like my bishop who feel it never."

"It's beautiful."

It was full dark now, and there was nothing but different shadows, but even in the shadows, the tear tracks on her face glistened. "You're beautiful," I whispered.

We were talking in hushed voices; the air was still heavy with holiness and presence. And I should have felt wicked for holding Camila like this in the face of God, but our burning bush of a silent room somehow made everything seem more right, like it was the most perfect thing to do, holding her in my arms and staring down at her face.

I slid my fingers under her chin, keeping her face angled to mine, and leaned down just enough so that our noses brushed together. I could kiss her right now. Maybe I should kiss her right now. Maybe it was God's plan all along for us to end up here, alone in this sanctuary, and forced to face the truth, that this was more than friendship, this was more than lust. This was something raw and real and undeniable and it was not going to go away.

She was trembling against me now, her lips parted and waiting, and I allowed myself a narrower margin now, lowering my mouth to a mere fraction of an inch above hers, tightening my arm around her lower back. We were so close that we were sharing breath, literally, our hearts beating in the same dizzy rhythm.