God's gift

If this is goodbye...

You're going to hate me. So be it.

1st of may.

It was after mass that Tristan's world shifted irremediably. He had not expected Frances to show up during the office, yet he had spotted her face in the third rank of the faithful. She wasn't looking at him when his eyes lingered, so he kept going, celebrating Joseph the worker's day.

He had missed her, much more than he wanted to admit, and wasn't looking forward to the long months of summer where she would leave before her third and final year. Then ... she would be gone for good. Little did he know that what he feared was about to happen much sooner. And he wasn't ready. Her presence, her conversation, her questions had become a usual occurrence, and whenever he read a text, or wrote a sermon, she was never far from his mind. What would she say about this? What questions would it raise? Would she agree, disagree, or ignore this element altogether? What about this choice of carol, about the harmony?

Frances brightened each and every one of his thoughts, and he stole glances to her little bench every single day, eagerly awaiting for her return. So when mass was concluded and people trailed out, Father Tristan found himself impatient to find her. Yet, this was 1st of may, and many families lingered, wanting to converse with him. A tradition of the years past that he used to enjoy greatly. Father Tristan always wanted to know what happened in his parish, how people fared and who had come and gone, who had married and had children. Babies were baptised in this church, grew into lads and lasses, communiated here, married and were buried under his direction. The great circle of life, viewed from a very unique point of view. For he was but an outsider in those lives, the oil that helped people's gear to run smoothly. Today, though ... he was torn between sharing news and retreating into his beloved church.

At last, no one seemed to call for his attention and he covered the distance to Marie's bench in less time than it took to sneeze. Frances sat, unmoving, her face pale. Dread seized his heart. Had anything happened to her? To her family? Was she sick? Had she fought again with her ex-boyfriend? Got back with him? When, at last, she registered his presence and turned her head to face him... Tristan gasped. Her eyes were so raw, pain written so plainly. Agony. The priest lost his countenance, sitting by her side with a sharp inhale, his hand lifting to unconsciously trace her cheekbone. His fingers tingled in warning.

This was wrong, so very wrong, but any second now, he felt she would be torn from his side. His heart lurched, the sense of foreboding even stronger.

— "Frances...", he whispered.

— "I ... I came to say goodbye," she murmured, her hand coming to rest upon his.

The coldness of her skin worried him and he kicked himself to sever the contact between them. Mouth agape, hand falling into his lap, Tristan panicked. The priest was so far gone then, the man resurfacing with all its imperfections, its passion and anger swirling like demons.

— "Why? Are you leaving, are you sick?"

— "No. But I can't ... come anymore."

Tristan swallowed thickly, wondering what might have happened for her to repudiate their friendship. It hurt her so badly, her eyes so very sad that he felt like weeping.

— "Tell me why you think so, Frances. There will be no judgement from me."

She shook her head vehemently, like a small child that refused to cry. What did she keep from him? What was so horrible, so despicable that she wouldn't dare telling him?

— "Do you not trust me?" he pleaded.

Her eyes lifted to find his, shock written plainly at the implication of his words.