Priest: A Love Story

The dance studio was in Queens, in a colorful but rundown neighborhood, the kind of neighborhood that seemed like it was on the cusp of gentrification, but no developers had moved in yet, only scores of artists and hipsters.

The Little Flower Studio, from what I could tell from the internet search on my phone on the subway there, was a non-profit studio dedicated to giving free dance lessons to the youth in the community, and seemed particularly aimed at young women. There was nothing about Poppy on its website, but the studio had opened only two months after she’d left Weston, and the entire project was funded by her family’s foundation.

It was a tall brick building, three stories, and the front seemed very recently renovated, with tall windows looking into the main dance studio, a view of blond wood and gleaming mirrors.

Unfortunately, since it was the middle of the day, there didn’t seem to be anybody at the studio itself. The lights were off and the door was locked, and no one answered the bell when I rang it. I tried the studio’s phone number too, and then watched the phone on the front desk light up again and again. No one was here to answer it.

I could hang around until someone came back—someone who I hoped desperately would be Poppy—or I could go home, try again some other day. It was bakingly hot, the kind of hot where I worried my shoes might melt if I stood on the sidewalk too long, and there was no shade outside the studio. Was it really the best idea to stay here and turn into a sweaty sunstroke victim?

But the thought of leaving New York without seeing Poppy, without talking to her, was a thought I couldn’t stomach for longer than a few seconds. I’d spent the last ten months in this misery. I couldn’t spend another day more.

God must have heard me.

I turned back toward the subway station—I’d seen a bodega nearby, and I wanted a bottle of water—and I caught a glimpse of a spire between two rows of houses—a church. And my feet turned there without me even thinking about it; I suppose I was hoping there would be air-conditioning inside and maybe a place to pray until the dance studio reopened, but I was also wishing (hard) that I’d find something else inside.

I did.

The front doors opened into wide foyer studded with stoups full of holy water, and the doors to the sanctuary were propped open, wafting blessedly cool air into the entryway, but that’s not the first thing I noticed.

The first thing I noticed was the woman near the front of the sanctuary, kneeling with her head bowed. Her dark hair was spun up in a tight bun—a dancer’s bun—and her long neck and slender shoulders were exposed by the black camisole she wore. Dance clothes, I realized as I got closer, trying to be quiet, but it didn’t seem to matter. She was so absorbed in her prayer that she didn’t even move as I slid into the pew behind her row.

I could trace every inch of her back from memory, even after all these months. Each freckle, each line of muscle, each curve of her shoulder blade. And the shade of her hair—dark as coffee and just as rich—I’d remembered that perfectly too. And now that she was so close, all of my good intentions and pure thoughts were being subsumed by much, much darker ones. I wanted to unpin that bun and then wrap that silky hair around my hand. I wanted to pull down the front of her top and fondle her tits. I wanted to rub the softness between her legs through the fabric of her stretchy dance pants until it was soaking wet.

No, even now, I wasn’t being honest with myself, because what I really wanted was so much worse. I wanted to hear the sound of my palm against her ass. I wanted to make her crawl, make her beg, I wanted to scrape the skin of her inner thighs raw with my stubble. I wanted to make her erase every minute of pain I’d felt because of her—erase those minutes with her mouth and her fingers and her sweet, hot cunt.

I was tempted to do just that, scoop her up and throw her over my shoulder and find someplace quiet—her studio, a motel, an alley, I didn’t really care—and show her exactly what ten months apart had done to me.

Just because she isn’t with Sterling doesn’t mean she wants to be with you, I reminded myself. You’re here to give her the rosary, and that’s it.

But maybe just one touch, one touch before you give the rosary and say goodbye forever…

I got down on my own kneeler and reached forward, extended one finger, and then, when I was only an inch away from her skin, I murmured my name for her. “Lamb,” I said. “Little lamb.”

She stiffened right as my finger grazed the creamy skin of her neck, and she turned around, her mouth parted in an unbelieving o.

“Tyler,” she whispered.

“Poppy,” I said.

And then her eyes filled with tears.

I should have waited to see how she felt about me, I should have asked for consent to touch her, I know all these things. But she was crying now, crying so hard, and the only place she belonged was in my arms, and so I moved to her pew and pulled her into me.

She slid her arms around my waist, burying her face in my chest, her whole body trembling.

“How did you find me?” she managed.

“Sterling.”

“You talked to Sterling?” she asked, pulling away, swiping at her eyes.

I ducked down to meet her gaze. “Yes. And he told me what happened that day. The day you kissed—” and my own resolve failed here, because despite job changes and living on a different continent, seeing her now and remembering the hole carved in my chest the moment I saw her kiss Sterling was too much for me to speak out loud.

She cried harder now. “You must hate me.”

“No. In fact, I came to find you to tell you that I don’t.”

“I thought I had to, Tyler,” she mumbled, looking down at the floor.

“Had to what?”

“I thought I had to make you leave me,” she whispered.

Even my pulse paused to listen. “What?”

Her eyes were raw with pain and guilt. “I knew we could make it through anything Sterling threw at us, but I couldn’t handle the thought of you leaving the clergy…leaving for me.” She looked at me, face pleading. “I couldn’t live with myself if you had. Knowing that I had taken your vocation from you—your entire life—all because I couldn’t control my feelings for you…”

“No, Poppy, it wasn’t like that. I was there too, remember? I was choosing the same things you were; that mantle of guilt wasn’t yours to bear alone, if at all.”

She shook her head, tears still falling. “But if you’d never met me, you wouldn’t have ever thought about leaving.”

“If I’d never met you, I would never have really lived.”

“Oh God, Tyler.” She buried her face in her hands. “Knowing what you must have thought about me all these months. I hated it. I hated myself. The moment Sterling’s lips touched mine, I wanted to die, because I saw you coming through the park, I knew you were there, and I knew you were hurting, but I had to. I wanted you to forget all about me and keep living your life the way God wanted you to.”

“It hurt,” I admitted. “It hurt a lot.”

“I hated Sterling so much,” she said into her hands. “I hated him as much as I loved you. I never wanted him, Tyler, I wanted you, but how could I have you without you losing everything? I told myself it was better to push you away than watch you wither.”

I peeled her fingers away from her face. “Am I withered now? Because I did leave, Poppy, and not because of you and not because of the pictures Sterling released, but because I realized that God wanted me elsewhere, living a different life.”

“You left?” she whispered. “I thought they made you leave when the pictures came out.”

“I did. I thought…I guess I thought that you would know that.”

“But the rumors…everyone said…” She took a deep breath, her eyes on me. “I just figured the pictures had ruined you. And it killed me knowing that it was partially my fault, because if it hadn’t been for me, Sterling would have never have targeted you. Knowing that split my heart in two, and I couldn’t take it. I had no heart left to split. I missed you so much.”

“I missed you.” I pulled out the rosary and poured the beads into a clinking pile in her palm. “I brought this back for you,” I said, curling her fingers around the rosary. “I want you to have it. Because I forgive you.”

That’s not the whole truth, Tyler.

I took a deep breath. “And there’s more. I was so hurt—gutted—by what you did. And I’m angry with you now, for doing something that only brought both of us pain. You should have talked to me, Poppy, you should have told me how you felt.”

“I tried,” she said. “I tried so many times, but it was like you didn’t hear me, like you didn’t understand. I needed you to forget about me so that I didn’t ruin your life.”

I sighed. She was right. She had tried to tell me. And I had been so caught up in our love, so caught up in my own struggles and my own choices, that I hadn’t really listened to her. “I’m sorry,” I said, meaning those two words more than any person ever has before. “I’m so sorry. I should have listened. I should have told you that it didn’t matter what happened with my job, with us, because in the end, I believe God is looking out for you and me. I believe God has a plan for us. And wherever I go—wherever we go—and no matter what awful things happen, we’ll be comforted by his love.”

She nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. And something happened then, an infusion or an awakening, because I realized something.

I still want her.

I still love her.

I still need to be with her for the rest of my life.

And even though it made no sense, even though it was only a few minutes ago that I’d found out she and Sterling weren’t together, had never been together, I still did it. I still lowered myself to one knee on the floor.

“That day, I was on my way to propose to you. And if you’ll have me, I still want to marry you, Poppy. I don’t have a ring. I don’t have money. I don’t even have a real job right now. But all I know is that you are the single most amazing person God has ever put in my path, and the thought of a life without you breaks my heart.”

“Tyler…” she breathed.

“Marry me, lamb. Say yes.”

She glanced down at the rosary and then looked back up to me. And her clear, tearful yes reached my ears about the same time her lips reached mine, her mouth greedy and jubilant and desperate, and I didn’t care where we were or who might see us, I unzipped my jeans, yanked her pants down to her knees, and brought her wet heat against my cock, grinding against her, half wrestling and half tumbling to the narrow space of floor between the pews until I could knee her legs apart and push my way inside.

It was short and rough and loud, but it was perfect, just me and Poppy and God in his tabernacle standing watch over us both. I wanted this woman for all eternity, and I wanted eternity to start as soon as fucking possible.