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(i think there’s a god and he hears either way.)
✟ ✟ ✟
When he remembers, Ronan goes to confession.
He’s done it for a while. Has always found solace in the anonymity. He thinks that there’s a weight lifted off his chest when he does it. Wonders if there’s forgiveness for him after all. It’s one of the only things that gets him out of the house.
Ronan hasn’t left Henrietta his whole life. He’s tried, a few times. Stayed in D.C. for a few weeks, tried to adjust to life in a city. He came back home every time. Though the Barns feels haunted without anyone else there, Ronan can’t stand being anywhere else. It’s been just him for over five years; the loneliness is setting in but he doesn’t know how to change it.
Gansey is long gone from Henrietta; Ronan calls him, sometimes, when he feels like working the phone. They talk, but Ronan gets the sense that Gansey sees him as stuck in the past, locked in the bubble of Henrietta. Gansey talks of the world, of the sights he’s seen, of Blue and Henry and the life he’s built for himself; Ronan can only talk about the farm, about crops and cows. He does not speak of the solitude of this life.
Ronan goes to St. Agnes’ at night when he’s feeling untethered and lost. It’s the same as it always has been, a bit rundown, small, homey. He’s usually the only one there, that late, but sometimes there’s an older parishioner, quietly praying in the back. He hasn’t been in a few months, but he feels guilty about it.
Ronan had gone to Sunday school when he was younger. As far as he can remember, it was the only school he ever enjoyed being in; he loved the stories, the way their teacher read them with a bright smile and shining eyes.
He picks up one of the Bibles in the pews, flips through it. The wood is cracked in one of the corners; Ronan digs his nail under it, pulls the wood out. Confession is supposed to be tonight, Ronan thinks, but the door is shut. He folds his hands and presses his forehead against the back of the pew and tries to pray.
He’s never liked the strict forms of prayer, the ones with memorized words and specific structure. It’s always felt forced, never anything he actually meant. Ronan thinks about God, and Heaven, asking questions, waiting for answers that don’t come. Asks for guidance, something he remembers from his first Reconciliation, before his first Communion. Tries to remember sins he’s committed. The list is longer than he’d like.
The door opens; an older man comes out, sits in one of the pews, does his penance. Ronan looks around, goes in. The screen is up; he can’t see the priest. He thinks it’s for the best. The priests of St. Agnes’ don’t seem to like seeing Ronan around.
Ronan does the Sign of the Cross, says “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was three months ago.” He regrets this, wishes he’d come by sooner, but it seemed to slip his mind. “I’ve haven’t talked to my brothers in a while. Keep avoiding them, mostly on purpose. I haven’t visited my parents’ graves in a few months. I wish that I had. I haven’t called my friends. I don’t think I’m doing anything with my life. I haven’t been to Mass in a few weeks. I swear too much, use God’s name in vain, disrespect him and myself.” The priest makes a small assenting noise.
Ronan is quiet, wants to say something else but doesn’t want to. “I think I’m just scared that I’m a bad person or that I’m going to become a bad person.”
The priest says, “I don’t think those things make you a bad person.”
Ronan blinks. The voice is younger than he expected, gentler. He says, “I did a lot of bad things when I was younger. Seven, eight years ago now. Anger, jealousy, drinking, lying, reckless driving.” He won’t say he regrets it; the rush with Kavinsky was incredible, but the guilt of it all is now constant, black and burning in his chest.
The priest says, “I don’t think going over the speed limit is a sin,” and Ronan can almost hear the smirk in his voice.
This is very informal; Ronan isn’t sure what to do about this. “It was more than just going over the speed limit.”
“But you’ve confessed it before?”
“Yes,” Ronan says. “Of course I have. Years ago. Even when it happened.” And yet he kept going back, until Kavinsky died and Ronan got too scared to do anything else.
“Then it has already been forgiven,” the priest says.
Ronan says, “Those were all my sins in the past few months. I’m sorry for them. And I’m sorry for everything I’ve done in the past.”
The priest says, “Call your family and friends. Visit your parents’ graves. Mend damaged relationships; respect yourself as much as you respect others. Pray a Hail Holy Queen and two Hail Marys. And come to Mass.” He says the prayer of absolution; Ronan doesn’t feel immediately cleansed, but he wasn’t expecting to. The voice of the priest has a tinge of an accent, like he’s tried his best to get rid of it, but it’s never gone away.
Ronan leaves with a quiet thanks, prays the Act of Contrition ( I firmly resolve with the help of thy grace to sin no more and to avoid the near occasion of sin ) and gets in the BMW and drives back to the Barns, high beams slicing through the dark.
✟ ✟ ✟
It rains that next Sunday, a wet October thing that drenches the landscape of Henrietta.
Ronan shows up to Mass; Declan has driven in with his current girlfriend Jordan (so different from the past Ashleys, but Ronan likes her well enough) and Matthew, who’s been staying in D.C. with Declan, trying to find a job. They haven’t been back in Henrietta for a month, even though Declan had always said they would come.
(Ronan does his best to ignore the biting anger in his stomach, the voices that said nobody would stay in Henrietta.)
“How is the Barns?” Declan asks politely when they’ve slid into a pew. He’s in a suit, his Sunday best; Ronan is in the least noxious clothes from his ever-growing laundry pile.
“Holding up,” Ronan says, folding his arms. The other churchgoers have stopped giving him nervous glances whenever he’s there, but they’ve taken to thinly veiled disdain instead, noses wrinkling when they look at him. “How’s D.C., Matthew?”
Matthew shrugs, curls bouncing with the movement. “I’ve gotten a new job. Record store this time.”
“Really?” Ronan says, looking up at Declan, who’s frowning. Matthew gets a new job every few months, in and out of different places, always bored. He dropped out of college in his first semester; Ronan is proud of him for at least making it that far. “You like it?”
“Sure,” Matthew says, shrugging.
They go into Mass, genuflect before the altar, slide into well-worn pews that have been there for decades. There’s a few initials carved into the wood, down at the bottom; Ronan wonders if that’s some sort of sacrilege.
Mass starts. The choir is made up of a few of the older Henrietta Catholics, some of whom Ronan has seen singing since he was a kid; everything feels homegrown in St. Agnes’.
The priest is—young. Startlingly young. Nothing like the old fucks who usually do this. Maybe even the same age as Ronan, or at least less than five years older. When he talks, Ronan recognizes the voice, that slight accent.
Ronan learns that he’s Father Adam Parrish. He thinks it must be some kind of joke. Adam Parrish, the priest. A divine joke, played specifically on Ronan and his stupid bleeding heart.
There’s an odd sort of intimacy, watching Father Adam say his homily, prepare the Eucharist, and knowing that he’s heard Ronan’s deepest secrets in confession. Ronan can’t take his eyes off him, can’t stop watching bony, boyish hands and the small, nervous smile that plays on thin lips.
Ronan lingers in the narthex when the new priest comes by. It’s probably more like loitering, but he’s not a teenager anymore. Declan and Matthew left with brief goodbyes. Ronan knows who he’s waiting for, but he doesn’t know why he’s doing it.
“Is your name really Father Parrish?” he asks, unpeeling himself from the wall. Parrish stops, turns to him.
“And you are?”
“Ronan,” Ronan says. “But seriously. Your last name can’t really be Parrish.”
“It is,” Father Parrish says, “though I did say you could call me Adam.”
“You’re a bit young to be a father, aren’t you?” Ronan says, snarky and biting. He won’t call him Adam; he was raised a good, proper Catholic boy. The kind that calls others by their last name.
“Twenty-seven this past July.”
“Really,” Ronan says, because he doesn’t believe this at all.
“Mm.”
Ronan asks, “You living above St. Agnes’?” The church is old, old enough that the rectory was built into the church. He’s been up there, once, when it was empty. Broke in with a few friends just to look around. It’s tiny, with slanted ceilings from the roof and scratched wooden floors.
“Yes,” Father Parrish says. (Ronan can’t bring himself to call him Father Adam, or even just Adam; it feels far too personal). “It’s a bit drafty, though.”
Ronan almost offers the Barns to him. It’s been too empty, the walls echoey without the sounds of other people in it. It would never be allowed, of course; he’ll live in the rectory above St. Agnes’ until they move him into a different parish. Ronan almost says, “I’ve got room in my house for you,” but he doesn’t, and says “Shame,” instead.
Father Parrish laughs. “A bit. I don’t mind. Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name?”
“I’m Ronan,” he says, trying his best to keep up with the practiced nonchalance but failing.
“Nice to meet you, Ronan,” Father Parrish says, offering out a hand to shake. Ronan doesn’t take it, and walks away instead. Two tiny versions of Declan and his father shout at him inside his head, but he does not turn around.
✟ ✟ ✟
Ronan hates him, a little bit. Or a lot. He hasn’t decided yet.
Two months go by; Father Parrish presides over about half of the Masses. Ronan goes to confession one more time, in that same evening time. Talks to a voice with a hint of a Southern rural accent. Henrietta’s weather goes from the early golden hues of fall to the fading, distant light of midwinter.
Parrish is cocky, full of himself, in that self-deprecating kind of way that makes people find it charming rather than annoying. His homilies are different from other priests’, even. Less overbearing, more advice-driven. Gentle. Ronan hates it. Misses the fire and brimstone types of homilies, even if they made him feel like shit.
Sometimes Father Parrish talks to him after Mass. Ronan wonders if it’s because they talked briefly after that first one. He’s not usually very nice to Parrish, and he can tell that Parrish is working very hard to be polite. Declan says once, “That’s a priest you’re backtalking,” and Ronan just flips him off, in full view of Parrish, and walks away. He hears Declan give a hurried apology.
He does feel bad, sometimes. Feels sorry for Parrish, who keeps trying even though Ronan clearly doesn’t care about what he has to say. He doesn’t care about Father Adam Parrish at all. Really.
✟ ✟ ✟
Ronan prays before bed, sometimes. Knelt by the side of the bed. He still sleeps in his childhood room, feet brushing the end of the twin bed. Aurora and Niall’s room has been untouched since Niall’s death. Declan’s room is completely empty and Matthew’s is bare of everything except his furniture. The house is a skeleton, and Ronan hates it.
In his prayers he talks to God. It’s the most vulnerable he’ll ever be. He doesn’t even say it out loud, just lets his thoughts run until he does the Sign of the Cross and goes to bed.
Tonight he thinks about loneliness and empty houses. Fall is turning to winter, and the gray skies make Ronan miserable. He asks if anyone is even hearing him. Says, “I’ve been doing this a long time. I don’t hear much back.”
It’s not that Ronan doesn’t believe; he very much does, but he has his doubts. Worries sometimes that it’s his fault that there’s silence on the other end. Religion is something he shared with his parents, the last thing he and his brothers have in common; it’s the short time that he does not have to be lonely. (There’s an old story about footprints on the beach that Ronan thinks about sometimes.)
He does the Sign of the Cross, gets into his bed with the nautical themed sheets that he got when he was seven and obsessed with the ocean despite only seeing it once or twice. Ronan does not want to think about priests and their hands. About one specific priest and his hands and his eyes and—
Ronan shuts his eyes even tighter, like it can clear the thought from his head, rolls over, and tries to sleep.
✟ ✟ ✟
Ronan goes to Confession more and more. Trying to get a glimpse of freckled hands and dusty brown hair. It’s Parrish every time; Ronan thinks he’s probably memorized the priests’ Reconciliation schedules by this point. He could ask for the screen to be lifted, but he doesn’t, preferring the anonymity, the game of not knowing who’s on the other side, even though they can both recognize the others’ voice by this point.
He confesses all of it, hoping the guilt lessens slightly. About everything he ever said to his mother in anger, about all the middle fingers (literal and metaphorical) he gave to Declan and even Niall, about every purposeful ignorance of Matthew’s texts pleading for him to come to D.C. for the holidays. He goes back further, spits up everything he ever did with Kavinsky.
By the time spring rolls around and Parrish has been there almost six months (long enough to baptize two different babies), Ronan has nearly run out of things to confess.
He says things like, “Sometimes I doubt that he’s even really up there, listening. Or that if he is, he doesn’t care about me,” and “I’m always afraid that there’s something inherently evil about me.”
And Father Adam Parrish forgives him for all of it.
It almost makes him angrier, the way he can just be absolved of all of his faults. He wants to believe that there’s a black stain over him, smeared onto his heart, something that makes it so that he cannot be loved or forgiven.
Ronan eventually confesses that he’s gay. It’s the only thing he confesses that time, the truth of it weighing heavily on his tongue.
(He was beyond thinking he was evil for it, but he’d never forget the old priests of St. Agnes’, now long gone, who would go on rants during their homilies about the evils of homosexuality and sodomy, of the stain it made on the soul. Ronan had been younger than ten, but old enough to know how he felt; he had cried for almost two months. Aurora couldn’t figure out why, and he wouldn’t tell her, feeling too guilty about it. He’d prayed to be freed of it until he was fifteen.)
Father Parrish says, “I don’t think that’s a sin.”
Ronan scoffs. “To some it would be. To my father it would have been.” Niall was dead, almost ten years now, but Ronan knew what his father would have said.
“It’s not to me. And I’m supposed to be the voice of God, aren’t I?”
Ronan does not believe that priests are the voice of God, and the hint of derision in Parrish’s voice makes him think that he doesn’t believe it, either. “Whatever, man.”
“I’ll forgive you for it,” he adds. “But I don’t think it’s anything that needs forgiving for.”
“I’ve fallen in love with a man,” Ronan says. “Does that need forgiving?”
There is a sigh on the other side of the screen. “God loves you. No matter how you are.”
Ronan rolls his eyes. “Sure. That’s what you all say.”
They go through the motions of absolution, and Ronan leaves, but before he’s out the door, Parrish exits the confessional booth, and they make brief eye contact before Parrish waves, a lazy two-fingered thing, but it makes something in Ronan’s chest ache.
✟ ✟ ✟
Ronan visits his parents’ graves. Brings a few wildflowers, in pink and purple, gentle pastels that Aurora would have loved. He sets them in front of the stones, Aurora Lynch and Niall Lynch carved into the stone. It’s elegant, sophisticated, understated. The kind of thing both of them would have wanted.
He sits cross-legged in front of the headstones, runs a hand over his head. His hair is getting long; he’ll have to shave it. He keeps forgetting.
This is a form of prayer to him, a dedication to two people who he used to love and isn’t so sure anymore. When you’re a kid, it’s easy to love; Ronan didn’t have them long enough when he was older to know if he would have liked them or not.
He says, “I’ve met someone,” but doesn’t say who. Niall Lynch might be dead but he still held a grip on Ronan’s heart and throat. “I really, um. Really like them. I think you would have, too. I’m sorry for not coming by. You can’t blame me, though.” Niall, always absent, and Aurora, permanently docile and meek.
A breeze whistles through the evergreens, makes a sound like roaring highways. Ronan presses his head against the cool stone and wonders if he would have stayed in Henrietta if Niall and Aurora had never died.
He says, “I think I miss you. I don’t know yet. I want to miss you. I go to church, still. All of us do. It’s like every Sunday when we were kids. Getting up early and dressing in our finest.” (Though Ronan hadn’t dressed in Sunday best in years.) “I’m staying in Henrietta. I’ll be here forever. Die here. Be buried beside you.” The future is suddenly terrifying; Ronan swallows his heart.
He sits in silence for a long time, listens to the wind, the murmur of Henrietta’s nature around him. When the moments have passed, he stands and brushes the grave dirt off his jeans and leaves. The flowers will rot on the graves; Ronan imagines it’s a little fitting.
✟ ✟ ✟
Something about that confession changes everything, just a little. Ronan is friendlier (though not by much) and Father Parrish keeps trying.
Ronan catches Parrish at the single grocery store in Henrietta. He’s in town to pick up some things for the farm and a few things to refill the fridge. It’s odd to see his priest, someone he’s so used to seeing dressed up and beside an altar, in jeans, shopping in the soup aisle.
“A priest walked into a grocery store,” Ronan says. “There’s a joke in there somewhere.” His smile is reminiscent of sharp, dangerous things. The pointed edge of a glittering mirror, the flash of the match before it lights the fuse.
“Hello, Ronan,” Adam says. (God, Ronan wants to burn this whole store down.) “I don’t usually see you in town.”
“Too busy shoveling cow shit,” Ronan says, and Adam grins unexpectedly. “I didn’t know priests bought alcohol.”
Adam raises one pale eyebrow. “It’s for communion, Lynch.” Hm. The priest could be a dick. Ronan suddenly hated him a little bit less.
“Really. Not one of those is for personal use,” Ronan says, looking at the bottle of white wine and raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t think blood came in white.”
“Maybe one of them isn’t for Mass,” Parrish amends. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to tell you—did you know that when I first came some of the parishioners warned me about you? The scary farmer Ronan Lynch.”
Ronan laughs. “Really.” He suspects that Adam is hiding some of the crueler things they said about him.
Adam adds, “When I saw you that first Sunday I didn’t believe it was you. I expected it to be a crotchety older man. Not you .” Adam says it with such meaning that it makes Ronan’s heart break a little bit.
“That’ll teach you something about assumptions, Parrish,” Ronan says with a sharp grin.
“You coming to Mass this Sunday?”
“I haven’t missed in months.”
“You’re surprisingly consistent.”
“I was raised Catholic. I stopped going for a while, finally got back into going to church. It’s good for me.”
“It’s good for everyone,” Parrish says, because he’s a priest. “Look, you come to Confession a lot—”
“Thought priests were supposed to keep that stuff secret,” Ronan says, arms crossed.
“I’m not telling others,” Parrish says. “And I’m not even talking about it. I was simply trying to offer advice. What I was going to say, before you so rudely interrupted me” (oh, Ronan’s going to kill him) “was that you can come by the church more often, if you’d like. We can have conversations. Whatever you want.”
“Yeah, sure,” Ronan says, scoffing at the idea. He’d do it, though, if he wasn’t worried that being in such proximity to Father Parrish would make him suddenly combust. “See you around, Father.”
“You, too, Lynch,” Adam says, giving that same lazy, two-fingered wave, and it makes Ronan turn around and march down the aisle without looking back once.
✟ ✟ ✟
By the time summer comes around, Ronan goes to St. Agnes’ at least three times a week. Sometimes to see Parrish, sometimes to just pray, but Parrish is always around anyway.
Ronan won’t admit any of his feelings, even to himself, but he knows how he feels when Parrish is around. How he feels watching those hands break the Eucharist, watching them make the Sign of the Cross over a silent crowd.
They’re drinking in the St. Agnes’ parking lot, in the back. It’s late July; Ronan knows Adam’s birthday is soon. The heat is dissipating slowly now that the sun has set, but bugs still flit around their faces. Ronan bats them away.
He thinks this must be some kind of sacrilege or sin, but he’s not caring much about it right now, not with Father Adam Parrish so close to him.
Ronan says, “Did you want to be a priest when you were younger?”
“No.”
Ronan laughs. “A name like Adam Parrish, and you didn’t want to be a priest.”
“An unfortunate combination of names,” Adam says, drinking slowly from one of the brown bottles. “My parents weren’t religious at all, surprisingly. I ended up at a Catholic private school on full scholarship for high school. It changed me, I guess.”
“Bet you were a star student,” Ronan says.
“A bit. I was an overachiever. Did everything I could so I didn’t go home.”
Ronan doesn’t know what to say to this, so he says nothing at all and drinks more of his beer. It tastes like shit. He says this to Adam.
Adam says, “Sorry. It was the cheapest thing. And the quickest thing I could find.”
“It’s like cat piss,” Ronan says, sticking out his tongue. The night air is warm. “Whatever. I don’t really care. Did you pick Henrietta or did you get assigned?”
“They offered it to me,” Adam says. “I took it. It reminds me of home, you know? And I don’t like where I grew up, don’t want to go back, but—”
“Home is home forever,” Ronan mutters. He’s always felt trapped in the Barns, but there’s nowhere he’d rather be. His own personal Heaven and Hell.
“Yeah. Something like that.”
Ronan finishes the bottle. It’s only one; it feels like nothing in his stomach. He’s miserable and he doesn’t know what about. Probably the proximity without touch. Parrish beside him without anything happening between them.
“You like being a priest?” Ronan sets the bottle down. It clinks gently on the concrete.
“I do, actually. My beliefs are different from the traditional Catholics’, though. I don’t think the Henrietta Catholics particularly like me. Some of the things I say aren’t things they believe in.”
“Yeah, but you’re the priest and they aren’t,” Ronan says. “So fuck them.”
Adam laughs, a sudden thing. It’s a terrible laugh, sort of hacking and squeaky. Ronan finds it, of all things, charming.
Ronan says, “You believe in God?” and wishes he had a cigarette, but he’s never smoked and doesn’t plan on picking it up.
“You kind of have to, for this job,” Adam says, a grin hiding beneath his voice.
“Sure. Whatever. But for you personally. After Catholic school and all the priest school shit. Do you believe in it?”
Adam tips his head back against the rough brick of St. Agnes’. Ronan stares at him while Adam stares at the sky, and hopes he’s not being too obvious. The porch light is spotted with dead bugs; a moth fluttering around it is likely to be the next. There’s a metaphor in there about martyrdom, but Ronan doesn’t care for it.
Adam says, “I don’t know anymore. I believe in a God. Someone or something that absolves, that loves. Maybe it’s not always the Abrahamic God, but I believe that something is out there.”
“Hm,” Ronan says, because he doesn’t know what else to say to that. He doesn’t know what he believes, either, but he thinks it’s probably similar to Adam. Doesn’t want to say it out loud, though. He can’t talk about it when he’s not in a small booth, hidden by a screen.
The night air passes them by; Ronan wants desperately but will not let himself have it. Not like this.
✟ ✟ ✟
Their affection is exchanged in secret, subtle things. Glances during the homily, small smiles during Communion. Ronan finds ways to stay up at the altar just a bit longer than he needs to, starts opening his mouth and making Adam feed the Body to him.
The worst thing about it is that Adam does it all. Ronan could do it if Adam didn’t want him back, but Adam looks right back at him and through him and everything is ruined forever.
(The First Commandment states that you should have no other god before God Himself; Ronan remembers being taught that meant putting anything else above God. But here, in front of Parrish, he finds that it’s awfully easy to put someone else first.)
He prays before bed, still. Asks if this is the right thing to do. If this will kill him. He wants this to destroy his life, he wants this to break his heart; anything to shatter the monotony. This could ruin him, but that’s what he wants.
Declan notices it, eventually. Says, “Ronan, what the hell kind of game are you playing?” and Ronan’s mouth curls into its trademark smirk and says, “We’re in church, Declan. Be holy.” One of the women in front of them turns around and gives them a dirty look.
“Look, you’ve made people upset,” Ronan added. Declan’s eyes turned all the way to the back of his head.
Matthew whispers, “Guys, come on, be quiet.”
Declan lets out an impressive sigh, quiet enough to not disturb others but loud and long enough to communicate all of his disdain and disappointment.
After Mass they stand in the parking lot and Declan puts a hand on Ronan’s shoulder, says, “We need to talk.”
“We’re not talking about shit, unless it’s you coming back to the Barns for Christmas.” The year had turned over; the holidays were quickly approaching. Ronan desperately did not want to go to D.C., but the other Lynch brothers rarely came back to the Barns anymore.
“You can come to D.C., but you know that’s not what I want to say.”
“Fuck off.”
“We’re on church grounds, guys,” Matthew whines. Ronan ruffles his hair, slightly patronizing.
“I’ve got an appointment with a priest,” Ronan says, with the kind of grin that he knows pisses Declan off, and it does. Declan’s eyes narrow, just slightly. He’s never been one to make a scene, and Ronan loves to call his bluff. “See you next Sunday, Deklo. Matty.”
Adam was still living in the rectory. Ronan went back inside and upstairs and stood by the door until Adam came in.
“Lynch,” he says. “Nice to see you. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Not particularly,” Ronan says. “You busy?”
“I was going to eat. I’m not going invite you in, Lynch.”
“Wasn’t expecting you to,” Ronan says. It’s not quite a lie, because he didn’t expect Adam to, but he had been hoping.
“You’re sitting out here like a dog in the rain. It’s obvious what you wanted.”
Ronan tries something else. “You know, you could come back to the Barns to eat.”
“I’m hungry now, Lynch. You live forty minutes away.” Ronan feels very rejected now, and it makes him irritated.
Weren’t priests supposed to be friendly and shit? Ronan says, “Fine. It’s cool, man. Whatever.”
“Come back some other time. We can have a talk, when I’m not waiting to eat my breakfast.”
Ronan doesn’t reply, walks back down the uneven stairs, avoiding the loose nail on the third step from the bottom. The door above him opens and shuts with a certain kind of finality.
✟ ✟ ✟
He doesn’t go back to St. Agnes’ for six weeks, mostly out of petty anger and annoyance. He skips Mass, too, which only makes him feel guilty. He takes care of the Barns, watches shitty reality television at night. He prays before bed, still, but it’s more meditative; he has nothing to say.
Declan calls, supposedly out of concern, but more likely because he’s a control freak.
“What, fuckhead,” Ronan says when he picks up the phone. He’s in one of the barns, refilling the feed. He needs to clean in here, but he won’t do it right now.
“This is the sixth time I’ve tried to call,” Declan says.
“Sucks to be you,” Ronan says. “What do you need this time?”
“You haven’t been coming to Mass.”
“You haven’t been coming to Henrietta.” He can almost hear Declan grit his teeth on the other end.
“I’m busy,” Declan says.
“Sure. Me too.”
“What, did you get tired of Father Adam or did he get tired of you?”
Ronan would hit him, if they were standing beside each other. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I plead the sixth.”
“Wrong Amendment, asshole,” Declan says. “Come to Mass this Sunday. Father Adam asked about you last week, by the way.”
Ronan’s voice is dripping in sarcasm. “Wow, really? That’ll get me to attend.”
“God, do you have respect for anything?”
Ronan makes a raspberry, cradles the phone against his ear, says, “Third Commandment, Deklo. Didn’t you learn anything from Sunday school?”
He walks out of the barn. The air is getting colder, the leaves settling over the fields that Ronan barely plants in anymore. Trees line the edge, marking the end of the Barns, this terribly, expansive prison that Ronan is trapped in.
“Sunday,” Declan says, obviously irritated now, and then he hangs up. Ronan tucks the phone into the pocket of his overalls and walks over to the garden shed. He did not think about Sunday, about walking back into St. Agnes’.
✟ ✟ ✟
Ronan goes to Confession for the first time in six weeks that Friday, mostly because he knows Adam will be there, but also to let himself be absolved.
He says, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I haven’t been here in six weeks. Haven’t been to Mass, either. I ignore my brothers. I’m an asshole to Declan. I’ve been so incredibly lonely lately. I don’t want to die alone.”
“God is always there with you,” the priest says. The voice tells him that it’s Adam. The tone tells him that Adam knows it’s him.
Ronan says, “I’m sorry for all my sins, past and present,” and then he is forgiven. It is easy to confess, he thinks. Less easy to forgive and be forgiven.
Adam adds, “Good to see you back, Lynch.”
Ronan says nothing to this, afraid of his tongue betraying him. He does his prayers, kneeling before the altar, and then leaves. He does not see Parrish; other parishioners have gone in to do their own confessions. He thinks it’s for the best.
✟ ✟ ✟
On Sunday, Ronan shows up at St. Agnes’ and meets his brothers in the parking lot. They stand there, in light, early fall jackets. Ronan has attempted to dress in clean clothes this time.
Declan says, “Good to see you’re alive.”
Ronan flips him off.
Matthew gives both of them a pained look. “Guys, can you please be godly? We’re at church.”
“Sure thing, Matty,” Ronan says, ruffling those curls. “What job do you have now?” Declan lets out an audible breath through his nose, exasperated with Matthew’s constant pursuit of something new.
“I’m working in a friend’s food truck, now,” Matthew says. “Doughnuts. You should come by, sometime. They’re pretty good. But I’m probably biased.”
“I’ll think about it,” Ronan says, but he knows he can’t go back to D.C.
Mass is standard. The readings are fine, the choir does nicely. Adam looks at Ronan when he talks about forgiveness and love during the homily; Ronan looks away. When Mass ends, Ronan walks up creaky stairs (avoiding that loose nail). Declan and Matthew leave. The whole congregation leaves; the church feels echoey and empty without voices filling it. Ronan sits on the steps and waits.
“You look like a lost dog,” Adam says. He’s changed out of his robes, back into jeans and a plain sweater. He’s wearing those ratty tennis shoes that Ronan thinks are the only pair he owns. “I’m still not inviting you inside.”
“Okay,” Ronan says. He stands, acts like he doesn’t care even though he always does. “I’m sorry for not being at Mass.”
“I’m not the one who needs the apology.”
“I already apologized to God,” Ronan adds. “But you knew that already.”
“Sure,” Adam says. “You wanted to talk?”
Ronan swallows every emotion he has ever felt and faces Adam with a crooked smile that acts as a bulletproof, beautiful façade. “Just wanted to be here. It’s good to be back in church. I feel guilty about not coming.”
“But you came back,” Adam says, and Ronan is reminded of prodigal sons and lost sheep.
“I did.” Ronan should leave. He has always been a coward, even if he won’t admit it.
“Lynch,” Adam says, and Ronan turns towards him, a movie scene if nothing else.
The kiss is, arguably, wrong.
(It’s his first kiss. Like any good Catholic boy, he’d saved himself, waited for the right moment. Seems fitting that his first kiss is with a priest, then.)
It’s Ronan’s fault, because it’s always Ronan’s fucking fault. He’s stupid, isn’t thinking. He’s wanted this since Father Adam Parrish showed up at St. Agnes’. It’s a quick, surface-level thing, and when it’s over, he’s ready to apologize immediately. The shame is suddenly so great he thinks he’s being eaten alive.
“Lynch,” Father Adam Parrish says, and Ronan won’t look at him. Refuses to look at him until Adam latches a slightly calloused finger beneath his chin and turns his head.
The second kiss is better. More genuine, more honest. Deeper, too. Ronan has wanted this for a very long time; it feels like the first breath of air after being drowned.
“I think this is probably wrong,” Ronan says when the second kiss is finished. He’s pulled himself back, watching Adam’s face for any sign of stopping. It’s a cliché to say he’s breathless, but it would be a lie if he said he wasn’t.
“Do you?” Adam says. God, he’s an asshole sometimes.
“You’re the priest,” Ronan says, the last word bitten out. This should never have happened. It would never last. Adam might have been a gift from God, his own angel or saint, but the divine was never meant for the mundane.
“You want it to stop?” Adam asks, because he’s a dick and knows what Ronan’s answer is going to be. God, he was going to be the death of Ronan.
This is Ronan’s own apple from the garden; he grabs it with a fuck you to all divine powers and takes a massive bite out of it, says, “Fuck you, Parrish,” and leans in.
The third kiss is, by far, the best, but Ronan thinks all the ones after that are a pretty close tie.
(He ends up getting invited in after all.)