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Gone were the days you knew Father Jud Duplenticy as well… Jud.
Jud—the scrawny, simpering child from Albany who befriended you on a whim in the playground. Sickeningly sweet Jud who shared his toy cars in the sandbox and taught you how to climb the tree by his house.
Jud, your first crush, the boy who, at the time and the teenage years that followed—and despite his shortcomings and frequent brushes with petty neighbourhood crime—you swore you were going to be with one day.
You’ve seen it all with him, and your fondness only grew as you got older.
But it felt like yesterday when Jud confessed about the man he struck down in the ring: knuckles bloodied, limbs trembling, murky drops of crimson trickling down his face and soaking his shirt as you tended to his wounds in a dark alley. This would be the last time he’d ever fight, and you still remember that night vividly.
Tormented by his guilt and unable to reconcile with the deed that had been committed, Jud turned to the church soon after, eventually entering seminary—a path that laid the groundwork for his priesthood, promising a refuge, an escape, the ultimate haven of absolution.
You knew you should’ve been glad, happy that Jud had finally regained his bearings and found an anchoring purpose serving the community instead of aimlessly drifting back into the destructive life that was.
But your harbouring resentment and selfishness was hard to ignore.
You had been so close to making it something real beyond the few times you kissed—just to kiss—and those clandestine intimacies—just out of morbid, hormonal curiosity. You had been teenagers.
Yet Jud’s devotion to the cloth was undeniable and nothing short of beautiful: the way he’d kneel at the altar beneath the cross; the traces of the life he once led etched on the side of his neck and the pale sweep of skin on his forearm. The benevolent way he’d minister to his parishioners after each service—effortlessly tender and perfect, simply a man who loved his work of helping others and spreading the teachings of Christ.
You knew Jud’s commitment to celibacy should have been enough to propel you toward someone else—someone achievable and perhaps better—but your heart remained stagnant, in all the quiet, inconvenient ways.
Desperate to salvage what might have been, you began meeting him around Chimney Rock. You lost track of exactly when it started, but ever since, you made it your duty to memorize his calendar and the schedules of his masses, seeking out the brief margins of opportunity to see him: strolling down the tree‑lined streets, watching children play in the park you had once declared yours, or slipping a drink or two at Il Diavolo—friends; drinking buddies, you told yourselves—so long as it stayed that way.
But it didn’t stop the familiar, stubborn pooling of desire—a juvenile relic Jud desperately tried to push down, the weight of his collar a constant reminder of his faith and of what was forbidden to men like him.
And yet, the truth continued to reassert itself: your weak excuses to help in the vestry and the occasional soup kitchen, a warm smile and a longing gaze from across the pews, a head on his shoulder as you’d sit on the weathered church steps, the steady press of his arm as he’d walk you home—a wordless invitation for you to stay.
You told yourself you should stop.
You knew better—you knew that coaxing anything remotely otherwise from your encounters beyond strictly platonic companionship would only end in heartbreak and the unforgiving scrutiny of Chimney Rock.
And to Jud, the very feeling of love and devotion itself, if not for God and his flock, was simply temptation.
Yet habit, ritual, and the sweet, masochistic high that leapt in your belly just from seeing him kept you coming back.
Like the past week, here you were again.
Once Jud finished his nightly tasks of extinguishing the votive candles in the alcoves, dusting the organ, and straightening the withering flowers that sat on the altar, he quietly slid into the pew beside you.
He discarded the purple stole that wrapped around his shoulders, folded it in his lap, stretched his legs, and craned his head back, a weary sigh escaping his lips.
“You’re becoming a late-night regular,” he observed, his gaze raking tiredly through the newly renovated ceiling fixtures. “I can’t imagine how interesting this place is for you.
“I suppose,” you responded, glancing down at the hand that rested on his knees and letting your fingers reach for it—intentional, reckless—hungry for his heat and closeness. “I missed you today.”
The contact of Jud’s hand was immediate: the warmth beneath your palm, the slope of his bone and vein, the slight give where his fingers curled—each small detail made your heart flutter.
You half expected for him to retract, to stiffen and chastise you for your boldness.
But instead, he yielded; his hand stilling on yours.
“You always do.”
You smiled sheepishly, watching your thumb trace over his knuckles and the worn curve of his nails.
But when your gaze lifted to meet his, you saw the unmistakable shadow on his face—the sobering pallor of guilt settling into the furrow of his brows.
“You know you’re hurting yourself by wanting more from me,” he sighed heavily.
Your body stiffened.
You’d known this conversation had been waiting months to happen, hanging like smoke, coiled tight and then waning—discernible behind the ever-growing desire for more, a quiet heat that curled through your encounters like a prayer.
However, knowing didn’t make it hurt less.
“You didn’t stop me.”
“I know—I know I didn’t, and that’s the thing! It’s just—” Jud paused abruptly.
His lips hung open as he mulled over his words, racking his mind for a response. But you were met with a candidness—while anticipated—landed like betrayal.
"It’s just… It’s my fault that I’m leading you on by letting this happen—and I should have, it would’ve been better for the both of us.”
Your expression shadowed and your face burned.
Your throat worked furiously to push down the sudden tightness in your ribs, the sharp pang of bitterness that threatened to spill—disappointment and frustration welling up in your chest.
Jud caught the shift in you, stood, and instinctively held out his hand for you to take.
“Sorry, I…I didn’t mean for it to come out that way,” he gulped. “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but—”
“Do what you must.” you responded.
Jud opened his mouth to speak, but sighing once he registered your resignation. He kept one hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks, the other hovering uselessly over your shoulder before falling back on his side.
He walked you down the aisles and out of the church, locking the entrance and closing the signboard by the cobblestone gate as he kept a steady distance from you.
You made the pivot towards your building, your steps along the gravel path falling into an awkward rhythm beside him.
The night was quiet and winded; the cold was especially bitter, and the silence stretched egregiously.
Once your apartment building came into view, you reluctantly began the ascent of stairs to the lobby’s front door.
You assumed that Jud would follow—which sometimes, if you were lucky, meant he would stay a while. But his feet remained planted on the pavement, his head downcast as you turned to face him from where you stood at the top.
“It’s getting late.” Jud reminded distantly, keeping his gaze on his shoes. “You should get inside.”
“You’re not coming?”
He shook his head. “It wouldn’t be wise.”
“Walk me through my door?” you pleaded weakly.
“I shouldn’t.”
You frowned and walked a few steps down. “Please,” you urged.
Silence; the wind picking up at the bristling trees. With a resigned nod and a whispered ‘fine’, he joined you at the staircase.
“I’ll stay the night, but we won’t do anything more than rest.”
Your gaze dropped. It was ridiculous to have expected more when you knew this was the most he could offer, but the disarming look on his face softened the blow.
He patted you on the shoulder, motioning you to lead.
Jud slipped off his shoes by the door, then reached for your coat. His fingers brushed over your shoulders, easing the garment free off your torso before he followed with his own, hanging them on the hooks nailed to the wall.
You headed to your en-suite bedroom, swiftly going through the routine motions of showering, brushing your teeth, and getting ready for bed, the stillness that wafted through your apartment was a welcome distraction.
While you bathed, Jud made the effort to tidy up here and there—a stray hair clip on the kitchen counter, a cold mug on your table, a crumpled up receipt on your couch cushions.
No reason, except for the fact that he liked doing things for you.
Once done, he padded over to your room, stepping inside but keeping the door ajar, a reminder that this night—like all—was fleeting.
He leaned on the windowsill, his head resting against the wall, soaking in the sound of water trickling from the faucet and the faint buzz of the heater as he waited for you to step out.
It was mundane, intimate—like a normal couple, and this was just another evening together.
For a moment, Jud let himself imagine just that: the priestly garb and the tether of duty fading into irrelevance. Yours, his. In your place, waiting for the door to swing open before he could finally spend the rest of the night with you.
“Done,” you called softly. “You can use the bathroom.”
Blinking, Jud nodded in acknowledgement. He watched quietly as you pulled the curtains closed and eased yourself under the covers, curling into the sheets.
He fished out a spare toothbrush from under the sink, brushed quickly, and splashed water on his face. When he stepped back into the room, you scooted over at once—beckoning him to join you.
“I—I don’t have a change of clothes. You sure you’re fine with me lying here?” he asked, standing stiffly at the foot of your bed.
“I’m having my sheets washed tomorrow,” you insisted, sliding the blanket over. “It’s fine, really.”
He murmured a soft “okay,” and hoisted his knee onto the mattress, the springs creaking beneath his weight as he settled to lie beside you.
Your stomach fluttered, and in the dim, silvery light, Jud looked disarmingly handsome: the soft cupid’s bow of his lips catching a faint glint of moonlight, his eyes weary but impossibly kind.
For a while, you laid in comfortable silence, staring up at the orange-hued ceiling as the shadows of passing cars drifted lazily across it.
The wind whistled softly through the trees and distant traffic hummed low from the main road, all of it fading into the background.
You were the first to speak.
“I never stopped liking you.”
At that, Jud stirred.
“I know that,” he said, unable to help the fragile, boyish half‑smile that tugged at the edges of his mouth, his hands folding over his chest. “Why else would you wait for me?”
“I just like to see you.” you explained.
“I like to see you too.”
You expected the familiar “we can’t”—the immediate but that always followed, the restraint—but instead came a resigned sigh.
“You know I sometimes wish things could’ve been different,” Jud began.
A pause.
“It’s just… it felt right at the time to go down this path,” he continued. “With the choices I made and, the trouble I put myself through, I never felt like I had so much purpose before, you know? I still thank God everyday for that.”
Jud’s words stung more than you cared to admit.
You reluctantly nodded and stayed silent.
You knew the way he spoke about God was genuine, yet you noticed the hesitation on his parted lips, the subtle fraying of his devotion, the brief flicker of unease that crossed his pupils—disappearing as quickly as it had appeared.
“I understand.” you whisper. “...But know that I would’ve loved sharing my space with you.”
“I know,” Jud murmured ruefully. “I would’ve liked that too.”
He stared at the inky ceiling lost in thought, and his words trailed off.
“Perhaps… the thought of coming home to a place where I don’t have to worry about paperwork or picking up calls to pray for others in the middle of the night—just watching movies after dinner with you, being able to laugh as loud as I want without Martha banging on my door…”
There it was again: the weight of what he’d never have. The feeling of something so close and beautiful, simple and pure, yet so painfully out of reach.
He let his thoughts hang, and the quiet stretched between you, warmed with a tender hunger that matched your own.
“If things were different,” Jud added, reveling in the simplicity of it all. “I would’ve loved watching the seasons change with you. Maybe under that tree—seeing how the leaves change colour in the fall, the snow falling in the winter…”
It was a childish admission—something so normal, so Jud—and he hated how painfully sweet it all sounded.
A beat passed—solemn, wanting—and he inched closer, his hand slipping gingerly under the covers.
The cotton whispered beneath his palm until his fingers found and laced with yours, a rebellious surrender of his vow, giving in to the unignorable gnaw of his wanting.
“You should find someone who can give you exactly that,” his voice cracked. “It’d be miserable if you spent your entire life pining over me, you know that.”
You felt your eyes sting. “But no one has ever made me feel this way before—not as much as you had.”
Jud pressed his lips tenderly to your forehead, closing his eyes and just staying there, swallowing the lump that rose in his throat.
“I know,” he crooned, his fingers drifting across your face and tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “But you deserve so much more than what I can give.”
A crooked smile graced his lips. “You deserve the world, and I hope you find the person who gives it to you.”
“What if I can’t?”
“You will,” Jud reassured, his arms cocooning you in a gentle embrace. “You’re a wonderful person and I know you’d make someone very happy.” He pecked your cheek. “I’m sure plenty of people would see you the way I do—would want to hold you close, stay by your side, listen to you talk...”
A sniffle escaped, followed by an overwhelming flood of grief, longing, and sheer exhaustion as your hands—like a child's—scrambled to hold him close, your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.
“You’re exhausted,” he whispered against your scalp, burying his face in your hair and letting your head nuzzle into the crook of his neck. “You should rest now.”
“Will you still be here?” you sniffled.
Jud pondered the question.
He knew it would be wise to leave and make his way back to the rectory once you were fast asleep—but the way he struggled to loosen his hold, cornered by his rudimentary instincts to care and to protect while also allowing himself selfishness, betrayed every last word of his pretense.
“Until sunrise,” he murmured at last.
The morning came easy. The first streaks of sunlight spilled into your room through the curtains that had stirred in the night, casting a tangerine glow across the hardwood floor.
A flock of birds chirped softly from the maple tree that faced your building, and the wind eased to a pleasant breeze.
Jud was the first to wake. He yawned groggily and rubbed his fist over his eyes as he turned to face you. Your hands still clutched his shirt, your head buried in his shoulder, your breath steady against his chest.
His expression softened, and he tipped your face toward his.
Beautiful, he thought.
He gently swept away the strands of hair clinging to your cheeks, brushing them back, and leaning down to press a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth, wiping away the trace of saliva that had gathered there in your sleep.
Taking one last look at you, Jud reluctantly pulled away and eased himself out of your embrace. His eyes darted around the room, landing on the clock that hung above your dresser. Christ.
He stretched, cracked his neck, then padded to the sink.
He smoothed his clothes, raked his fingers through his hair, and adjusted his belt and collar—but the usual business of getting ready felt perfunctory; his body was weak, and staying longer became ever more elusive.
As Jud stealthily stepped out of the room and into the foyer, his hand hovered on the knob of the front door, poised to leave—but he hesitated.
He couldn’t bring himself to leave you there, downcast, and still vulnerable from the night before. The thought made him frown.
So, in a spontaneous gesture he rationalized as simply pastoral concern, Jud made a beeline for your kitchen.
He rifled through your pantry and, with practiced ease, cooked up a simple breakfast of the things he knew you loved, topping it all off with a steaming cup of coffee—which was also tailored precisely to your liking.
He pulled a spare tray from a cupboard, set the dishes down with care, and fussed over the smallest details until everything looked just so—not a crumb out of place or a spill on the side.
Nudging the door open, Jud approached your sleeping form, set the tray down, and cleared a space for it on your bedside table.
He stepped back and admired his handiwork.
Cooking wasn’t his strongest suit and his skills were average at best—good enough to have something edible each day, but he hoped that you’d appreciate the gesture all the same.
Pride was a sin in itself, he knew—but being proud of something he’d taken time to make and craft with the purity in his heart wasn’t.
Yet something still felt missing.
Jud’s gaze swept around your room, searching for a final touch to add to the platter. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for, but he knew he wanted to leave a small piece of his heart with you.
He eventually spotted an empty legal pad and a stray pen resting on your desk.
He wasn’t, by any means, a writer or poet, but the words flowed easily as the ballpoint pen scratched across the paper—a release of everything he didn’t quite know how to say out loud.
Once finished, Jud stared at the note, his cheeks warming at the nostalgic sentiment. He couldn't remember the last time he’d written something so cloying—probably not since high school.
But before he could second-guess himself, he folded the note and set it right where you’d see it as soon as you woke, tucked beside your dish.
Then, he tied his shoes and slid his arms into the sleeves of his blazer, taking one final, lingering look at you from the foyer.
He ached—but time had a funny way of passing in a blink of an eye.
Jud turned on his heel and headed back to the rectory—the very life he’d sworn himself to all those years ago. The life that had taught him the art of wanting and refusing, of accepting what could never be.
The life that simply is.
The emerging sound of the garbage truck and morning commuters stirred you out of your sleep, your eyes fluttering to adjust to the sunlight that beamed on your face.
You turned over sleepily, reaching instinctively towards the other side of the bed where Jud laid, but he was nowhere to be felt—let alone seen or heard anywhere in your place.
The mattress was still slightly dipped from where his body had been the night before, but the pillows and duvet on his side were made up neatly—almost too perfectly, as if he had tried to erase every trace of him ever indulging in a moment of weakness.
A dull pain surfaced in your gut as your fingers brushed the cool, empty space beside you, longing for Jud’s warmth, the blissful intimacy that had slipped away long before you woke up.
You glanced at your bedside table, blinking in surprise at the small tableau waiting there: a deliciously plated dish of your favourite breakfast items and a lukewarm cup of coffee.
Tucked carefully under the mug was a folded piece of paper, your name written in Jud’s cursive handwriting with a few doodled embellishments adorning the edges.
Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for the paper, easing it free.
Morning,
I’m sorry I had to slip out without saying a proper goodbye. Duty calls at the parish, Martha would kill me. You also looked so peaceful, I couldn’t bring myself to wake you.
Thank you for letting me spend the night and share your space, your bed was a nice change from the hard-sleeper mattress at the rectory. You know I wish I could do that everyday—it reminds me of when we were younger.
I’d like to reiterate my apology for my bluntness—it felt appropriate at the time, but know that I meant every word I spoke once we were at your place. I hope you’re feeling better.
Please enjoy the simple breakfast (I tried my best!) and the coffee… and take care of yourself, okay? Don’t waste anymore tears on me.
Keep your heart open, the world isn’t limited to Chimney Rock.
But know that I love you—more than I should.
— J
His words were bittersweet, and the familiar feeling of wanting to bawl, laugh, and smile all at the same time washed over you.
For a priest so accustomed to preaching the faith everywhere he went, the note didn’t mention God once. Instead, it felt like you were speaking to just Jud—the same sweet boy you had grown up loving, the one you had hoped to spend the rest of your days with.
The day seemed dimmer now, your feelings heavier.
You sat with your back against the headboard, holding the note close to your heart, letting the ache settle deep in your chest, carve a hollow in your stomach, and fill the room.
Jud felt close—he always had—but he would never be quite close enough.