“And you could shove it up your ass,” she says. “Forgive me, Father.”
Father Dante shakes his head and hands her the menu. “I’ll take the number five, please.”
She gathers the menus, fixing me in her most belligerent gaze before she stomps off.
“Thanks, doll,” I call after her.
“You getting out at all?” Father asks when she’s gone.
“Nah,” I say, leaning back and removing my mask. I set it on the table within easy reach. Father Dante and Scar have seen me without it, but if someone else comes in, I’ll replace it. I’ve worn it so long it’s become part of my face. I’d rather not have my naked ugliness exposed for the world to see and mock.
“It’s not healthy,” Father Dante says. “You should come to a service.”
I laugh and pick up my coffee. “My family would disown me.”
Southern Baptist or dead—those are the choices for a Darling. It’s one thing to take classes at Thorncrown. I’m not an artist, and the only other school in town is the liberal arts college. There’s a longstanding tradition that’s created a pipeline from Willow Heights to Thorncrown, right down to the underground connection. The college is small, but there are enough Midnight Swans alumni to make it a reasonable choice for an undergrad degree. Then they use their connections to funnel students into top tier grad schools like Georgetown and Harvard. My family doesn’t mind me taking online classes at a Catholic school that can get me places, but they’d excommunicate me if I converted.
“Then we’ll keep having these chats in person,” Father Dante says. “Otherwise I fear you’ll turn to Dracula, all alone in that castle with the old man.”
“You’re confusing the vampire with Jane Eyre,” I say. “And I assure you,leader,I will not marry him.”
He raises a brow and sips his coffee. The guy’s only ten years older than me, and I’m not Catholic, so I can be a smartass dick without guilt. “You haven’t seen anyone else this month?”
“Oh, no,” I say. “I’m a regular socialite, Father. I saw Harper just a few weeks ago, Sully’s back, and Magnolia’s doing her online schooling there, too, so I’ve got a pain in the ass kid underfoot all day. I guess I am Jane Eyre.”
“Better than last time,” he says, dabbing his neat goatee with a napkin.
“You can’t grade me on my social life,” I say. “Besides, I talk to Lindsey online almost every day. Mabel, Colt, and the uncles check in weekly to see whether me or the old man will kick the bucket first. That’s like ten people. My social calendar’s hoppin,’ bro.”
He doesn’t even crack a smile. “Have you talked to your father?”
“Why would I do that?” I ask. “I’ve got you, Father.”
He sighs. “Is that enough? Those connections?”
Scar comes back with our plates, setting them in front of us and then hurrying off to greet new customers. I know she’ll seat them far from us, but it’s Saturday morning, so I have to eat fast if I want to keep the mask off until I’m done.
“What about you?” I ask. “You ever get lonely, old man? It must suck knowing you’ll never be with a woman.”
“No,” he says, opening a creamer canister and pouring the drop of cream into his coffee. “I’m a man of faith. If I feel alone, I only have to pray to remind myself that He is always with me.”
“Sounds pretty fucking lonely to me,” I say, forking tepid hashbrowns into my mouth.
I’m an expert in that field, so I should know. If Thorncrown gave degrees in loneliness, I’d have a fucking doctorate.
Probably why I fell for the girl whose face lights up my screen just then. I reject the call and finish breakfast, making small talk with the priest about classes and the holidays, then replace my mask and tuck a hundred into the folder for a tip. Scarlet deserves more, but the one time I tried, she smacked the back of my head with a menu and told me if I wanted to donate to charity, go down to the Salvation Army. Apparently one bill is a tip, two is charity. I make sure to always have a hundred when I come in.
We step out into a rainy, grey November morning. Cold, wet wind almost rips the door out of my hand and back into my face. Couldn’t make me uglier than I am, but that’s a mess I don’t want to clean up.
A faded red pickup pulls up, the window rolling down as it comes to a stop. A blond guy with neck tats, an unhinged smile, and a face so pretty it makes me want to fucking kill him leans out the window.
There’s the fucking charity case, one of Father Dante’s delinquents.
“Ready, Papi?” he asks.
“Be there in a minute, Heath,” the Father says.
He steps in, and I freeze, standing like a statue while he wraps his arms around me. “Have a nice holiday,” he says, patting my back without breaking the embrace. “We’ll meet again next month. I’m proud of you, son.”