And she left.
She was right. St. Margaret’s needed Poppy. And I needed Poppy. And St. Margaret’s needed me, and Poppy needed me. Too many people needed too many other people, and there was no way I could keep all the balls in the air; I would drop one and there would be catastrophic consequences.
It wasn’t until Sunday evening that my angst got the better of me and I sent her a text.
Thinking of you.
My chest and throat felt like they’d been stitched together, and I nearly jumped to my feet when I saw the three rotating dots on the screen, meaning that she was typing a response. And then they went away.
I let out a long breath. She’d stopped typing. She wasn’t going to answer.
I didn’t even want to think about what that meant. So instead I treated myself to a warmed-up Millie casserole, three episodes of House of Cards and a healthy slug of Scotch.
I fell asleep with Lizzy’s rosary woven between my fingers, somehow feeling further away from my own life than ever.
I hadn’t seen Poppy at Mass that morning, so the last thing I expected after Rowan’s confession was for her to slide in the other side of the booth.
It could have been the hesitant creak of the door or the unmistakable rustle of a dress against soft thighs or the electricity that immediately crackled across my skin, but I knew it was her without her even saying a word.
Her door closed and we sat in silence for a while, her breathing quietly and me anxiously tapping my thumb against my palm, hating that I was already half-hard just being next to her.
Finally, I asked, “Where have you been?”
She exhaled. “Here. I’ve been right here.”
“It didn’t feel that way.” I was embarrassed at how bitter and wounded I sounded, but I also didn’t care. Tyler Bell at twenty-one would have never let a girl get under his armor of pride, never shown a girl that she’d hurt him. But I was almost thirty now, and well past college, and what would have meant next to nothing to me then meant a lot more to me now.
Or maybe it wasn’t me who had changed. Maybe this was the effect that Poppy would have on me at any age, in any place. She did something to me, and I thought (a little petulantly) that it wasn’t fair. Wasn’t fair that she could just sit there and not be as torn up as I was about us, whatever us meant in our case.
“Are you angry with me?” she asked.
I leaned against the wall. “No.” I reconsidered. “A little. I don’t know.”
“You are, then.”
The words forced their way past my lips. “It just feels like I am risking everything, and you are risking nothing, and you are the one who’s walking away and it doesn’t feel fair.”
“Walking away from what, Tyler? From a relationship we can’t have? From sex that will destroy your career or worse? I’ve spent the last three days beating my head against the wall because I want you—I want you so badly—but if I have you, I’ll ruin your life. How do you think that makes me feel? Do you think I want to shred apart your livelihood, your community, all for my sake?”
Her outburst lingered in my mind long after she’d stopped talking. This hadn’t occurred to me—that she would feel guilty, that she would feel culpable. That she would want to avoid me because she couldn’t bear the guilt of taking part in this thing that would ruin me.
I didn’t know what to say to that. I was grateful and confused and still hurt all at the same time.
So I said the only thing that came to mind. “How long has it been since your last confession?”
An exhale. “So this is how this conversation will go?”
I didn’t care how this conversation happened as long as it happened, as long as I got to keep talking to her. “If you want it to.”
“You know what? I do.”
Poppy
Premarital sex is a sin, right? And I’m sure having sex with a priest is a sin. And probably altar-fucking isn’t anywhere in the Papal Encyclicals, but I’m guessing it’s a sin too. So I’ll confess those. I’ll confess about how delirious I felt on that altar, having you between my legs. Finally coaxing you into letting go. We were more human than ever—more animal than ever—but somehow I still felt so close to God, like my entire soul was awake and alert and dancing. I looked up at the crucifix, at Christ hanging from the cross, and I thought, this is what it’s like to be torn apart for love. This is what it means to be reborn. I stared at it over your shoulder, and you were piercing me, and Christ had been pierced too, and it all seemed like one secret and shimmering mystery—profound and acroamatic. I feel like we did something unfathomably ancient, stumbled onto some secret ceremony that fused us together—but how can I relish that feeling, how can I celebrate it, when it comes with such a high cost?
I told you I feel guilty, and that’s true, but it’s wrapped up in so much else that I can’t tease apart the guilt from the joy and the want. Every moment I think I’ve come to a decision—that I am going to tell you that we must abide by your vows and choices, or that I’m going to tell you that we must figure out a way, any way, that we can still see each other—I change my mind.
Worry is a sin, even I know that, yet I am more than just a lily of the field. I’m a lily that’s been plucked from the ground and laid at your feet. When it comes to you, I’m rootless and helpless and at your mercy for sunshine and water. And I’m not even supposed to be yours. How can I not worry?
Last night, I wanted to respond to your message so badly, but I didn’t know what I could say, how to distill my thoughts into two or three cohesive sentences. I wanted to come over to your house and talk, but I knew if I did, then I wouldn’t be able to keep myself from touching you and fucking you, and I didn’t want to make things any more complicated than they already were.
But then I kept looking at your text, wondering exactly how you were thinking about me, and I wondered if you were thinking about the way I felt when you were inside. About the way I moved underneath you. I wondered if you were remembering your kitchen and both of us looking down as you pushed into me.
So here’s my final confession. I knelt on my bedroom floor like I was going to pray, but instead of praying, I spread my legs and fucked myself with my fingers, pretending it was you.
And when I climaxed, I hoped to God that you would be able to hear me calling your name.
People might judge me for the way my breathing sped up. For the way I palmed myself through my slacks. But the image of Poppy on her knees, eyes closed and mind filled with me, all while her fingers played with that beautiful cunt, was too much to resist.
“Poppy,” I said, unbuckling my belt. “Tell me more.”
I knew she could hear the belt. I knew she could hear the zipper. Her breath shuddered in and then shuddered out.
“I used one hand to touch my breasts,” she whispered. “And the other to work my clit. I wanted your dick so much, Tyler, it was all I could think about. How it stretches me. How you make it hit that perfect spot every time.”
Still leaning back, I freed my cock from my boxer briefs and gripped it, moving my hand slowly up and down.