Page 34 of The Unexpected

We don’t say anything for a long time.

Then, in the dark, I whisper: “Next time, I want you both to fuck me.”

Hunter doesn’t ask who the other man is. He merely laughs, kisses the back of my neck, and says, “Anything you want, star girl.”

I close my eyes and drift, the night settling over me like a second skin, and for the first time in my life, I can’t wait for church.

12

BACK AT CHURCH FOR OUR THIRD SESSION

Lachlan

The thing no one tells you about clergy is that the longer you do it, the less you believe in anything but repetition. The ritual of it, the performance, the lockstep of confessions and catechisms and commiseration. I sit behind my desk, inhaling the blue-grey spiral of Nag Champa incense as it slips up toward the stained glass and fragments in the morning light. Amber and violet crosshatch the oak paneling, sketch my silhouette across the wall. The legal pad in front of me is blank, because I already know what’s coming.

This is session three with Stella Moreland and her step-uncle, and I have never, not once, needed a legal pad for this job. But here I am, the inked header—“Trinity Church, Couples Counseling, Moreland/Roberts”—bleeding through the yellow sheet like an accusation. Should I even include include the sub-title “Couples Counseling,” seeing that’s gone so far beyond that already? Who the fuck knows.

I hear them before I see them. The slow, predatory click of Hunter’s shoes on the tile, and Stella’s softer footfalls, hesitant at first, then purposeful. The pause at my threshold is long enough to suggest argument, or foreplay, or both. The door swings open.

Stella steps in first. Her blonde hair is up, twisted up in a sexy way with tendrils that trail along her shoulders. She’s wearing a dress again—pale blue, not the same one as last week, but showing off her big bust to an advantage, nonetheless. Her cerulean eyes flick up, catch mine, and drop; it’s the tell of a poker player with a shit hand. She smiles anyway. I catch the faintest shimmer of gloss at the corner of her mouth, like she’s just licked her lips.

Hunter follows, filling the doorway and most of the oxygen in the room. His suit is black, no tie, the first two buttons of his shirt open. He rests a hand on Stella’s hip as if it belongs there. He doesn’t bother with a smile.

“Good morning,” I say, keeping my tone even.

Stella perches on the chair closest to the desk. Hunter takes the one beside her, but drags it a little closer, not quite touching but close enough to trespass the line of professional decorum. It’s the same move as last time, only now it feels like a dare.

“Morning, Pastor O’Toole,” Stella murmurs, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “Thank you for seeing us.”

Hunter says nothing. He just watches me, arms crossed, an appraisal more than a greeting.

The incense is strong today, a sharp line through the undercurrent of vanilla that clings to Stella’s skin. For a moment, I watch the way the smoke twists above the burner, trying to find a thread of detachment.

I open the folder, uncap my pen. “So, what’s the agenda for today?”

Hunter answers first, as always. “We want to know your thoughts,” he says, voice like a warm stone skipping the surface of a pond. “On our relationship. Stella’s got reservations. I don’t.” He looks over at her, not unkindly. “But she’s got the questions, and we want to get them answered.”

Stella flushes, her hand curling into the hem of her skirt. “I’m sorry about Hunter’s brisk tone,” she says with a reproving glance his way. “It’s just that… well, it’s still weird,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if what we’re doing is wrong, or if it’s just that everyone says it’s wrong.”

I nod, tapping the pen against the legal pad. “You want permission,” I say. “Or at least a ruling from someone in an authority position.”

Her eyes dart to me, hopeful and terrified in equal measure.

“Yes? Maybe?”

Hunter’s mouth twitches. “We’re not asking for forgiveness, Pastor. We just want to know if we’re the only ones this fucked up.”

I smile, but it’s a tired smile. “You’d be surprised,” I say.

Stella lets out a shaky laugh, relief and disbelief braided together.

I lean back, fingers steepled. “A lot of different people make up the world, and to be honest, it’s not up to me to pass judgment. Even if you were polyamorous, which is officially frowned upon by our denomination, I’m not sure that I’d say anything, much less condemn it. Times change quickly, and what was taboo yesterday may be accepted sooner than you think.”

“Yes,” Stella muses thoughtfully. “I felt like the Catholic Church underwent a seismic shift when Pope Francis said he wasn’t in a place to judge LGBTQ people. He was a modern man.”

I nod.

“If even the Pontiff himself refuses to judge someone’s intimate and familial choices, then I don’t think any of us can rightfully say that we’re an arbiter of what’s morally wrong or right. Of course, there are a few black and white cases, but without abuse or some kind of heinous crime, I’m not sure I can give you the certainty you’re looking for.”