We sat in the third pew.
Nathan’s knee touched mine. His hand found my left one, thumb brushing the ring I had put back on in the dark, over the dent, over the pulse that still belonged to his brother. Eleven o’clock light came through the stained glass and laid color on Father Elias at the altar.
Same face.
Same mouth.
The mouth that had been on mine in our bed six hours ago.
I looked at him through communion the way he had told me to. He placed the host on my tongue and his fingers lingered a second too long against my lip. Nathan bowed his head beside me, grateful, clueless, married to a woman who was still carrying last night inside her.
After mass Nathan squeezed my hand.
“Go on. I’ll wait in the car. You’ve been distant. Maybe confession will help.”
The kindness almost made m
