Chapter 11 - Hymn

 

Chapter 11. Hymn

Bella

I wake up with a song on my lips for the first time in weeks.

The house is quiet. Everyone's at work, Alice is at school, and I have the run of the place. It's like those magical days when I was little and managed to convince Mom I was sick. Then I'd do every bad thing I could think of before the rest of the family came back home.

Words keep popping into my head, so I find a scrap of paper and a pen and start writing. It's a miracle. Kind of. As close to a miracle as I'm going to get.

Nothing in my life's fixed. I know that.

I still can't stomach thinking about Mike and Jessica. I can't imagine going back on tour with him. Ben's still texting and I'm still avoiding. But I hum as I make my way downstairs and make some coffee and toast.

I jot down more words. A couple of chords. I add a dash of whiskey for creative inspiration. I run upstairs with it all and spread out on my twin bed. Then I break out my baby.

My guitar.

I call her A2.

I bought her after my first real payday. She's so pretty - a deep, dark cherry bronze. She's made of rosewood, so she sings at the upper registers and booms when she plays something low.

This morning she hums along with me, and it's sweet and easy... And it's blasphemous and perverse. Somehow a hymn's gotten mixed up with vices and sin. This is the best and the worst thing I could ever imagine writing, all rolled into one. It's me. And it's not perfect yet, but it will be.

I pull out my laptop and fire up GarageBand, find a badass bassline, add in some drums, then lay down A2's sweet little voice over it all. It makes me smile like I was smiling last night.

Shit.

I read through the lyrics again.

Fucking shit.

I just wrote how I feel when I'm with Father Edward.

Or just Edward, my new celibate friend.

Jesus Christ, he makes me feel fine, that's for damn sure. I read through again, getting lost in the really good parts, kind of tingling all over. I'm every inch the sinner I know I am, even though last night Edward looked at me like I'm a saint. I can't stop smiling even though I know this is very, very wrong.

I try to ignore thoughts about how freakin' hot Edward looked in his comic book tee. The one that fit so well it kind of made me think about Captain America - so well-meaning, hot, and innocent all at once. Don't even get me started about America's ass. Yeah, I try to ignore it. It's not easy.

Stupid, hot, celibate friend.

I replay the music I've laid down. It needs some more finessing, and I need a smoke and some more whiskey, so I raid the liquor cabinet and then find Dad's secret cigarette stash in the garage.

Outside, the birds are chirping and the sun's shining, and I can smell a hint of low tide on the breeze along with car exhaust. I'm a kid playing hooky, tapping out a rhythm with my toes. Jotting down the words as they come. Pocketing my butts to try to stay on Mom's good side.

Another drink and I'm in heaven… writing about sins and hymns. It's the most Catholic thing I've ever done. And it feels right I'm doing it back home, back where it all began: my Catholicism, hymn singing, and the sinning of course.

Upstairs, I hit up Photoshop. I pull something together and it's quick and dirty, like this song's turning out to be. I don't mind, though. My social media's been dead for weeks and this is the best thing I've written in so many months.

And in three, two, one… I upload just a hint of my new track to Soundcloud. Then I hint about it on Insta. And I smile as people gush. And swoon. And forward. And like.

"Thanks, Baby," I say to A2, brushing my fingers over her strings. She hums in reply.

Then I write back to friends. And fans. I have fans! I've been so caught up in my own head I almost forgot.

Emily slides into my DM's. I haven't talked to her in ages.

Yo gurl, where u at?

NYC - I reply.

Shit, me 2! Come see me Bowery tomorrow?

My heart races. Emily knows about Mike. Everyone does.

Maybe. Family, you know?

PLEEEEEZ?

I stare at my phone pinging with like after like. Comment after comment. The last time Emily and I got together was a blast. I shouldn't let what happened with Mike change that. I take a deep breath. It's just Emily. It's no big deal.

Bella? U there?

K - I type. My finger hovers, then I force myself to hit send.

Yeah?

Yup

YES!

I giggle to the sound of the pings as my Insta post goes a little viral. And then I record the sound and loop it and jot down something a little more silly. Something about failing and flatlining in front of my fans. Because it's just what you've got to do sometimes. And I'm gonna need more coffee and more whiskey and some leftovers.

I'm in the kitchen with a bottle of liquor in my hand and a cigarette hanging from my lips when Mom walks through the front door.

"Isabella Swan!"

And I drop a Tupperware of spaghetti onto the floor.

"Fuck," I groan. There's marinara everywhere. The floor. The cabinets. My sweats.

"For the love of all that's holy," Mom huffs as she pulls off her jacket and goes for a mop and some dishrags.

"I got this," I mumble as I back away from my mess. Ash from my cigarette falls onto the tomato sauced floor.

"I think you've done enough. You know, some of us work for a living. To come home to this..."

"I was working all day."

Mom narrows her eyes.

If looks could kill... well, I'd have died way back in high school. But this look - it's like she'd kill me all over again and then some, the way she's glaring.

"Playing on your computer in your pajamas while you're drunk is not work. Any daughter of mine should know that."

"This is how I work. And I'm not drunk."

Technically I'm just buzzed.

"Don't lie to me, Bella. My heart can't take it."

"What do you want me to do, Mom? Go get a nursing degree like Angela? Or start popping out babies like Rose?"

"Please just get out of my hair. I have a kitchen to clean. Dinner to make. Mrs. Cheney's coming over to work on wedding favors. Rose isn't feeling well, so Emmett's going to drop off the kids on his way to the station."

"I'll help."

"Oh, that would be a first," she says like Sunday morning breakfast never happened.

"Jesus!" I huff. I shove the liquor back into the cabinet. I toss my butt in the sink.

"Bella!" she warns, "I just came from confession. Don't make me say something that's going to send me right back."

"Confession?" I ask.

A dark, dank box never sounded so good.

xXxXx

"Bless me Father for I have sinned. It's been three days since my last confession."

And there's nothing. Silence.

"Hello? I've sinned and I'm here, reporting for duty."

"Sorry, I was informed I shouldn't hold my breath for this. The shock and awe is still wearing off."

I laugh. With just the sound of his voice, I feel ten pounds lighter. "Hey there, Father. You sound suspiciously like my friend Edward."

"I hate to tell you, but I don't keep any wine stashed in the confessional."

"I'm here for absolution. Not for a drink."

I hear him laugh under his breath, and I picture the way he always tries to hide his smile from me when he does. My stomach flip flops nervously. I'm hungry… for the spaghetti I dropped onto the floor and for a peek at the good Father. I'm a mess.

"What could you possibly have done within the past… fifteen hours that needs absolving? Did you get another family member drunk? Bella, tell me you didn't get your grandmother drunk."

"I thought I'd stick to getting myself wasted today. Less guilt involved, you know? And then I wrote this song. It's the first thing I've written in weeks, by the way, but I don't know if God's cheering me on about it."

"Why wouldn't he be cheering you on?"

There's no way I can bring myself to tell Edward about the lyrics. Would he raise his voice and ban me from the church? Or would he ignore the implications and give me a list of prayers, like my feelings for him were nothing more than another sin by another sinner?

No… I have a feeling he'd let me down easy. Which, somehow, is even worse.

I cough. "If it's cool, I'd rather not say."

"That bad, huh?" he asks.

I wonder if he could imagine words like those. I try ticking through Black Eyed Peas tracks. I don't think Fergie ever covered this kind of material.

I think about pulling out my phone and pressing play. Suddenly the confessional feels like it's closing in on me. I lean against the wall for support.

"It's even worse than you could imagine, probably. But it's so good, you know? It's just like fuuuuuck."

"Fuck?" he asks in a whisper I almost didn't hear, like it's just between me and him. And not for God's ears. And unf… the way he says it, like I've coaxed the word out of him against his will... He should not be saying that, not like that, definitely not here. I press my thighs together and take a deep breath.

"Jesus, sorry. Off the table. I forgot our ground rules."

"And, you know, Church."

"Listen, if He's real, that word's the least of his worries when it comes to me. You, on the other hand... I don't want to mess up your chances with the Big Guy. So I'll try to be good."

I sigh. "And you should probably say a couple Our Father's or something. Just in case," I add. Trying with all my might to be a responsible Catholic.

"Forgive me Father," I hear him whisper under his breath.

I sigh, relieved his soul will live to see another day.

Thank God.

Oh, hey, when in Rome and all. I glance at the roof of the confessional. Thanks, God.

"So, do you want to tell me anything about why you're here? Or should we start an official game of twenty questions?" Edward asks, back to his version of business as usual.

"Fine. There's the song I mentioned before. It's pure blasphemy, Father, but it might be one of my favorite things I've ever written."

I leave out the part about how it's, you know, about him.

"And I made a mess of Mom's kitchen. And I stole her liquor and my dad's cigarettes."

"Charlie smokes?"

"And I outed my dad as a secret smoker to his priest. See? I commit a new sin by the minute."

Edward's laughter is less guarded this time. I don't even mind he's amused by all the ways I manage to fuck up in one afternoon. Hanging out and laughing with him feels right, somehow. And I wish the wall between us would just fade away.

"I have a feeling, as entertaining as that list is, it's still not the whole reason you're here."

I actually shiver. Because… "You're right," I admit, pulling a little slip of paper from my pocket. "How are you so good at this?"

"Call it my superpower."

"Ha! Dude, what are you wearing today?"

"What?"

Christ. What did I just ask a priest during confession?

"I mean under the collar and stuff," I try to explain.

"Today?" he asks. "Iron Man. Don't tell Bishop Whitlock, he's a big DC Comics fan."

"How are you guys even still friends?"

"God works in mysterious ways."

His silhouette makes me smile and I have to hold myself back from reaching out to touch his shadow. I imagine his messy hair and his bright eyes - how they crinkle at the edges when he makes a dorky joke. Those lips, so close to mine right now, but so, so far away. I think about how he clutched a cigarette between them a few nights ago… and I think about the lyrics to that new piece of mine. I consider adding a few lines about his mouth. And the things I'd like to teach that mouth to do. To me.

"So, um, Ed - I mean, Father? I was thinking," I say. My voice is so low he still has to lean closer to hear. I tell myself this isn't intentional.

"I'm all ears."

And lips. And eyes. And surprisingly broad chest. Christ, why did you make this priest of mine so hot?

"Bella?" he asks.

I take a deep breath and go for it.

"Right. My friend's playing at Bowery Ballroom tomorrow night. You busy? I thought you might like her. She's a little more Fergie than I am."

"You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"

"Nope. Not a chance in he….eaven." Caught myself there. "Want to come? Tomorrow. Nine-ish?"

I hold my breath as I roll the piece of paper up really tight, eying the tiny holes in the grate.

"Bella?"

"Yep?"

"Did you come to confession today for absolution? Or to ask me out?"

God, he's good at this. I've been avoiding that same question since I left my house.

"We're friends. Friends hang out. It'll be like a public priest-out sesh," I say to try to convince him. And myself while I'm at it.

Edward's quiet. My heart's pounding in my ears. The sound of my foot tapping against the floor seems to echo through the whole sanctuary. I'm surprised at how desperate I feel.

"I came for both, I guess," I try to explain to fill the awkward silence. "Two birds, one confessional. I mean, it's not like I have your number. How else was I going to ask?"

"You could have called my office, you could have stopped by the office, or the rectory, prayer group later tonight, the food pantry tomorrow morning-"

"You're a real know it all sometimes. Should I add asking a priest to hang out to my list of sins?"

"No, you cannot. I refuse to be a part of your self-deprecation."

"Oh my God, then come out with me. Pleeeeaaase!" I beg, sliding to my knees and clasping my hands together.

"Bella, I - "

"Fine. Just absolve me of my sins and I'll leave," I tell him before he can finish turning me down.

I bow my head, crushed but not entirely repentant. Father hesitates before he starts in on the prayer for absolution. I close my eyes and let his voice wash over me. He prays in an easy rhythm and hearing those words from his lips manages to make me feel better than I did when I walked in minutes ago.

"... I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen," he says, putting a bow on our weird little interaction. "Um, say three Hail Mary's, and stop stealing your father's cigarettes."

"I was going to replace them."

"I have no doubt."

Before I stand and leave, I decide to try my own version of a Hail Mary. I tell myself we're friends. I tell myself he obviously wants to hang out, so I take a deep breath and push the rolled up paper through the grating.

"Bella?"

"Yes, Father?"

"What's this?"

"My number."

"I see that. But -"

"But what, Father?"

"Why?"

I sigh. Why, indeed. "I could try to track you all over the parish, but priests have cell phones, right?"

"Most do."

"I'll say those Hail Mary's. I'll buy my dad a new pack of smokes. You let me know if you change your mind about tomorrow night. It would be fun."

I wait. I cough.

"Father?"

Edward doesn't have anything more to say. Which makes sense. I have my assignment. Three Hail Mary's and a pack of cigarettes. Yeah, he's still a weird priest.

As I leave the confessional, I can't help but look over my shoulder. I want to see him in his ridiculous Iron Man t-shirt. I want to ask if he wants to grab a drink at Billy's. I want him to come out with me tomorrow night.

More than all of that, I just want to hug him again. I like the way his body fits against mine.

I'm an idiot. He's got a job to do and it's kind of all-consuming. Meanwhile, I'm post fall from grace Lucifer.

"Ahem." Mrs. Aienelli clears her throat. I'm not the only sinner in town, so I clear out and wander the streets a little before I end up at Billy's Place.

Billy's all smiles as I slide onto a barstool.

"My boy's off today," he says as he goes for my usual.

"That's cool. I'm just here for a drink before heading home."

"You want his number?" he asks.

"I've got it," I say, toying with my cell.

I'm so stupid. I should have asked Jake to the show. Any other reasonable person would have asked the guy she should be dating. Not a priest.

The scotch feels good going down. It takes the edge off each of my indiscretions. And because I promised Edward, I bow my head and tick off those Hail Mary's under my breath. When I'm done, I hear my phone buzz and open my eyes.

It's a text. And it's not from my manager, or Jake, or even Ben. It's an unknown number.

It's Edward.

My heart speeds up. My fingers shake a little as I watch the bubbles appear. Then two more words pop up on my screen.

I'm in.

And I smile.