by Autumn Grey
Desolate
Copyright © 2108 Autumn Grey
Cover design: Okay Creations
Image source: www.shutterstock.com
Formatting: Champagne Book Design
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents and places are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, resold, copied or distributed in any form, or by any electronic or mechanical means without permission from the author, except for brief quotations within a review.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Playlist
Present
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
About the Author
Other books by the author
Acknowledgements
“Ending”—Isak Danielson
“Bumper Cars”—Alex & Sierra
“Edge of Desire”—John Mayer
“Hunger”—Ross Copperman
“Say You Won’t Let Go”—James Arthur
“Belong”—Cary Brothers
For the full playlist on Spotify
Present - Thanksgiving Day.
There are angels and demons at war inside my head, and the demons are winning.
I’m sitting across the table from Grace, the only person who has the power to silence the chaos in my head, and at the same time cause mayhem in my heart. I can’t stop staring at her. Her lips highlighted in deep red lipstick, the way her rich brown skin glows when the soft lighting from the lamp above us hits at the right angle, her curly hair banded at the nape of her neck, displaying a heart-shaped face that makes me question my calling.
I should be heeding the advice of my spiritual director to remove myself from temptation. Instead, I’m wondering if she still tastes and smells like vanilla waffles.
I wonder if this is God’s test of my loyalty to him. How long will my resolve hold before everything falls apart?
I’m home from seminary for Thanksgiving. Grace’s mother, Debra, invited my uncle and me for dinner.
I should have politely refused the invitation and avoided placing myself directly in the path of wickedness, so close to the one person who makes me want to sin ten ways from Sunday. Instead, I accepted, then spent the next few hours alternating between meditation and praying feverishly to God for strength. Then I threw on a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt and went for a run, hoping the chilly November weather would help me focus.
By the time we left the rectory, I had steeled myself with resolve and patience and strength. That is, until Debra opened the door and stepped aside, inviting us into her home, and my eyes landed on Grace, standing beside the table with her hands clasped primly in front of her.
She smiled sweetly my way, and it hit me—coming here was a big mistake.
As we eat, conversation flows easily, but in my mind the same words keep playing, crowding my thoughts. I hope my hard-on is not that obvious. God, give me strength to get through this dinner without embarrassing myself.
It’s hard to function when your mind is in turmoil. Hard to breathe when your heart is in your throat.
I’m not sure whether I love her or hate her. I don’t know if it’s myself I should hate for allowing her to occupy my mind, or if I should thank God for giving me the ability to love her so much that I’ve made an altar in my head of the memories we shared.
My gaze strays every so often to Grace. Hers briefly meets mine, sending a jolt of heat—again—straight to my groin before she looks away. Her eyes stay firmly on her plate as she lifts the fork to her mouth.
Oh, God.
Her sin-worthy lips part and close around the forkful of mashed potatoes, and I groan inwardly, picturing that mouth on me.
I quickly drop my gaze to my own plate and subtly shift in my seat, desperate for relief. I tug down my napkin on my lap, hiding the visible bulge in my pants. Squeezing my eyes shut briefly, I mutter, “Forgive me, Father. Forgive me, Father. Forgive me, F—”
“You okay?” Luke asks in a low voice.
My eyes fly open and my head makes an awkward jerk meant as a nod. From the corner of my eye, I see him assess me with those knowing eyes of his. Judging by the look he’s giving me, the answers to his curious thoughts are written all over my face for the world to see. He turns away, frowning, and continues chatting with Debra.
The heart is weak, greedy, and reckless. Selfish, my spiritual director advised while staring intently into my eyes during our last session together before I left St. Bernard Seminary for Thanksgiving break. Stay away from temptation. If something or someone leads you to consider sinning or to have impure thoughts, then it is wise to remove yourself from that situation.
The words are clear in my head now, yet, here I am. Unable to remove myself from this situation without looking obvious.
I could drag her to her room.
I could kiss her.
I could—
Stop.
Guilt cuts through my conscience, causing my stomach to twist painfully. I shut my eyes tight again, trying to rid myself of those thoughts.
I don’t even care at this point if I look like the veins in my forehead are about to burst with effort. If I don’t block her out, if I don’t block Grace out, my restraint will snap. When I close my eyes, it’s easier to see the face of my spiritual director staring down at me with such disappointment at my thoughts. It helps. A little bit.
Even though my gaze is on the plate in front of me, I know Grace is watching me innocently from under her lashes. I can feel her eyes on me. But they don’t fool me. There’s nothing innocent about the body beneath that pretty red dress. Everything about it is sinful and dangerous.
And no matter how hard I’ve tried to forget the feel of her skin against mine, both our smells mixed with the distinct smell of sex, it all seems to be imprinted in my very being. Those memories are a part of me. She’s a part of me.
Two months ago, I renewed my pledge to God and myself. I promised not to let myself get easily swayed by memories of Grace. I purged all carnal thoughts from my mind. I was cleansed, and my faith and purpose renewed.
I was at peace, that is, until I found out where I’d be spending Thanksgiving dinner.
I wonder if today will be the day I break my vow.
Ten years old
Sunrays filter through the stained glass, casting shades of color on the walls and floors. Specks of dust surround the light in a mesmerizing dance, and I can’t stop staring, hoping if I stare too hard the rays of sunshine will reach the pew where I’m sitting and pour warmth inside me.
My mother once told me beauty can be found anywhere. All I needed to do was look for it.
I’m searching for it now, trying to find the beauty in my life, in this old church, in anything. But I can’t. Not when I feel cold and empty inside.
Uncle Luke pauses in delivering the homily, his eyes moving to where I’m sitting with my shoulders hunched forward. He’s been darting glances at me since Mass started twenty-five minutes ago. His electric blue eyes, the same as my mother’s, pierce my similar ones. I take in his neatly combed brown hair and clean-shaven jaw. Other than these two things, he’s the spitting image of my mom, down to the small indent in his chin.
He’s trying hard to hold himself together in front of the congregation, but the worry lines bracketing his mouth and the slight furrow of his brows betray him.
He adjusts the white collar around his neck subtly with a finger as if it’s too tight, then looks down at the open Bible in front of him. His gaze meets mine again before moving to the parishioners, then back to me.
His head slants to the side just like Mom’s used to do when she imparted a morsel of advice. It’s awfully familiar, the pain squeezing inside my chest still fresh.
I turn and stare at the windows again to avoid his eyes and dig my mom’s rosary from my pants pocket. The feel of the smooth beads between my fingers soothes me. I can almost hear my mom’s voice, see my dad as he smiles down at her with teasing eyes.
If I could go back in time two months ago before my parents were brutally taken from me, I would.
My gaze is pulled toward the cross on the wall. I can’t breathe, and my chest feels like it’s on fire as anger pushes through the numbing coldness in my veins.
I want to yell at the top of my lungs. Instead, I narrow my eyes at Jesus with his head bowed and arms nailed on either side of the two bars.
I hate you, I whisper angrily inside my head. I hate you. Why didn’t you take me too? Why not me? Why not me?
I close my eyes, hoping the pain will recede, but it’s too much and too loud. It’s almost as loud as the booming sound that woke me as our car crashed against a tree on the Fourth of July. We were driving back from watching fireworks over the Charles River like we did every year, and the accident claimed my dad and mom.
I fell asleep in the car, so I’m not sure what happened exactly. According to the police report, a car swerved into our lane, causing my dad to twist the wheel to avoid a collision. But it was already too late. The two cars crashed into each other, causing our car to veer off the road. It rolled a few times before crashing into a tree.
Blood rushes in my ears at the memory of being jolted awake to the deafening sound of the crash. I remember the awful rasping as Mom struggled to breathe. Then everything went oddly silent, and terror filled me. My parents were dead, both of them, and I was still here, alone. Part of me died along with them at that realization. Later on, I learned that Dad had died on impact. I’d narrowly escaped death, somehow coming out of the ordeal with only a few broken ribs and a concussion.
Luke’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts, and I gulp for air desperately to keep the pain from swallowing me alive. Maybe I should just let it consume me.
He repeats the words I’ve heard many times during the past few weeks. I want to rip my ears from my head so I don’t have to hear them again. “Cast your burden onto the Lord, and He will . . .”
My head bows in defeat before he can finish that sentence.
I want to tell him I tried. I tried very hard to let God handle my problems. My pain. But the crushing weight of my loss still sits heavy in my chest. I’m tired of feeling angry all the time, tired of reliving the accident over and over, tired of missing them, tired of everything.
What if what if I walked out of the door and disappeared?
What if you stayed? a voice whispers in my head or my ear. I can’t tell. It seems to come from everywhere at once.
I bolt upright in the pew, looking right and left, and then over my shoulder. All eyes are focused on my uncle at the front of the church, his voice resounding across the walls and domed ceiling.
The back of my neck burns as if someone is watching me. I scan the church, wondering if my mind is finally giving in to the grief and pressure. First, I hear voices, and now, I feel as though someone is watching me.
I’m about to face forward when my gaze meets a pair of eyes staring at me with curiosity. The eyes of a girl with brown skin and curly hair that glows like a halo around her head, an effect from the sunrays streaming through the window. A pink flower is tucked into her hair. She’s leaning her head against the arm of a woman with matching features.
We stare at each other for a few seconds, then I look away, my cheeks heating with embarrassment. She must think I’m crazy or whatever.
I jump to my feet, ready to flee. From the corner of my eye, I see the panic cross Uncle Luke’s face. But I can’t stay. I need to go.
I need to breathe.
“Excuse me,” I mutter to the woman on my right at the same time as I push my feet forward, but they’re stuck on the floor. Something is holding me in place. I can’t move.
My vision suddenly blurs, and a loud boom, boom, boom fills my ears. Then I’m falling sideways. I grab the pew in front of me for support, but my hands miss it by inches, and my head smacks on something hard. My eyes fall shut, unable to take the pressure behind them. The last thing I feel before darkness claims me is a pair of strong hands grasping my shoulders.
I blink my eyes open and stare at what looks like a white ceiling. I’m lying on a hard surface, and my head feels as if it’s about to split open. I move my head to the side and take in the bookshelves filled with books and several framed photos. There’s a cross above the shelves and a picture of the Pope hanging beside it.
“Is he going to be okay?” a woman’s voice asks softly. I tilt my head and see two women hovering at the door. The one with brown skin looks awfully familiar. My brain clears a little, and I realize she was sitting next to the girl with a pink flower in her hair.
“I don’t know. I . . . he has to be okay. He just has to.” Luke’s voice cracks as he whispers those words.
No one says anything for a few seconds. I hear feet walking in my direction. Then small fingers—smaller than mine—wrap around my hand and squeeze gently.
“You’re awake,” a voice whispers in my ear.
I turn my head and meet the same eyes I saw earlier. Up close, they remind me of maple syrup. My gaze darts to the door, to the women speaking with my uncle, then back to the girl hovering above me.
“That’s my mom over there.” She jerks her thumb over her shoulder in the general direction of the door, then leans closer to my ear and says, “You’re going to be okay.”
I blink twice and croak out, “I am?”
She nods confidently. “Just a small bump here . . .” She taps a finger on her forehead. “It will heal. Everything will be okay. I promise, okay?”
Her big eyes watch me patiently. I want to believe her, but I’m having a hard time. My parents once promised me nothing would ever take them away from me. And where are they now? Dead.
A broken promise.
I turn my head to face the wall as another torrent of tears floods my eyes. Finger tips brush my skin, wiping the tears as they spill from the corner of my eye, and I can’t help it. I bring my gaze back to this girl who’s showing me kindness instead of shying away from the sadness.
She purses her lips as if she’s in deep thought, then says, “My mom once told me tears are like rain for our souls. They wash away the pain and sadness in our hearts so we don’t drown.”
I wipe my cheeks with the sleeve of my shirt, my mouth curving into a reluctant smile at her attempt to make me feel better. “Your mom sounds awesome.”
At that, she smiles wide, and I notice the little gap between her two upper teeth. Something jolts inside me, and a part of me melts a little.
“She’s really amazing.” She sing-songs the last word. “What’s your name?”
“Solomon Callan,” I reply without hesitation.
“Grace Miller.” She opens her mouth to say something but then shuts it when the conversation behind us stops. Feet move in our direction, and she pulls her hand from mine. Immediately, I miss the comfort and warmth. She reaches for the pink flower in her hair and pulls it out, then puts it in my palm. I feel the sharp edge of the metal clip nip my skin.
I’m so confused. Why did she give me this? Is she expecting me to put it in my hair? “I don’t . . . it looks better in your hair.”
“It’s a good luck charm, silly.” She giggles, reminding me of the wind chimes that used to hang from the porch ceiling at my house in Boston.
Fresh pain slices through me. My mom and I loved to sit on the porch swing and wait for my dad to come home from work. Then he’d join us, and we’d rock back and forth on the swing, simply being a family while the wind chimes blew softly in the breeze. And now my family is gone. I wipe my wet cheeks with my free hand.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Grace whispers worriedly. “It’s just a flower. I’ll take it—”
“No. It’s pretty. Thank you.” My fingers curl around the silky soft fabric in my palm. She flashes me a relieved smile.
Before I have a chance to say another word, she says, “I have to go.” She gives me a small wave, then turns and skips away.
“Sol?” my uncle calls out as he appears in my line of vision. I drag my gaze from Grace Miller and meet his. He sighs in relief and reaches for my hand, covering it with his larger one. “How are you feeling?”
I glance to the side again, searching for Grace, but she’s already gone. I bring my gaze back to my uncle’s.
“My head.” I touch the spot on my temple. When I fainted, I must have hit the pew in front of me before someone caught me.