Sasha flushed. “I came back to look at the tables and see if I needed to rent some.”
“One thing we have are plenty of tables.” He motioned for her to walk around the building. It was a beautiful spring day, and it would be a shame to waste the time indoors.
Her soft steps in pristine white sneakers followed him. He didn’t know if he’d ever seen her dressed casually before. He hadn’t even noticed that she was more dressed down than anyone else at the ceremony. She looked younger, somehow, in a T-shirt and dark jeans, with her glossy dark hair pulled back in a ponytail tied with a scarf. But she didn’t look any less put together.
He felt like he was falling apart a little bit and hoped that her overly observant eyes weren’t seeing it. That was the thing about her that got to him. Even though she was scrupulously kind to everyone, he could tell when she didn’t like someone. It wouldn’t be obvious to someone who wasn’t looking carefully. But then, he’d always looked at her closely. He just hadn’t let himself think about it too much, because they’d never spent as much time alone before.
They got to the shed adjacent to the courtyard and he opened it up. “Behold the bounty of tables.”
Sasha gave him a crooked grin. “Good. I’ll just bring some tablecloths.”
“Perfect. We usually have plastic.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “It’ll class up the place.”
He was about to ask her if she needed anything else so that he could leave, but then his phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket and saw that it was his dad. He normally wouldn’t answer the phone when he was with a parishioner, but Sasha wasn’t a parishioner, and his dad never called without a good reason.
“Hold on, it’s my dad.”
“Of course.”
He picked up the phone and without preliminaries, his father said, “Patrick.”
His father hadn’t exactly seen eye to eye with him on entering the seminary. He hadn’t been inside a church since his wife’s funeral, not even for Patrick’s ordination. And he’d never gone to Mass with his wife. So, he never called him “Father Patrick”—Not calling my own son “Father.”
“What’s up, Dad?”
“Need you to come to the bar.” That’s when he noticed his father’s voice sounded strained.
“What happened?” Concern for his father’s safety replaced any thoughts about Sasha. His father’s health had been more frail of late. And even though he was supposed to be at peace with all of God’s whims—to trust that all was His will—he was afraid of losing his father. His father didn’t call him “Father Patrick” partially because he didn’t respect the institution of the Church. The other part of it was that Patrick wasn’t a priest when it came to his father. He was a son.
“It’s nothing. I had a little accident, but I need your help.” His father was an old-school tough guy, and to admit that he needed help was a really big deal. A lump formed in Patrick’s throat, and sweat slicked the small of his back.
“I’ll be right over,” he said as he hung up. He looked up to find Sasha still standing there, looking concerned.
“What’s going on?”
“My dad.” Patrick made a noncommittal hand gesture. “He said he had a little accident, and it sounded like he was hurt.”
“Oh no. Should we call 911?”
Patrick could kick himself for not thinking of that. “I said—I said I’d be right there.”
“Okay, I’ll drive you. My car is right in front.”
He could have argued with her or just walked off to his car. Inviting her further into his life was a bad idea. She knew his father in passing, but she wasn’t an emergency contact. Having her come with him when his dad could be seriously hurt felt really intimate to him. But her car was closer, and he was afraid. She would probably get them there faster and more safely.
So he followed her as she ran-walked to her parking space.
He tried to call his dad six times in the ten-minute drive to Dooley’s. He didn’t answer, and Patrick’s anxiety amped up another level every time the phone clicked over to voice mail. Every time he heard the recording, You got Danny. Send a text next time, he wanted to throw the phone.
“It’s going to be okay,” Sasha said, even though she couldn’t know that.
“That’s my line.” He didn’t know how to accept the comfort she was offering. He was usually the one doling it out. And, for once, it felt like a relief to let someone else bear the burden of keeping things together. He was so good at staying composed that he’d become a professional. But the prospect of being an orphan was really straining that ability.
After shifting, she reached over and gently touched his forearm. Though he’d thrown her out of the way of a moving car, he’d only been touching her for a few seconds. This lingering caress wasn’t meant to do anything but offer comfort, but it felt like more. He was so touch starved, it was as though his body didn’t know what to do with the oxytocin.
He didn’t want to push her hand away. She didn’t mean anything by it. He was the one with the problem having her around. Even if she’d noticed his attraction to her with her too-astute gaze, she hadn’t changed her behavior toward him.
* * *
—
SASHA DIDN’T LIKE THAT Patrick was worried. She’d seen him concerned, but she’d never been able to feel his anxiety spike like this. He and Chris—despite the latter being a total douchebag— loved their father. And Danny Dooley was a gruff but good man. If Sasha and her parents were as tight as Patrick was with his father, she would be apoplectic at getting that kind of call.
She didn’t flinch when Patrick pulled his arm away to grab at his hair. She’d hesitated to reach out because something seemed to have shifted between them when he’d saved her from getting run over. It was as though there was something unspoken between the two of them that had created a delicate tightrope they had to walk. Any touching could lead the tightrope to fray. If they fell—well, who knew what would happen?
Once they got to Dooley’s, Sasha parked the car while Patrick went inside. In her rearview mirror, she saw him tugging at the locked front doors. It was before noon, after all.
He ran around the side of the building to the alley, and Sasha followed him after she’d locked her car. Once inside, she ran through the back hall to the storage room, where she could hear the two Dooley men yelling at each other.
“I’m fine. How many speed limits did you break on the way over? Last fuckin’ thing I need is to put my son in the ground alongside my wife.” Mr. Dooley seemed fine.