Chapter 38

CHAPTER 38

ROSE

T he bright winter sunlight seemed to show the truth in this beautiful, abandoned church. It was so peaceful here but also melancholy, at least that’s what I was trying to show in my painting. Everything I had worked on since arriving in London had a touch of sadness about it. I couldn’t help it.

That’s how I felt. I should be excited about my new life, working on building relationships and friendships here, but there was still a bone-deep sadness I just couldn’t shake. It was him. That sadness was me missing him.

Classes had just started, and I was given an assignment to paint the architecture in London, whatever building we chose, as long as it made us feel something.

Churches made me feel a lot of things.

But this one made my heart ache. The Anglican Chapel at Nunhead Cemetery was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. It had been abandoned, for some time, more a ruin now than anything else, but it was still so fascinating. Almost like you could see through glimpses of time to what it used to be.

This church, unlike the one I had attended back home, had beautiful spires that instilled hope, not fear. The archways’ details were all just so stunning; if you were quiet and held your breath, you could almost see a young bride in her simple white dress next to her new husband waving to her family as she got into a horse-drawn buggy, heading to her new life.

You could see the people gather outside after mass, talking about the words of the priest, mothers holding children, fathers talking to each other about their day-to-day worries, and it brought a sense of the community that had long passed. The remains of that community lay in the cemetery.

It was beautiful, it was inspiring, and just a little sad. That was what I was trying to convey as I sat on my blanket in a small area not covered by snow. A bottle of wine and a little plate of dried fruit and cheeses to snack on sat next to me while I tried to capture the essence of this building on my canvas.

I tried to focus on the details of the spires, imagining what the people looking up at them thought when they were brand new. My painting needed to capture the melancholy of long-ago lives, not the depression I felt because every church reminded me of him.

I was pulled out of my thoughts when my phone chimed at my side again.

It was another text from Thomas.

I had been in London for weeks now. And his messages had been consistent.

I didn’t respond to any of them. My fingers always typed out a message, but I never sent them. I told myself that maybe I would if he had sent me something that I could respond to, but he never did.

Something he said to me before I left stuck with me. He told me my mother stole both of our lives, and I had to wonder, if she wasn’t the way she was, would he and I have ended up together? If he wasn’t so angry and broken by her actions, if I wasn’t so damaged, could we have had a normal relationship? What would Father Manwarring have been like as a normal boyfriend?

Would his messages have been something like, “hey, how’s it going?” Or “what’s it like in London right now, babe?” Instead, I got messages that said things like: “I miss the way your sweet cunt drips the purest honey into my mouth as I make you come on my tongue.” And even “Do you think about me late at night when you lie in your bed? Do you close your eyes and try to remember how it feels to have my cock pumping in and out of your tight little body?” And, “I just lit an altar candle, and I ache to know if you think of me every time you light a candle as well?”

That one was arguably the least graphic, but still made me blush so hard as I thought back to the things that he had done with my body and that damn candle.

He sent me pictures too.

Nothing as vulgar as a dick pic, though part of me was a little disappointed at that. Instead, he sent images that were less vulgar, but somehow so much more erotic.

I’d gotten pictures of the front of his pants, his belt along with the top button of his pants undone. His fist gripping the buckle of his belt as he pulled it from his slacks. Another with his hand gripping a candle, reminding me of the dirty things that he had done with those. Another of just his hand on a stone altar, his fingers splayed and bent like he was trying to grip onto the flat surface. Just like they were when he said my name as he came inside me after laying me on that cold stone slab.

Every time he sent me a text, or photo, I typed out a message, sometimes telling him to stop, other times begging him for more. I never sent them.

I kept thinking that maybe one day I would? Maybe one day my finger would slip and instead of hitting Delete, I’d hit Send.

It hadn’t happened yet.

Talking to Amelia last week, she mentioned he had come for dinner, and they had actually had a great time. Luc was even excited about getting his little brother back, but then, just like that, the next morning, he was gone. Back to Rome.

At least that explained why he was in such a similar time zone as me. I tried to forget him. I tried so hard to ignore his endless text messages and calls, and I just couldn’t. He was relentless, and I was so dependent on it. I even held my thumb over the button to block his number so many times, but I just couldn’t bring myself to push it.

I needed to end this chapter with him. This wasn’t healthy. Not just because he was a priest, that was enough. But I needed his messages too much. I actually got upset when I went more than a few hours without one.

It felt like I was in some kind of weird, one-sided relationship with my phone, but I wasn’t the one sending messages. I was the one refusing to respond.

London was supposed to help me move on without Father Manwarring. It was supposed to help me figure out who I was without his or anyone else’s influence. Still, so much of my life revolved around his unanswered text messages.

I slid my phone open and looked at his latest message.

You look beautiful.

I couldn’t help the smile that painted my lips. Even knowing that he wasn’t here, that he did not know what I looked like at this moment or even where I was. Still, the idea of him finding me beautiful made my heart skip a beat.

I put down my canvas and focused on my phone, cradling it in my lap as I typed out the response that I knew I would not send.

How do you know?

My thumb, like it always did, just hovered over the button, aching to press it and then moving to the Delete button. I hovered over that one too. Not ready to touch it.

This was ridiculous. If I didn’t respond, eventually he’d stop sending messages. But if I responded, didn’t that just encourage him? Didn’t I want to encourage him?

“Go ahead,” a deep voice said behind me. I sat up straighter, knowing that voice, my breath catching in my throat as I closed my eyes and prayed that I didn’t imagine it. “Press Send, angel.”