“I’m sorry, Raine.”

She shakes her head. “Nothing to be sorry for. Ancient history. A mere curiosity,” she says, like she doesn’t care. “After those excursions, I went to other places Father wouldn’t allow, like the cathedral on Washington Street.”

“Holy Cross?”

“You’ve been there?”

Every Sunday at 11:30 A.M. At least until I was twelve. I was an altar boy when I was just ten years old. I can still see my parents and grandparents beaming as I walked in the processional with my hands folded in front of me in prayer. When I was getting ready in front of my sister, I pretended I hated the cassock and crisp white tunic I had to wear, but I remember secretly thinking that maybe God would see me wearing those fancy holy clothes and mistake me for a priest. That, I was sure, would give me a direct line to God, because my regular connection to him seemed pretty shaky. Even though my house, my neighborhood, and my family are gone now, it’s comforting to know the church we went to has survived the ages. Still, I answer cautiously, not knowing what kind of shape it’s in now or if it’s even used as a church anymore—especially since the library is now a food warehouse.

“I only drove by. I don’t remember much about it.”

“That’s a shame. It’s beautiful. Spires of open emptiness, jeweled shadows, musical echos, and best of all, I listen to whispers from the stained-glass saints surrounding me. I always sit in the center pews all alone and pretend … I pretend I’m somewhere in heaven.”

I hear the desperate hush of her last few words, as if she’s embarrassed. I swallow at the sudden stab in my throat. I should leave, but I can’t. Somewhere in heaven. She has to run away in the middle of the night to get a small piece of heaven? To a lonely dark church? She’s telling me more than I have a right to know. I don’t need this kind of information. Or maybe I’m just afraid I might start sharing information with her about myself, the real me. It feels like it would be so easy to do, so natural to share with her, but I banish any thoughts of truth. I have to keep up the charade of who I am. The Favor is more important than anything I might be feeling at the moment.

I look up and see her studying my face like she was watching the battle going on inside of me, like she saw me hiding away the truth.

There’s a loud rustle in the bushes and she stands. “I need to go,” she says.

“It’s only squirrels, or rats.”

“It’s not that. I just need to go.”

“All right.” I stand too. “See you tomorrow night at the meeting.”

“Right. You know where it is. My place.” Her voice is flat, all the warmth of just a few minutes ago, gone, like she’s already bracing herself for tomorrow night when she’ll have to resume being the cool, guarded Raine. “Good night,” she adds, and begins to turn away.

“Raine—”

“Just leave it, Locke!” she snaps. “I have to go!”

“Hey.” I put my hands up like I’m backing off. “Did I suddenly drop a notch on the trust meter?”

Instead of taking it as a remark to lighten the mood, I see her face darken even more. A furrow deepens between her brows and she bites her lip. She turns her back to me so I can’t see her. The air is punched out of me and I race back through my words wondering what I said that sent her into a tailspin. Or was it the look on my face as she studied it? Does she know I’m hiding something? Or maybe she went one step too far in opening up with me—a slippery place for someone who always walks a very private tightrope.

I take a step closer to her, staring at her back. “I didn’t mean to—”

She vigorously shakes her head, her hair rippling across her back. “You scare me, Locke! From the moment I first saw you, you scared me.”

I’m unable to speak. I frighten her. That was the last thing I expected or wanted. I reach out and lightly touch her shoulder. “Raine…”

She turns to face me and her words run out in a breathless avalanche. “I’ve never done this before. Ever. I want you to know. I’ve never shared my nights with anyone, or told them about the cathedral, or my mother, or being found in the garbage. I’m not any good at this. Worse than not good. I’m a failure at people. But that first night, I saw you long before you saw me and you fascinated me. You looked like you were in the park waiting for someone, someone who never came, you looked so alone and lonely, and for a moment, I thought maybe I should be that someone who comes so you wouldn’t feel all alone. And I thought about that all the next day. I couldn’t get it out of my mind, and that scared me even more. And now everything that I was afraid would happen is happening. And that’s why I told you that first night never to come here again.” She shrugs a slightly hysterical shrug, her eyes glistening, and she adds, “I don’t know Italian either. Only ‘capiche.’”

And then, before I know what I’m doing, my head is lowering to hers, my lips to hers, my breaths becoming hers, and I forget about everything but the taste of her mouth, the scent of her hair, and the knots of her spine as my hands pull her closer.

The Rules of the Game

I’m in trouble. Big trouble. I’m exhausted. Not at the top of my game by a long shot. And worried.

It didn’t stop with one kiss. Or two.

And then when I got home, I relived every moment. Her hands sliding along my back. Her tongue tracing my lips. Her hair brushing across my face when we fell to the ground. Her leaning over me, staring, and then lowering her face to mine again. Everything about her was sweet, and perfect, and dangerous. But I couldn’t stop and neither could she. Our mutual trust status made an instant leap to ten.