“That one’s easy,” Hunter says. “Don’t even live in the same state right now. Is there a box to check for that?”
“Uh, no,” Father Patrick answers, scanning the page with his pointer finger, serious. He summarizes the next point without looking at either Hunter or me. “It also is suggested you refrain from physical intimacy from now till the wedding.”
“Once again, not in the same state,” Hunter says, and then mouths “for now.”
Father Patrick accepts his answer and doesn’t ask me anything directly. His cheeks are flushed, and though Hunter likely thinks he’s a sexually repressed religious ideologue, I can tell this isn’t easy or comfortable for him.
“I know we’re short on time, so I’ll read the closing of this section. It’s a good summary, and I’ll copy the pages for you to look through on your own.” He turns three pages and then points to a paragraph at the bottom of the last one.
My head pounds as he reads. “The Catholic Church teaches every act of sexual intercourse is planned by God to express love, commitment, and openness to life. It is a gift of total intimacy.” He glances up at me and then back at the page, the brief eye contact sending a shock through my nervous system. I watch his mouth make the shape of each word as he closes his reading with, “This, we believe, is only available in marriage.”
Total intimacy.
The phrase sticks with me, and I consider my relationship with Hunter. We have physical intimacy, and we have some emotional intimacy, for sure. But total intimacy? The phrase loops through my mind, creating a hypnotic buzz that overrides anything Patrick is saying.
“And just to be clear—we do have that ‘openness to life’ part. We definitely want kids. Right, Lisey?”
I blink. I want kids. I’ve wanted them since before I said yes to Dean six years ago. It’s why I pay the bill at the cryo center every month to keep my eggs safe so my biological clock wouldn’t impact my decision to be a parent. But am I ready for them now? With Hunter?
“Yeah,” I respond, catching up with the pace of the conversation. “Eventually.”
“Don’t say that in front of the priest, babe. You know how they feel about birth control,” Hunter jokes. Father Patrick’s face is flat without any traces of his usually active sense of humor.
“Children are a gift from the Lord,” he mumbles, and writes something in his binder. “You can let Mac know we’re ready to move on,” Patrick adds, turning to the next section, and I slink down in my seat, sending out a quick text to Mac, trying not to think about babies or intimacy any longer.
Hunter looks at his watch and changes the subject before Father Patrick can give any further family planning advice.
“Oh, really quick before they get back in here. Not to rush you at all, but I have a call with Australia at seven, so I’ll have to ditch out in a few. I know—bad timing, but it popped up today, and I can’t miss.”
Seven o’clock? I check the time on my phone. That’s ten minutes from now.
Thirty minutes. That’s how long he spared for this meeting. I’ve seen him make four-hour international conference calls during a merger. He’s ditched out of all our previous Pre-Cana sessions and joked his way through this one. This whole stupid documentary was more his idea than mine, but somehow, it’s ended up on my plate entirely, as though I don’t have my own life and my own business to run.
“We’ll fit in what we can,” Father Patrick says as Mac and the crew file in, and I’m glad he replies because I know my irritation will be noticeable if I respond.
“Ready?” Mac asks, and with the clack of a clapper, we’re rolling again, this time talking about safer topics like household budgeting and balancing family time with work. The subject matter is boring, and I can’t imagine Mac finding much to work with, but I love seeing Patrick doing what he’s most passionate about—helping others. He makes me feel safe to share my thoughts and emotions. He protected me when I didn’t want to have an audience witness my most private secrets.
Total intimacy.
No. It’s not something I have with Hunter. And despite what the church says, I don’t think I’ll suddenly find it when I’m married to him. But Patrick . . .
“Love you, babe. Call you later,” Hunter says as he logs off.
“Love you too,” I say back, following the age-old script for couples saying goodbye.
“Let’s call that a day,” Mac declares, and the small crew works to strike the equipment. Father Patrick stows the Pre-Cana binder in a drawer and snakes his way through the organized pandemonium. I slip my computer into my bag and follow him. He’s leaning over to rearrange the hymnals in the rack on the back of the front pew.
“Hey, sorry about that,” I say, using my thumb to point to the office door.
“What for?” he asks, sounding uninterested.
“That meeting. How awkward I made it. Hunter leaving early. All of it.”
“Seemed pretty normal to me,” he says, moving down the row to the next rack.
“That was normal?”
“It’s always difficult to bring up sensitive topics. And grooms can be harder to engage in this kind of thing.”
He clearly doesn’t want to talk about the counseling session, the unease remaining from last night still lingering. I feel it, too, but if one of us doesn’t step up and force an interaction, the tension will only get worse. I sit in the front pew and lean over the back of it on folded arms.
“I totally forgot to tell you about a new development with the ‘my mom’ stuff.” I refrain from referencing the conversation in the car, hoping we can get back to normal. “I confronted her when she got into town, and you wouldn’t believe what I found in her purse . . .”
I take a breath to tell him about the picture album and the DNA test, but he drops a hymnal into the rack on the opposite end of the pew and then moves to the next aisle, two rows away now.
“No thank you,” he says, overlapping my explanation.
“What?”
“I’m not available to counsel with you right now,” he says, not breaking his serious priest persona.
“What, do I have to sign up for office hours or something?” I look around for any cameras or hidden mics but see nothing obvious. “You know you’re not on camera, right?”
He moves closer to my end of the pew; though he’s still two rows away, he’s close enough I can see his face more clearly. His lips are taut and white, his brows pinched together like he’s concentrating. I move directly in front of him, the back of the pew the only thing between us. He steps back and sighs and then moves to the next row.
“What the hell is up with you?” I ask, his cool responses beginning to hurt my feelings.
“Nothing.” The books make a rhythmic thump, thump, thump as he works. “I have work to do, that’s all.” He steps down the pew, and I don’t follow him because I can’t pretend to not comprehend. He needs space—from me. The balloon of warmth that fills me whenever we talk deflates. I respect him too much to try to change his mind.
“I understand,” I respond, gathering my things. “Have a good evening, Father,” I say, tripping on the braided edge of the runner protecting the wood-paneled main aisle.