“You two know each other, then?” Oscar asks.
“Uh, yeah. In a way, I guess. We knew each other from . . .” I don’t know how to describe how we know one another. From planning my wedding? From the movie we did together? From church? From the tabloids? From conspiracy videos on TikTok?
“Operation Allies Welcome. Working with Afghan refugees at Camp . . .”
“Atterbury. Yes. Mr. Kelly was a big part of that project.” I’m speaking to my team now in order to avoid eye contact with Patrick. “Actually, seeing the lack of resettlement resources for that particular base was one of the inspirations for RROCK.”
“Well, isn’t that full circle?” Oscar asks, holding his pen in the hand clasped under his chin. “Your résumé struck me as particularly unique.” He lingers on the last word, and I’m sure it’s because he’s savvy enough to know not to bring up an applicant’s religious beliefs in a job interview. “What brings you to our organization?”
Patrick sits up in his chair and straightens his jacket like he’s preparing for a one-on-one with Mac Dorman rather than a job interview.
“A lot like Ms. Branson, I’ve recently made a huge shift in my career,” he says, speaking directly at me, uninhibited. “And I’ve always been passionate about helping others.”
“Wait,” I blurt, wedging myself into the conversation, dizzied by the unexpected cameo. “Your career changed?”
I haven’t seen Father Patrick since the night we parted in front of the church. I considered reaching out more than once, but after that last conversation with Father Ignatius and several conversations with church officials investigating the photograph situation, I thought it’d be best for Patrick if he never saw my face again. Why would he even want to talk to me, much less work at my company?
“Uh, yeah. It’s a long story, but—to answer simply—yes. Yes, it changed.” He rubs his chin and uncrosses his legs and then lays an envelope on the table. “I was freed from the clerical state at the end of last year and have been laicized. It’s all in here if you need the documentation.”
“Well, your religious orders are really none of our business,” Ciara reminds Patrick and the rest of the room, pushing her long, curly hair off her shoulders like the tension is making her warm. It may be none of Ciara’s business or Oscar’s or RROCK’s business for that matter, but it damn well seems like one of the main reasons he’s come here is to give me that piece of information.
“You know what—could Patrick and I have a second? I think we need to catch up before we continue. You all right with that?” I ask my team, knowing full well they have no other option but to say yes.
Both executives clear the room without protest. Once we’re alone, I settle into a chair closer to his but not so close as to seem aggressive or presumptive.
“You know you could’ve just called me, right?” I ask, taking him in from this closer proximity. He’s different. Not quite so buttoned up, literally and figuratively. His hair is neatly combed but touching his ears and collar. And from here, I can see a light stubble on his chin that’s ruggedly handsome to say the least.
But he’s also completely unchanged, and so is my reaction to him—his mannerisms, humor, the way he makes me feel like he knows all the worst parts of me and doesn’t give a shit about any of them. Our eyes connect in that way that makes my insides melt and my ears ring.
“I wanted to. But I didn’t know what you’d think of me now.” He gestures to his new look or perhaps his new self.
“A wardrobe change or a title change isn’t important to me. I thought you’d have known that.”
“I know, but . . . ,” he says, unable to finish the sentence coherently. I tilt my head, confused.
“If you knew, then, why’d you stay away so long?” I thought he was focused on his spiritual life. I thought I was helping him avoid temptation or whatever people like Father Ignatius might call the glowing embers of what we had together.
He sighs, readjusts in his seat, and then leans in toward my chair.
“When you left the church that night, I went after you. You don’t know that, but I did. When I got to the hotel, though, Hunter was in your room and told me you were gone. He said he knew the pictures were embellished and tried to act like you’d reconciled. I only halfway bought it, but it did take some wind out of my sails. I went back to the rectory, and I’m not kidding when I say I was about to buy a ticket to New York.”
“You were?” It sounds ridiculously close to the end of a cheesy romcom, but even so, I find it touching.
“I did,” he says, reticent, a touch of pink coloring his cheeks. “Then Father Ignatius came to speak with me, convinced me to not throw away everything I’d been working toward. He said, ‘If it’s God’s will today, then it will still be his will tomorrow’ and asked me to not make a rash decision. So, I didn’t transfer. And every day I’d pray, and every day Father Ignatius would ask if I’d decided to stay, and I’d say I didn’t know. And then one day he said, ‘If you’re still asking God the same question after all this time, you know your answer.’ And I knew he was right. I hadn’t gone one day without thinking of you. Not one. And that’s a lot to say to someone without, you know, freaking them out,” he acknowledges sheepishly.
“You left the priesthood because of me?” I stare at him, taking in his confession, not sure what it all means but also feeling like I’d just figured out the final puzzle on Wheel of Fortune with only a few vowels and consonants in the right place.
He looks uncomfortable with my chosen wording.
“I stayed away because I didn’t want to leave ‘because of you.’ I wanted to make sure I was leaving because it was right for me. And that’s why I’m here looking for a job instead of calling you with”—he gyrates his hands in the air, symbolically—“other intentions.”
Two years is a long time. I’ve been through a major breakup, a total career change, family drama, and multiple public relations nightmares. I’m not the same person I was two years ago, and neither is he. And I think that’s a good thing.
“I can’t hire you,” I say matter-of-factly, which I can tell surprises him after he revealed his emotional vulnerability.
“All right, I understand,” he says after a brief pause, folding up his notepad and placing the envelope in the crease.
“Hey, no, wait. I’m not asking you to leave.” I touch his sleeve, wishing I had the courage to take his hand, but I can’t, not yet. “I’m saying I can’t be involved in hiring you because I’m”—I search for the right word—“biased.”
“Good biased or bad biased?” he asks, placing the notepad back on the table.
“It’s not bad. It just means I have a vested interest in your doing well, so it’s not fair to everyone else.” I bite my lip and say the thought that’s flashed into my mind. “But you’re too skilled to lose that easily, and we don’t have an art program here . . .” I let the suggestion trail off, allowing him to fill in the gaps of my impromptu proposal.