Crossed: Chapter 11

QUINTEN SKIPS DOWN THE AISLE, DRAGGING HIS toes on the ground while I push the grocery cart behind him. It’s Monday afternoon, and just like every other week, right after I pick him up from school, we head to the store so we can stock up.

Today, I’d rather be anywhere else. The overhead lights feel like they’re hammering behind my eyes, and my attention is torn, making sure Quinten doesn’t trip while he hops around on his tiptoes while also trying to grab our groceries.

The credit card burns in my wallet, practically screeching at me to keep it locked away and start actually paying off the debt, not adding more. But I don’t have a choice. Every transaction is another pile of dirt on my unmarked grave, burying me alive. And the only person who can dig me out is the same man who’s got the shovel.

I could scream, but there’s no one around who would care.

Reaching out, I grab three giant boxes of the off- brand shells and cheese, tossing them into the cart. It’s been what Quinten has requested for dinner without fail every single night for the past three months, and while I know it’s coating his insides with synthetic cheese, at least I know he’s eating.

“Watch where you’re going,” a sharp voice hisses.

My head snaps up just as Quinten cowers back, running toward me and gripping onto my pant leg, his lips sucking in to keep from showing emotion.

I narrow my eyes as I zone in on Florence Gammond.

She sneers as she looks me up and down, her pinched face souring like she’s sucked on a warhead. Her auburn hair is exquisitely curled and her pantsuit is perfectly pressed, and I lift my chin to keep from feeling two inches tall in her presence.

“Amaya,” she says, her muddy brown eyes cutting.

“Florence.”

“Keep that kid in line,” she snips.

My fingers grip the handle of the grocery cart so tightly my knuckles blanch.

“You can’t just let him run off and into people,” she keeps going. “If he doesn’t have the capacity to pay attention or to apologize like a normal person, then maybe he shouldn’t be in public places like this.”

Anger floods through me so quickly my body shakes. I glance down at Quinten, but he’s already on to the next thing, tracing the faded letters of the store name on the side of the cart. Still, I know he’s paying attention, so I try to contain my anger.

“You’re the adult, Florence. Maybe you should be the one paying attention.” My voice comes out surprisingly steady.

It’s in moments like this that I thank God for my poker face.

Florence loves to sniff out even the slightest weakness. With me especially, she’ll find one and use it to cut me down until I’m nothing but loose thread that’s frayed on the floor. She hated my mother for having Parker, and she hates me because I’m all he wants. But I wish she’d get it through her thick head that I don’t want him.

She scoffs, and I lightly touch Quinten’s back to get his attention before moving to walk past her. In this town, avoidance is key. We veer almost all the way to the right- hand side, which is plenty of room to steer clear of the hag, but she moves into my path, her shoulder ramming into mine until my feet stumble.

I pause, gritting my teeth to keep from throat punching her.

“You know,” she whisper hisses. “You should be more careful, Amaya.”

Anger weaves its way through my body, knocking on my calm like a hammer on a nail.

“I’d hate for Quinten to keep having run-ins at school,” she continues, glancing down at her nails. “You know I had the superintendent over for brunch just last week. I hear he’s on his last strike as it is.”

Deep, steady breaths. In and out. Don’t show the emotion on your face.

It’s difficult because the emotion is rolling through me like a banging drum, growing louder with each violent beat of my heart.

She knows damn well it’s not Quinten causing the issues.

“I don’t think we’re the ones who need to be careful, Florence.”

Her eyes flash with alarm, but she covers it quickly. “Are you threatening me? Is that some sort of spell?”

I smirk. The ridiculous people in this town still think I’m a witch, as if anyone here is important enough for me to expel any energy toward. All because my mother called me one when she lost her mind in the middle of the square after finding out I knew Parker was fucking Florence and hadn’t thought to tell her.

My mother’s mad at me today.

What else is new.

“Sit up straight, Amaya. Your slouching is ugly,” she hisses at me.

We’re at Mass again, and like usual, I’m bored out of my fucking mind. The only thing that holds me together is paying attention to Quinten, who’s just turned one and is currently fussing in Mom’s arms. Parker looks down at him and glares.

Mom immediately stiffens before nudging me with her elbow hard in the ribs and then passing Quinten over. “Take him somewhere else. He’s causing a scene.”

Indignation burns through my chest, but I take him from her and stand up from the pew, eyes falling on me as I interrupt the service to leave.

Quinten cries, his little chubby fingers gripping the front of my dress, and I smooth my hand over the back of his head as I carry him out and into the lobby.

We must be out here for twenty minutes, and I’ve plied him with those nasty raspberry tarts that are always next to the coffee. Now he’s passed out, sleeping peacefully on the cushioned bench in the hallway that leads to the offices.

“You’re good with him.”

I suck in a breath and spin around, coming face-to- face with Parker.

“You scared me.” I press a hand to my chest, looking behind him. “Is it over? Where’s Mom?”

He steps in closer, until I’m back against the wall. “No, I just wanted to give you your birthday gift.”

My stomach tenses. “Oh.”

“Nineteen’s a big number, huh?” His eyes strip me raw as they graze down my body, and my arms move in front of me like I can shield myself from his gaze.

Another step closer. I look over to Quinten, then back. “I— ”

“What the hell is this?” My mom’s voice pierces through the air, and I close my eyes, my heart dropping to my feet.

Parker backs up and smiles over at her. “Calm down, Chantelle. I’m just wishing your daughter a happy birthday.”

Her lips pinch as she glares between the two of us. “Service is over.”

Parker nods, stepping to her and gripping her by the back of the neck. It’s a power move, and I would swear a flash of panic flits through her gaze.

“Get yourself together, and then meet me out front. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

The second he’s gone, her eyes are on me, sharp as a blade.

“Mom, it wasn’t— ”

“Quiet. Grab your brother, and let’s go.”

Swallowing back the words I want to say, even though I know they’ll be pointless, I move to where Quinten is and pick him up gingerly, letting his head rest on my shoulder while he continues to sleep.

We walk outside, through the people lingering in the narthex and into the main square. It’s a sunny day, and I soak in the rays as we walk down the front and past the gargoyles.

Mom stops short once we hit the bottom steps, and I run into her back. Quinten jolts awake and squirms until I let him down. “It’s okay, buddy,” I whisper.

He wobbles on his little legs, having just learned to walk a month ago. I keep his hand in mine.

My stomach drops when I follow my mother’s gaze and see her zoned in on Florence and Parker, smiling wide at each other in front of the world.

She storms over.

“Get away from him, you fucking slut!” she screeches so loud that I swear every single head turns our way, silence blanketing the square like it’s empty.

Florence looks over, her eyes widening. But she listens, and she takes a step away. And then she turns her gaze to me, and her features twist into a scowl. “You told her?”

I suck in a breath, shaking my head. What is she doing saying it out loud? Doesn’t she care that anyone can hear?

Mom whips her head toward me, her eyes blazing with betrayal.

“Mom, it isn’t— ”

“I want you gone,” she snaps.

My breathing stutters, because I must have heard her wrong. “I… what?”

“You heard me, you little witch. I won’t let you ruin what I have with Parker.”

My jaw drops, disbelief washing over me. “I want nothing to do with Parker.”

Florence huffs out a laugh. “Please.”

“I don’t,” I snap, not taking my eyes off my mom. “I’m not going anywhere. If I leave, who’s gonna take care of Quin, huh?”

Mom scoffs. “He’s my son.”

“About time you remembered,” I hiss back.

She moves forward and smacks me, my face flinging to the side, forcing Quinten’s hand to drop from mine.

Audible gasps ring out around us, but no one steps in. No one intervenes.

Mom blows out a breath and straightens, flexing her fingers as she stares at me with nothing but ice in her gaze. “Watch your mouth.”

I shake off the pain, holding back the tears that are threatening to spill.

“Chantelle.” Parker’s voice is stern.

She whips toward him. “You’re taking her side? After all I’ve done for you? All I constantly do?”

His features harden, and he moves away from Florence and closer to her, dropping his voice until it’s nothing more than a whisper. “Think carefully before you speak again.”

She swallows and shakes her head but looks around. She must realize then what a scene she’s made. But it doesn’t stop her from turning back on me. “It’s you.”

My jaw drops, chest cracking open at how she’s turning against me so quickly, so publicly.

“You are a disease on everything you touch,” she spits, reaching down to pick up Quinten like it’s me he needs protection from. “A little witch, seducing men right out from under me.”

My eyes widen because I’m seriously becoming concerned about her state of mind. “Mom, be serious. Please.”

Voices murmur in the distance, but I don’t listen to what they say.

Parker steps in between us then, almost like he’s shielding me from her.

“You’ll see. You’ll all see.” She raises her arms like she’s talking to everyone in town. “She’ll curse this town just like she’s been a curse on my life!”

“Chantelle,” he says again. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

My mother stiffens her spine, nostrils flaring as she looks from him to me.

And from the corner of my eye, I see Florence doing the same.

Glaring at me, like somehow Parker’s weird fixation is my fault.

That night, my mom disappeared.

And Florence made it her personal mission to make my life a living hell.

I’m not one. A witch, I mean. Although, I do believe in a lot of their practices. Nature is all about balance, and I believe energy can absolutely be wielded and manipulated. Maybe if any of these people took time to actually learn about what they’re afraid of, what they’re biased against, they’d realize there’s nothing to fear at all.

Still, I lean in to their terror, because if nothing else, they’re so afraid of me cursing them or bringing the town to ruin that they take to avoidance rather than full- on hate. Well, most of them. Florence is a rare breed.

I shrug, reaching beside her and grabbing a can of tomato sauce, plopping it into my cart. “I hear karma’s a vengeful bitch.”

This time when I walk past her, she doesn’t move an inch, and I quicken my footsteps, dragging Quinten along as we round the corner, my heart racing so quickly I can feel it thrumming in my neck.

It isn’t until we’re three aisles over that I let out the breath I was holding.

“You handled that well.”

The accented voice floats over me like a warm blanket, and the familiarity makes me pause. I’ve felt this before. The other night at the Chapel. And then again when I made the last-minute decision to waltz into the church like I belonged and confess my sins because it’s cheaper than therapy.

It hits me, so suddenly that I feel like a fool for not noticing it before. Maybe it’s because French accents aren’t entirely uncommon in Festivalé, or maybe it’s because the idea itself of a priest being in a strip club is ludicrous.

But I can’t deny it when it’s staring me in the face.

My mystery man and the new priest of Notre- Dame are one and the same.

Holy shit.

Slowly, I twist around.

His face is stern, all sharp angles and haunted shadows, and his hands rest in his pockets like he can’t be bothered. He’s dressed in a simple black button- down, the color matching his hair perfectly, and a long peacoat over the top. I can see the smallest hint of his clerical collar peeking at his neckline.

What the hell was he doing in a strip club?

I lift a brow. “You’re a priest?”

It’s only after the words slip from my mouth that I realize they may have been a mistake, because why would I be surprised by that unless I had another idea of him in my head? I don’t think he recognizes me from the club, but there’s a chance he does and that’s why he approached me.

I shake off the panic that’s mounting in my gut, reminding myself that even if he does, I doubt he’d acknowledge that he was there.

My anxiety eases when recognition doesn’t even flicker in his gaze.

“Is it that obvious?” His mouth tilts up as he stares down at himself, like he’s surprised with what he’s wearing.

He’s joking, but all I can do is nod, my throat suddenly too thick to even swallow. My tongue swipes out across my bottom lip, and his grin drops as he tracks the movement.

Clearing my throat, I look down at Quinten as he hovers near the cereal shelf a few steps away, reading the words aloud on the front of every box.

“Cade Frédéric.” He reaches out a hand, drawing my attention back like a homing beacon.

I slip my palm into his, but I don’t offer my name in return. I expect a handshake, but he brings it up to his mouth, skimming his lips over the back.

My stomach jumps. This hardly seems appropriate.

“Nice to meet you, Father.”

Something flashes in his dark brown eyes when I speak, and he drops my hand like it’s coated in acid.

“That woman was very rude to you, no?” He jerks his head toward the other aisle.

“You know how it goes,” I say, brushing it off. “Maybe she needs Jesus. I bet you could convince her to come and confess her sins.”

He chuckles, stepping forward until the tips of his shoes press against mine and leaning in like he’s about to tell me a secret. “Ah yes, but there’s one problem. I’m not sure I’d want to offer her forgiveness.”

My stomach clenches, and I suck in a small, surprised breath that I hope he didn’t notice.

God, how embarrassing to react this way to a freaking priest.

He glances down to Quinten, who’s crouched on the floor with three giant family-size boxes of cereal laid out in a row. “And who’s this?”

“That’s Quin, my little brother.”

He squats down to be on Quinten’s level and smiles wide, dimples creasing the sharp hollows of his cheeks. “Hey, Quin, I’m Cade.”

Quinten stares at him before grabbing the Flintstones Fruity Pebbles and shoving it in his face. “Hi. Look, a dinosaur!”

Cade’s eyes flick to the box. “You like dinosaurs?”

Quinten starts rocking in place, and my lips break into a wide smile. I’ve always loved how Quinten shows his happiness, and right now, his excitement is a tangible thing. It vibrates through his body and lights up the space like a thousand rainbow prisms reflecting the sun off a diamond.

“You like dinosaurs? I like dinosaurs,” Quinten says.

“Me too,” Father Cade replies, turning to me and winking. “Don’t tell anybody.”

Quinten shoots upright, jumping wildly on his toes. “Me too!”

I swear to God my chest feels like it might explode, he’s so happy and free.

A lump forms in my throat, and I will back the burn behind my eyes as I watch them together. I’m so fucking angry that this is even a thing I have to feel, that someone treating Quinten like a human being is a gift and not the bare minimum.

But the truth is the truth, no matter how ugly it feels. And the truth is that I’m not used to someone interacting with Quinten and being so…normal. Not in this town anyway. People do one of two things. They either overcompensate, trying to accommodate Quinten so much that they end up alienating him from everyone else, creating resentment with the other kids, or they avoid him all together, giving quick wide stares and ushering their own children away because he doesn’t act like them.

Guilt hits my chest that I can’t take those experiences from Quinten and lay them on my shoulders instead.

I’m not sure if Cade realizes what he’s doing, but he’s done it all the same, and gratitude fills me up so intensely I can hardly breathe.

Cade stands back up, and as he does, I take him in again, that small interaction having shifted my view of him into something else. Something softer.

He’s tall, like, really tall. And even with mirth dancing in his eyes, he’s an imposing figure, his tousled black hair matching the darkness in his eyes and the clerical collar around his neck doing nothing but making him seem even more intense. Power bleeds from his pores. He’s not even moving, and I feel like he’s taking up more space with every second.

My hand drops from the grocery cart’s handle as I step closer.

“You know, you’re kind of intimidating for a priest,” I blurt.

“Oh? Have you met a lot of us?”

“I’ve met enough,” I say, lifting my shoulders and walking back to my cart.

“I didn’t see you yesterday at Mass, did I?”

Laughing, I grab the Fruity Pebbles from Quinten’s hand, toss it in the basket, and then move down the aisle. “Nope.”

Father Cade follows. “Why not?”

“Because I didn’t go.”

He reaches out and touches my forearm lightly, his palm so hot it sears through my long sleeve, up my arm, and burns through my chest. I jerk to a stop, rooting my feet to the ground despite every single nerve in my body blaring like a foghorn to run the other way.

“I’ll see you next week then?”

His eyes meet mine, a challenge sparking in his gaze as his demand falls like a lyric from his lips.

I scoff. “Doubtful.”

He blinks at me, and his hand, which is still on my arm, squeezes the smallest amount. “You’ll come.”

Then he turns around and disappears, leaving me with irritation simmering like fire beneath a boiling pot.

I let out a huff, going over that bizarre interaction in my head. Does he think I’ll do whatever he says just because he was nice to Quinten? Fuck him. I won’t let him make demands of me like I’m a child. I’m half tempted to march after him and tell him where he can shove his Holy Mass, but instead, I stuff it down and smile at Quinten. “You ready to roll, dude?”

“Ready to roll?” he parrots. “Let’s go home.”

Suddenly, I can’t wait to leave. We make our way down the aisle and to the front of the store quickly, my insides vibrating with impatience as Betty, the checkout lady, takes her sweet- ass time ringing up every item.

My eyes scan the area for Father Cade while I wait and then again as we walk through the parking lot, bags weighing down my arms as we start our half a block trek to the bus stop.

But he isn’t there. And I’m not sure why I feel a twinge of disappointment when he’s not.