My own question. Uh, what was that again?
Oh right. Thehow.
From the rapt gazes of the tour group, I knew I’d get no help from that quarter, and from an intuition that—aside from recent revelations about the state of my panties in the presence of scarred, argumentative men—never failed me, I knew I was in choppy waters now. I didn’t know enough, hadn’t thought enough about this to discept ancient iconography with him.
But when I looked at him again, I could see something almostfascinatedin his expression, and I didn’t want that fascination to go away. Not because I pussed out on a hard question.
“I think cultural advances drive religious advances,” I hedge.
“Most people would say it’s the other way around,” he countered before I could finish. “Göbekli Tepe predates the agricultural revolution, suggesting that religious practices were already transitioning before the prevailing way of life changed.”
I shook my head. “I think living religions respond to the time they’re in, and so it’s impossible to say that the complex at Göbekli Tepe meant the same thing to the people who built it as it did to the people who worshipped in it generations later. And I think the invention of cuneiform writing meant, for the first time, gods could be described in detail and these descriptions could survive and take on mimetic life. I think the invention of papyrus and paper meant these descriptions could reach people farther away than ever before. The increasing efficiency of weapons, war, and administration meant that religion was no longer localized but nationalized. Imperialized. All of these things forced deities and philosophies to evolve in complexity and depth in a way they never would have if our technology never moved beyond carving ivory or stone.”
Church stared at me for a long minute after that, and then he nodded. The effect of his nod was like having him cup a hand between my legs.
“That’s a good answer,” he said. “You’re still wrong. But it’s a good answer nevertheless.”
I couldn’t help it, I laughed. And when I laughed, everyone else laughed too—except for Church, who was looking at my mouth like he wanted to bite it.
Everyone chimed in then, talking about whether or not it was even fair to compare a pre-pottery temple complex with the pinnacle of Babylonian cultic expression, and then I managed to move the tour on and finish it out without any more pointed questions from Professor Midnight Eyes.
And then after I walked them down to the Great Court and not-so-subtly pointed out the places where they could spend money on scones and scarves and soap shaped like mummies, Church stayed by my side as the rest dispersed to go buy mummy soaps.
“Am I correct,” he said, studying my face, “in assuming you’ve never given that tour before?”
My cheeks burned again, but he took my hand, enveloped it in his large, strong ones. Calluses in contrast to his cool, suited demeanor stroked rough against my skin.
“You did brilliantly,” he said quietly. “No other tour guide would have been able to answer me like that, not even one who’s been doing this for years. You should be proud.”
“Thanks?” I said hesitantly, going all fuzzy again from the touch of his skin on mine.
“Are you in school?” he asked with sudden urgency.
“University,” I said. “I—um. Second year.”
Relief flooded his expression, followed by something else I didn’t understand. “I should go,” he murmured, and to my eternal disappointment, he dropped my hand. “Goodbye, Charlotte.”
***
Except it wasn’t goodbye.
The next day I was shadowing yet another docent through a private tour of Ancient Greece when I became aware of a lean, suited predator stalking my steps. As the tour moved into the next room, Church cupped a hand around my elbow and led me back into the deserted Nereid Monument room.
“Come back for more clay tablet debate?” I teased, a bit breathlessly because oh my God, he was so unbearably sexy and severe. And tall. And nice-smelling—something that reminded me of incense—woody and smoky and rich. Like he really was a church, like he was a temple. A shrine to classical masculinity.
“No,” he said. “I came back for you.”
3
Charley
“I’m not hiding from you,” I tell Church all these years later, as I spin to face him. “I’m hidingforyou. So I don’t murder you.”
I expect Church to have some kind of riposte for this because he always had a riposte for everything, but instead he goes completely still, looking like someone just kicked him in the chest. Too late I remember the tears on my face, my missing piercing, the weight I’ve lost. The eternal bags under my eyes. I don’t look like the happy, freckly coed he was going to marry once upon a time; I look like someone who works two jobs and has a full-time internship at How to Parent a Damn Teenager, Inc.
“Christ,” he whispers, his eyes tracing me all over. The cheap shoes, the borrowed uniform, the blond hair scraped into a short, stubby ponytail. The fingernails ragged from tearing open boxes at the supermarket. “Little one.”
Which is when I see he looks nearly as bad off as me.