“Fucking hell,” Estelle mutters. “Anya!” she shouts, calling to the older woman behind the projector. “Is this necessary? It’s the fifth time this month. And if I have to listen to ‘Be Thou My Vision’ one more time, I may up and quit!”

“Ambience, my dear. Authenticity!” Anya yells back as she adjusts the bun of hair at the nape of her neck.

“Oh for God’s sake, this is bullshit!” Estelle shouts. “I can’t even see anything properly.”

“I can,” Chris says just loudly enough for me to hear. He is watching me.

The bright light from the projector has mostly blinded me, but I know that the pattern of colors is dancing across my face and shirt. I squint until I find Christopher’s gaze. I wish he wouldn’t look at me, and I also wish that he’d never stop. I inch over in my seat until the images no longer move over me.

Estelle raises her voice to be heard. “So, I guess that it’s fucking cream of turnip soup, cabbage, and soda bread for you two.”

“Seriously, Estelle, enough with the swearing. I can cuss up a storm, but you’re my little sister, and I can’t take it.” Chris raises his chin to the cross that hangs from her neck. “And I thought God didn’t approve of swearing. Especially when hymns are playing.”

“Like you care what God thinks.”

“Like there is a God,” he spits back.

Estelle freezes, gripping her order pad.

“Stelle, really. How can you possibly believe for one fucking minute that—“” He stops, and I hear him inhale.

Her voice is softer now, barely audible. “Chris.”

“Sorry.” He touches her arms. Despite the music, I think of the term deafening silence. “Estelle, really, I apologize.”

She nods. “I’ll get your food. And two Killian’s. You’ll need beer to wash down the atmosphere.”

Chris looks down at the table, but I keep my eyes fixed on him while he runs his hands through his hair a few times. The music washes over us as the wall next to me is filled with dark Irish skies.

I wait. Eventually he looks up.

“I feel bad. I shouldn’t have said that to her. And I shouldn’t have said it in front of you.” He fusses with his napkin for a few minutes and then lets out a small laugh.

“What is it?”

He tilts his head to the speaker above us. “Amazing Grace.”

I haven’t noticed that the music changed.

Chris crumples the napkin in his fist and bites his lip. “Fucking bagpipes.”

“Fucking bagpipes,” I agree.

“I really shouldn’t have. With Estelle. I need to be more respectful. And I’m sorry if you believe—”

“Don’t,” I say quickly. “Don’t apologize. I don’t believe.” My water glass is steady in my hand as I sip from it, and I take my time setting it down. I move my silverware to another spot on the table, trace the rim of my plate with my finger, and then sit straight up. I wait until his eyes meet mine. “We both know that there is no God.”

“No,” he agrees. “There is no God. Not for us.”

CHAPTER FIVE Fighter

It’s not even ten o’clock when I slide out of my clothes and pull a T-shirt from my bureau. This day has tired me out. Pausing before I pull the shirt over my head, I step in front of the full-length mirror. This is not something that I’ve done in a while, but I’m overwhelmed with the impulse to see my reflection. I’m not sure why. Few women I know, including myself, find it particularly thrilling to look at themselves only in underwear. But now I look at my calves, my thighs, my stomach. Pivoting slightly on my toes, I check out the view from behind.

Huh. Maybe it is the low, flattering lighting from the small lamp by my bed, but I definitely don’t look awful. Surprisingly, my body is not so unappealing that I want to burst into tears. Although I don’t look great, either. I sit down on the floor and fold my legs in front of me. Crisscross applesauce. I examine my face and my hair, almost as if I’m meeting myself for the first time. My hair tumbles from the knot on the top of my head as I pull out the elastic. Unruly curls fall over my shoulders; I’m neither blonde nor brunette, but somewhere in between. Then there are my eyes. My blue eyes, which even I have to admit are decent. Prettyish. My full cheeks have a slight pink flush from being out in the sun today. Yes, I am not entirely disastrous looking. On the verge, perhaps, but not without the possibility of salvation.

Of course, there is still my arm. I hold out my forearm and peer at the reflected image. The four-inch scar is still jagged despite the surgeon’s neat sutures. Maybe a larger hospital would have had a more skilled surgeon, but I don’t really mind. I deserve to have a much-worse scar than this, all things considered. I uncross my legs and put my feet flat on the floor. Pushing myself up, I slowly come to a stand as I move my hands up the lines of my figure. The skin under my palms tingles and tenses, not used to touch. Even my own. My hands trace over my calves, around to the back of my thighs. I certainly have some extra weight in my legs. Somewhere under my palms has to be muscle and definition, but I can’t find it. My fingers skim the curve of my waist. It is the one part of my body that hasn’t seemed to gain weight. Everything that I eat or drink hits my legs and ass, but my stomach somehow stays relatively flat. So at least there is that. My touch travels over my stomach, back and forth, and I close my eyes as my hands move to my breasts. I linger for a few moments, suddenly aware of how much I’m enjoying this. One hand moves lower, back across my stomach, under the edge of my underwear.

Okay. Apparently, I still have some kind of sex drive.

I stumble to the bed, seemingly drunk on what I’m feeling. As I fall against the rumpled sheets, my free hand moves into my hair while the other moves farther between my legs. A longing and need grow, one that I haven’t felt in ages. I rub my fingers slowly over myself while my mind drifts to Chris as I first saw him, his lean body silhouetted against the morning light.

What’s a little risk now and then, huh?

I turn my head to the side while my eyes close,and I curl up my hips. I take my time, letting my body’s reactions lead my fingers to the places that feel best. I can’t even remember the last time that I’ve touched myself like this. My thoughts are blurry and wonderful, and the stress and depression that usually lead me have dissipated for now. There is one sensation overwhelming me, one desire in charge, and I surrender easily to this because for once, for once, I am seeking and finding something other than self-loathing and pain. My rhythm is soft at first as I find what I like and how I like it, but soon it seems that I have unleashed some sort of fiend that’s been shackled for far too long. That fiend is demanding, and my body and my unconscious thoughts take over. Live a little.

My hand presses harder, faster, making the intensity build.

Show me.

Heat overtakes me, and I shove down the sheets.

I’d rather stay right here with you.

My breathing picks up.

There is no God. Not for us.

One hand is back in my hair, tightening against my scalp, and my heels dig into the bed as my body tenses. I start to tremble and shake. The sound that comes from my lips surprises me, but the strength of the release makes it impossible to be quiet.

I’m smiling, and I turn onto my side and swallow hard as I catch my breath. Holy shit, I needed that. I so, so needed that. It occurs to me that what I felt just now was so crazily awesome that I may never leave this bed again. I might just stay here and masturbate all the time, classes be damned. Then I am laughing, almost giddy, because I am persuaded that, to at least some degree, my body is my own again. Perhaps my mind will follow?

What’s certain is that I feel better than I have in months. Years, really. I think of Sabin, with his exuberance and charm; and of Estelle, with her enviable physical beauty and her self-assurance. And Chris. Chris with his … magnetism. His stability.