The Lucky Ones. Tiffany Reisz

Allison said, trying to hide her shock behind flippancy.

      “We’re still a thing,” he said.

      “It’s just... I’ve never met a monk before.”

      “Have you ever been to a monastery?” Roland asked. “Because that’s the best place to meet them. Often the only place.”

      “You’re laughing at me.”

      “A little. But quietly and on the inside.”

      “You’re really a monk. An actual real-live monk.”

      “I really am. I belong to Saint Brendan’s. It’s a couple hours down the coast.”

      Roland’s choice of verb stung. He wasn’t a member of Saint Brendan’s. He didn’t live there. He belonged to them. A tiny part of Allison had once thought he belonged to her. A bigger part of her once dreamed she belonged to him.

      “So what’s it like being a monk?” she asked, talking over the pain. “Can you work miracles? Recite a Bible verse? Sing a monk song? Monks sing, right? They sing and swing that smoky ball thing?”

      “Don’t take this the wrong way, kid, but you were born to be the baby sister.”

      “Hurtful,” she said, shaking her head. “Very hurtful.”

      “I shocked you, didn’t I?” he asked. He rolled up off the sand and looked intently at her.

      “Yeah,” she said with real feeling. He had shocked her, and like an electric shock, it had hurt. “I could probably shock you, too, if I wanted. Which I don’t.”

      Why should she care if he was a monk or not? It was an interesting job, yes, but what did that have to do with her?

      “A monk,” she said again. “That wouldn’t have been in my top one hundred guesses. Are you currently a monk? Or an ex-monk?”

      “I’m a monk on abbot-authorized medical leave.”

      “So you’re planning on going back? I mean, after your... When you can?” she asked, and she wanted him to say, No, of course not.

      “That’s the plan,” he said. “Though I’m trying not to think about it. The longer before I go back, the better.”

      She nodded. “Right.”

      “Are you upset?” he asked.

      “Why would I be upset?”

      He turned his gaze to the ocean waves. “Same reason Dad was upset. You think I’m wasting my life on a fairy tale. You think it’s medieval. You think I’d be happier doing a thousand other things with my life...” Allison could tell he’d heard those arguments a thousand times. “Dad’s not religious. He worships science. I broke his heart when I joined.”

      “It’s none of my business what you do with your life,” Allison said. Roland looked at her, furrowing his brow as if she’d said something wrong.

      “That’s the sort of polite thing strangers say. We’ve got too much history to be polite strangers.”

      “What can I say? Roland, I was an English major. Most people thought I was throwing my life away on that, too. I’m not going to judge you.”

      “No vows of celibacy and poverty with being an English major,” he said.

      She chortled a dramatic, mocking chortle. “Oh, trust me—English majors and poverty go back as far as monks and celibacy.”

      “Are these fake diamond earrings, then?” He tugged her earlobe and she batted his hand away, still playing the part of the annoying baby sister.

      “These were a gift,” she said. “I couldn’t afford them on my own. I spend all my money on books.” It was McQueen who’d bought all her jewelry and her clothes including the ones she was wearing—suede boots, designer jeans, a leather jacket that cost McQueen as much as a small used car and La Perla underwear. If she were trying to pass for a starving artist, she wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

      “I can believe that,” Roland said. “We’d have to take your book out of your hand to get you to eat. You loved them more than anything.”

      “You don’t become an English major because you love books. You do it because you need books. It’s a codependent relationship.”

      He grinned. “Very poetic. Spoken like an English major.”

      “Why did you become a monk?”

      “Guess for a similar reason you were an English major. I didn’t love God, but I needed God.”

      “I didn’t even know you were religious.”

      “In my own way,” he said. “The monastery hosts concerts all summer. Dad would take us to them sometimes if he liked the composer they were showcasing. We met a few of the monks and... I don’t know, I liked them. I liked being there. I felt safe there. When I made the mistake of joking with Brother Ambrose about how much I liked it there, he invited me to a discernment weekend. They recruit hard.”

      “Looking for a few good monks, huh?”

      Roland smiled. “They gave me some books to read, too. One of them was by a Cistercian monk, Thomas Merton.”

      “He’s the Kentucky monk, right? I know that guy. I mean, not personally. I think he’s dead.”

      “For a few decades,” Roland said. “Anyway, in his book he said the true self was the spiritual self. I didn’t know who my true self was. I thought maybe if I figured out who my spiritual self was, I’d know.”

      “Did you find your true self?” Allison asked.

      “I found out who I’m not,” Roland said. “And I found a little peace, which was more than I had before I went in.” He turned his face to her and smiled. “So that’s why I must politely ask you not to jump me. Now it’s your turn.”

      Allison quietly panicked. How on earth could she tell Roland she’d been a billionaire’s mistress for six years now that she knew he was a monk?

      “Nothing nearly that interesting,” she said, brushing the question off as nonchalantly as she could manage. “I haven’t been a nun, that’s for sure.”

      Roland let it go and sat up again, and Allison almost reached out to brush the sand off his back. But she didn’t touch him, didn’t even want to. Everything was different now. He might have her old big brother’s face and eyes and smile, but this man sitting next to her was a complete stranger. A few minutes ago, she’d tried to punch him and he’d caught her hand—like when they were kids. And he’d swooped her up and pretended to throw her in the water—like when they were kids. But he was playing the part of the Old Roland for her and she was playing the part of the Old Allison for him. That might have worked except neither of them were very good actors. She’d made a mistake coming back here. She’d made a terrible mistake. She realized she’d come home to find her old family and her old family didn’t live here anymore.

      She was as alone here as she’d been in her apartment right after McQueen had left her.

      She’d come all this way for nothing.

      “Well,” Allison said, standing up and dramatically brushing the sand off her clothes. “I should run along.”

      “Allison?”

      “It’s late. I didn’t mean to stay this long.”

      “You’re really not staying here?” he asked. “Not even for a night?”

      “Tourist season’s over. I can find a hotel easy.” Allison stood up and wiped the sand off her pants. “I’ll stay the night in Astoria and run by the hospital tomorrow morning.”

      “Do you want to at least see the house again before you go?” he asked.

      For