Page 24 of Gay for Pray (Arport Sacred Sacrament University #1)
Chapter Twenty-Four
Theodore
I DON’T SO MUCH as glance Jude’s direction throughout Mass. After nearly getting caught in the hall, I put as much distance as I can between us while we stand mere steps apart in the choir.
It isn’t as easy as I might hope. No matter how hard I try to focus, my mind strays to him.
I swear I can hear his voice rising above the rest, that sweet, lovely pitch that’s his and his alone.
It cuts through every other voice in that choir, bounding around the church’s high ceilings and reverberating in my chest. It echoes with accusation.
Why do I keep running? Why am I pushing him away only to go crawling back?
I don’t have any answers for him. I don’t even have answers for myself. I need to get through this one day without inciting any sort of calamity. If I can survive the choir performance and my parents’ presence in the pews, I can deal with Jude afterward.
My voice cracks, a tripwire catching my ankles just when I think I’ve managed to steady myself. I right myself as quickly as I can, but Mr. Jones’s glance tells me I wasn’t fast enough.
That means my father noticed too.
He wouldn’t let something like that slip by.
He’s listening to every note, searching for the sort of cracks that just appeared.
I’ll hear about it later, I’m sure, but as long as he doesn’t ask me about Jude, as long as he doesn’t suspect I’m doing anything but singing and going to class, I can survive his scorn.
This all might be easier if I hadn’t let Jude touch me out in the hall.
I was feeling weak, and he offered comfort, but I should have said no.
I should have kept some distance. Then again, I should have never started this thing with Jude in the first place.
If I’d stuck to my beliefs and principles, I wouldn’t be standing here trying not to glance Jude’s direction and hoping my voice doesn’t crack.
We finish the song and sit so Mass can continue.
I hardly hear what the priest says. Normally, I’d be glued to the day’s sermon, but I can’t seem to focus on a single word today, as though he’s speaking a language I don’t know.
My mind drifts back to Jude sitting somewhere off to my side, to the things we’ve done together, to the last time I saw him and how it felt being inside him.
My body tingles with the memory, threatening to stir even as I sit in church below a huge crucifix.
Faith fights a losing battle against the phantom feel of Jude’s body touching mine.
I almost miss the cue to stand. Somehow, I’ve daydreamed through the entirety of Mass.
Only this final song remains, then the priest will bid everyone a good Sunday and send them on their way.
Many will linger, including my parents, enjoying this rare opportunity to experience Mass at the university.
I earn another look from Mr. Jones for my near miss on the cue to stand, but I square my shoulders and pour all my focus into our final song of the morning.
This time, my voice doesn’t crack, even though I swear I hear Jude shining brightly on the higher end of the range.
I steel myself against my own fantasies, and somehow, eventually, the longest Mass of my life comes to a close.
That doesn’t mean I’m free.
This next part will be even worse. As most of the parishioners filter out of the church, clusters of parents and friends remain, all of them eager to greet their loved ones in the choir.
My family is among them, but as I watch my fellows in the choir go to meet their families, I notice Jude standing off to the side with his friend, Nick.
Has no one come to see him? He spoke so warmly of his mother.
I assumed she’d be here, even if she, like her son, isn’t particularly religious.
I want to wonder about it more, but then my family reaches me, and I dare not cast another look in Jude’s direction. The real performance begins the moment my mother wraps me in a crushing hug.
“That was wonderful,” she says too loudly in my ear. She pushes away to hold me at arm’s length, pride shining in her eyes. “And you were absolutely wonderful. What a lovely service. Wasn’t it a lovely service, dear?”
She looks to my father for confirmation, but the pride is missing from his eyes.
I want to cringe away, but hold my composure.
If there’s one saving grace, it’s that my sister didn’t join my parents for this little adventure.
I’m sure she prefers to spend her weekend with her friends, thank goodness.
“You seemed unfocused,” my father says. “Everything alright, son?”
My blood runs cold. Did I look at Jude? I’m sure I didn’t.
At least, I was sure until my father started prodding me about the performance.
I was trying not to look, but what if my eyes slid Jude’s direction and I didn’t notice?
My father wouldn’t miss something like that, especially because my singing was off.
“I’m great,” I say. “Just tired. Studying a lot.”
“If you’re losing focus…”
“Leave him alone, dear,” my mother says. “He’s a college student. I’m sure he has a ton of work he has to do.”
“He handled it fine last year,” my father says.
“Last year he was a freshman. Every year it gets harder, doesn’t it, Theodore?”
I nod, accepting the lifeline. My courses don’t actually feel much harder than the ones I took as a freshman, but claiming I’m exhausted from studying is way better than trying to explain I’m stressed about falling for a guy.
Falling for. Shit. That’s the first time I’ve thought about this as anything but some weird physical urge I’m too weak to resist, and what a time to contend with that.
As though he can read my internal conflict on my face, my father says, “How have your studies been going this year?”
“They’ve been going well,” I say, trying my hardest to sound confident. I’m not sure I actually manage it. My father’s scowl doesn’t soften, and any hope I’m harboring withers.
“Well, the performance was wonderful,” my mother says, sweeping in to deflect yet again.
From the way my father’s frown deepens and my mother barrels on, I get the impression I’m witnessing a fragment of an argument that took place during the drive out here.
“It’s so special getting to get to watch you perform, Theodore,” Mom says. “This church is absolutely beautiful. What a lovely way to celebrate Mass. Thank you for inviting us.”
I shrug. I didn’t really invite them; the school did. They simply announced they’d be attending, and I accepted it. At the time, I considered it a nice opportunity to see them in the thick of the semester, but that was before my life became complicated in ways I couldn’t possibly have fathomed.
A strange part of me wants to tell them, or at least my mother.
As she smiles at me with real joy and pride in her eyes, a piece of me yearns to reveal my secret to her.
Maybe it’s the gentleness of her smile and the memories of her doting on me and my sister while we were growing up.
I struggle to imagine her pushing me away if I had a chance to explain how kind and good Jude has been.
Then I switch my gaze to my father’s scowl, and any thought of revealing this thing with Jude dies on my tongue.
“It has certainly been an…interesting performance,” my father says.
Something in his pause twists my stomach into knots. His eyes flicker toward the choir box, specifically to the far right of the choir box where Jude stands. I’m all the way at the top left, so there’s no mistaking where my father’s eyes have drifted.
My blood goes from cold to absolutely frozen. My heart stops beating.
“I did assume this university’s choir would have higher standards for its participants,” Dad says.
My mother’s persistent smile falters. I clench my teeth to keep from screaming.
“That boy,” my father says, and there’s no doubting who he means, “it’s certainly…curious to see someone like that in a liturgical choir.”
He dresses up his words in a guise of civility, but I have no doubt about what he really means. Jude stands out, even when we’re all dressed in our Sunday best and doing the exact same thing. The choir can’t hide his difference, especially from someone like my father.
“He’s a good signer,” I say.
My father’s gaze sharpens. “I’m sure there are plenty of other good singers at this university who could have taken his place.”
“He had to try out like anyone else,” I say.
“So you approve of him joining the choir?”
I flounder, torn between wanting to defend Jude and needing to keep a certain amount of distance from him so my father doesn’t make the wrong connections.
“If Mr. Jones thinks he should…” I answer noncommittally.
My father scoffs. “This is a holy place, Theodore. It’s about more than whether or not you can sing.”
I duck my head, unwilling to argue, but hating myself for it.
After everything Jude has done for me, after all the kindness and patience he’s shown me, after the times we’ve shared, I owe him better than this, but speaking up on his behalf could mean the end of my time at this university.
If my father thinks I’m anything but disgusted by someone like Jude, he could refuse to help me pay for school, and I have no idea what I’d do.
There’s no way I could find that kind of money all of a sudden.
“That boy is your partner for your philosophy project too, isn’t he?”
I snap my head up, eyes going wide.
“We thought we’d check in with some of your professors,” Dad says. “Professor Demsky had some interesting things to say about how you’re doing in her class, and about the project you’re working on. Why didn’t you mention any of this to us?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I don’t know if I’m more surprised that he’d check up with all my professors or horrified that he knows about Jude and I being project partners. I cycle between emotions until they leave me nauseous.
“Don’t worry,” Mom says. “We talked with your professor. You won’t need to finish the project with him.”
“What?” That jolts me back into the present.
“That boy is a bad influence,” my father says. “You’re on a…different path. Those kinds of influences will only hinder your progress, and you’ve been working far too hard to have it squandered by some…”
I’ve never been more thankful than I am in the moment my father fails to complete that sentence.
Whatever word is supposed to come next, it isn’t good.
He’s going to call Jude all the things I’ve always feared hearing about myself.
Heathen. Wrong. Bad influence. Gay. I’ve lain awake at night fearing having those words attached to me, but having them attached to Jude just makes me… angry.
My mother sets a consoling hand on my shoulder and leans in. “Don’t worry, honey. We’ve taken care of it.”
“Taken care of it?” My voice is hollow even in my own ears.
“We’ve spoken to your professor,” Dad says. “You’ll never have to see that boy again.”