Page 37 of His Elder

The hand in my hair slid away, falling limply beside his head. He lay there trembling in the aftershocks, his chest heaving with choked, quiet sobs.

I pulled back, my mouth slick with him. A stray, thick dribble of white leaked from the corner of my lips, sliding toward my chin. I didn't wipe it away with my hand. I caught it with the flat of my tongue, lapping it up, tasting the last evidence of what we’d done. I refused to waste a single drop of him.

I stayed kneeling beside the bed for a moment, the silence of the room roaring in my ears. The only sound was the ragged tear of Samuel’s breathing. He had his forearm thrown over his eyes, hiding his face from me, from the room, from himself.

I reached for the crumpled sleep pants still tangled around his ankles and pulled them off, tossing them onto the floor. I took the corner of the top sheet and gently, methodically, wiped the remaining spill from the tip of his softening length. He flinched at the touch but let me. I pulled the sheet back up, covering him to his chest. An act of kindness. An act of concealment.

I stood, my knees aching, and sat on the edge of his mattress. It dipped with my weight, and he went still. He curled onto his side, facing away from me, his knees drawn up to his chest. He was trembling.

The silence grew, thick and suffocating. It felt like hours passed. Finally, his voice came, muffled by the pillow, so quiet I almost didn't hear it. It was three words, heavy with a horror directed entirely at himself.

"I liked it."

The admission was a shard of glass in the quiet room. It wasn't an accusation. It was a confession. The source of his terror wasn't what I had done, but that he had wanted it. That he had loved it. I looked at the rigid, shaking line of his back.

"I know," I whispered, the taste of him still lingering on my breath. "Me too."

11

SAMUEL

Iwoke to the sound of running water. The shower. Eli was in the shower.

I didn't move. My body felt strange, foreign, as though it belonged to someone else. Someone who had done what I'd done. The ceiling of the bedroom was still dark, the streetlights outside casting long, pale rectangles across the plaster. My clock radio read 4:47 a.m.

My skin was clean. The sheet was pulled up to my chest. Evidence removed.

The memory hit me like a fist to the sternum.Eli, kneeling. His mouth. My hands in his hair. The sound I'd made.

My stomach lurched. I sat up too fast, my vision swimming, and pressed my palms against my eyes. The pressure didn't stop the images. They played on a loop behind my eyelids—vivid, damning, undeniable. The way I'd arched into it. The way I'dwantedit. The guttural sound of my own voice, crying out his name like a prayer to the wrong god.

I'd liked it.

The words echoed in my head, my own voice, muffled and broken. I'd said it out loud. I'd confessed it to him, the one person who could destroy me with that knowledge, and worse—I'd meant it. I had loved every second of it. My body had sung with it. And that made it real. That made it a choice.

The shower shut off. I heard the scrape of the curtain rings, the shuffle of movement in the tiny bathroom. I couldn't be here when he came out. I couldn't look at him.

I threw the sheet back and stood, my legs unsteady. My sleep pants were on the floor. I grabbed them, yanked them on, and moved to my scriptures on the desk. My hands were shaking so badly I knocked over the lamp. I caught it before it fell, the metal base cold against my palm.

The bathroom door opened. Steam billowed out into the hallway. Eli stepped into the bedroom, a towel slung low around his hips, his hair dripping onto his bare shoulders. He stopped when he saw me standing at the desk.

"Samuel—"

"Don't." My voice was flat. Dead. I didn't look at him. I opened my Book of Mormon, the pages crackling, and stared down at the text. Alma 39. The very chapter I'd been avoiding for weeks.Now this is not all, my son. Thou didst do that which was grievous unto me; for thou didst forsake the ministry, and did go over into the land of Siron among the borders of the Lamanites, after the harlot Isabel.

The words blurred. I blinked hard, forcing them back into focus.Know ye not, my son, that these things are an abomination in the sight of the Lord; yea, most abominable above all sins save it be the shedding of innocent blood or denying the Holy Ghost?

Most abominable. The second-worst sin a person could commit. Worse than murder in some interpretations. The Law of Chastity, sacred and inviolate, written in every mission rule,every temple interview, every youth fireside. And I had shattered it. Not in a moment of weakness. Not by accident. I hadparticipated. I had wanted more.

"You need to eat something," Eli said behind me. His voice was careful, quiet. "You didn't eat dinner last night."

"I'm not hungry."

"Samuel—"

"I said I'm not hungry." I turned the page, my fingers pressing too hard, leaving a crease in the thin paper. My chest felt tight, my lungs too small. I couldn't get enough air.

He didn't leave. I heard him move to his bed, the rustle of fabric as he pulled on clothes. The whole time, I kept my eyes locked on the scripture in front of me, reading the same verse over and over, the words becoming meaningless shapes.