Page 24

chapter twenty-three

Mallory is going to kill me. She’s going to straight-up murder me for what I’ve done, and I can’t say I blame her. I also can’t say I regret my actions. If anything, I think I’m proud.

I did something before church. I was a bad, bad boy, and Daddy’s going to be furious.

I can’t fucking wait.

Mal will probably huff and puff and threaten to blow this twink down, but I don’t care. I genuinely enjoy goading her, and I think she likes our silly little prank war too. The day before yesterday, I dyed her wedding dress red and spray-painted Jezebel across the fabric. Oh, her rage was righteous. At one point, she had a butcher’s knife aimed at me. Thankfully, Miles managed to talk her down from her Murder Mommy ledge before anyone died, but it was a close call. In retribution, she stole all my dildos I keep—well, kept—hidden in their attic, along with my new slutty underwear. She took all of them and threw them on the concrete driveway, doused them in gasoline, and set my little buddies alight. Even the one I had made in Miles’ likeness. I was ready to hang for her murder. So, after it was done, I went down to the library and printed forty-four photographs of my face. What I did with those photographs will probably cost me my head, but it’s totally worth it.

I skip toward the front door giddily in anticipation.

“What did you do?” Miles calls out as he rushes behind me toward the porch.

I whirl around and smile innocently. “Nothing, Daddy. Promise.”

His pupils darken, and his jaw works back and forth. “I think I want you to call me that more often.”

“Daddy?” I clarify.

He nods. “It’s hot. Will you say it tonight when . . .”

“When I’m fucking you?”

He blushes furiously and looks away, clearing his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, when you’re doing that.”

I wink at him. “You bet your fucking ass I will.”

The moment we’re inside, Mal starts shrieking, pointing behind her at the wall. She’s screaming slander ninety-to-nothing, her voice far too fast and far too piercing for either of us to make out the words.

“I need you to slow down,” Miles says, rubbing the side of her arm. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying. What’s wrong?”

She points down at the coffee table, right where I left one of many surprises for her earlier. On the table, forty-four cut-out faces stare up at us.

“He cut my face out of all our photos and stuck his in their place.” She points at the wall again, and I watch as Miles’ mouth hangs open in shock. All across the wall are memories they’ve shared, but now, in Mal’s place, I stand proudly at Miles’ side. Their wedding photograph now holds an image of me sticking my tongue out at the camera while wearing her wedding dress. In an old family photo of Mal sitting next to Imogene Andrews at a social gathering, I’m staring longingly at Mal’s breasts. I even drew little arrows with a magenta sharpie, mapping my line of sight for all to see. The one she seems most hung up about is a newspaper clipping where she’d been interviewed about the joys of being Tallulah’s Spiritual First Lady. Now, in place of her black and white headshot, is a picture of me sucking Miles’ erect cock.

“Sweet Jesus,” Miles whispers.

“Exactly!” Mal shouts. “Tell him, Miles. Tell him he’s been a bad boy. Spank him if you have to; I will not stand for this.”

Miles turns to me, looking . . . wonderstruck? What the fuck?

“Miles?”

“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispers, moving closer, leaving no space between us. As my heart races at the sight of him, he takes me by surprise by rearing back his arm and spanking my ass as hard as he can. I lunge forward clinging to him as he scolds, “Bad boy, baby. Bad, bad boy.” Even as he says the words, he doesn’t sound like he means them. I think he’s just placating Mal, but that’s okay. I was bad. I get it. There’s no doubt in my mind I deserve to be punished, but it’s a little embarrassing to be punished in front of her.

Mal points toward the entertainment center. “Go stand in the corner. I’m absolutely livid with you.”

I glare at her. “Daddy already spanked me. You don’t get to punish me too. That’s double jeopardy, and it’s fucking cruel, Mal.” For a moment—the briefest of moments—I swear to God, a raging fire swarms her irises, and she marches forward, grabbing me by the arm and leading me to the corner.

“You will stand here until you’ve learned your lesson.”

“I’m not a child,” I pout, looking to Miles for support, but he’s of absolutely no use. He’s got this stupidly sexy, dreamy look in his eyes, and as he wanders the room looking at all the pictures I altered, the corner of his mouth is curled into an amused smile.

“Then stop acting like one,” Mal says. “I don’t even really care about the pictures. I just don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to top this when I get you back. I am genuinely at a loss.”

I beam proudly at her. “I got you good.”

She blinks slowly at me, then her lips curl. “You got me good,” she agrees. The look she shares with me is a strange one. All intensity and unspoken words that I don’t understand, but I think I know their meaning. It almost feels maternal. It makes my heart race a little, because my mom was never much of a mom at all. A bit ironic that I would find this feeling with Mal, what with the whole me-fucking-her-husband-behind-her-back thing, but it’s true. She’s essentially known me all my life. It makes me wonder what we might have been like if we hadn’t wasted our lives hating each other. She has to feel it too. I can tell.

She places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “It’s good to have you home.”

My jaw trembles. Can’t help it.

“You gave us a love story,” Miles interrupts, looking at their-slash-our wedding photo, touching the glass with his fingers. He wanders around the room, taking in the new remastered version of his life’s story. He pauses beside a picture of him and then-Mal, now-me, and breathes out a shaky breath. “This was taken a few months after . . .” His shoulders slump. The picture he’s staring at was taken shortly after I met Miles. In it, Mal is sitting beside Miles at a church brunch, and there, sitting on Miles’ lap, is young Darren, sleeping peacefully against his chest. Before I removed her face from it, Mal wasn’t the Mal I remember. She wasn’t hateful or horrible, and she wasn’t fighting a lifelong war with me. She was smiling. She was looking down at my sleeping face, and she was smiling at me. I found the picture when I was raiding their attic a few weeks back, looking for knick-knacks and souvenirs. It was powdered with dust, forgotten with time. I loved seeing Mal with a look of genuine affection aimed at me, so I had the photograph copied. I framed it and put it on her bedside table. I’m guessing she hasn’t seen it yet, because I left a really sweet letter for her, too, and I’m sure if she read it, I would be engulfed in an unbreakable hug right now.

As I study Miles’ expression in the picture, my stomach churns. When I found the picture, I thought the sad look in his eyes was because he was bummed I was asleep. Now I realize it’s because of what happened to him. Because of her .

Mal must notice he needs me right now, because she gives me a nod and motions toward Miles. “Go on. You’ve learned your lesson.”

I walk over to him and squeeze his hand. “I love you, Miles.”

“I love you, too, baby.”

“Okay. I think I figured out how I can get you back.” Something crashes behind me, and when I turn around, Mal has a baseball bat, and she’s smashing my laptop repeatedly. She probably thinks she had the upper hand, but I was smarter than her, replacing my computer with a decoy before hiding my actual laptop away before I left, prior to church this morning. I’ll let her think she’s gotten the upper hand, because I know I probably overstepped with the whole removing-her-face-from-history thing.

When she’s done, she flings her bat to the other side of the room and grins cockily at us. “And that, Darren Matthews, is the night the lights went out in Georgia.”

I roll my eyes. Ever since I brought a television into their home, she’s been watching old episodes of Designing Women and The Golden Girls , and she’s been interjecting little lines she’s heard into everyday conversations.

“We’re in Texas,” I remind her.

She points at the fireplace. “And there’s going to be a stunning urn on that mantle if you ever pull anything like this again.”

I narrow my eyes. “Yeah. For you.”

She balls her hand into a fist. “I ought to knock your socks off.”

I take a heavy step forward. “And I ought to get your husband’s rocks off.”

She blinks at me, and her fingers uncurl as a small smile forms on her face. “Credit where credit is due. That was a good one.”

I nod. “I thought so too.”

“I hate you at times,” she adds, “but I think I’m coming around.” She whirls around and heads toward her bedroom on the other side of the foyer. Looking over her shoulder, she adds, “This isn’t over, Darren. I’ll get you again, and when I do, it’s going to be exquisite.”

“Bring it on,” I goad, sliding my hand into Miles’ and leading him out of the living room and upstairs, because I’m bored of Mal now. I pause on the first step, feeling a twinge of something I’ve never felt before. Well, something I’ve never felt toward Mal before, at least.

Guilt. Maybe a hint of regret. Groaning at myself for somehow falling victim to the charm and charisma of Mallory fucking Brooks, I tell Miles to head upstairs, and I make my way to her bedroom. The door is open, and she’s grabbing a book from her bookshelf when I come to a stop in her doorway. I knock gently, and when she looks up at me, she seems surprised.

“What is it this time?” she asks, though not unkindly. “Did you come to set every article of clothing I own on fire?”

I shake my head and stare down at my feet. “No. Someone should, but I don’t have any plans to destroy anymore of your disastrous denim skirts.” I peek up in time to catch Mal rolling her eyes and plopping down on bed. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

She looks up at me and cocks a brow. “You’re sorry?”

“Yeah. For the pictures. I think I went too far,” I say. She pats the empty space beside her, and I narrow my eyes. “I am not fucking you, Mallory Brooks.”

She makes a sound like she’s going to vomit, and I don’t think it’s an act. She looks like she might actually throw up at any second. “For God’s sake, eww, Darren. What the hell?”

“You were beckoning me over like a woman of the night on a lonely street corner.” I aim an accusatory finger at her. “I am here, I am queer, and I’ll fucking tear you asunder if you ever try to sleep with me again.”

She’s got a glass of ice water on her bedside table, beside the picture I left her earlier. I guess she hasn’t seen it, because if so, you would be weeping tears of extreme emotional fulfillment, not—

“Don’t you dare throw that ice cube at me, you motherfu—”

It smacks me right between my newly narrowed eyes.

“Sorry . . . you were saying?”

I dramatically wipe residual water from my face and stare at my fingers. “I’m wet,” I growl. “Who are you to get me wet?”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s from Real Housewives of New York City . You may be able to impress Miles with recycled quotes, but the second you brought a television into this home, you dug your own grave.” She pauses, raising an amused eyebrow. “Did you just say ‘asunder’?”

“A-fucking-sunder,” I confirm. “And I’m not embarrassed. I know I probably should be, but I’m not, so there. I’m taking back my power.”

“The power of boring me half to death,” she says, chuckling. “Come here. I want to talk to you.”

Slowly, I shuffle over, my feet hardly leaving the ground as I make my way to her. I sit at the very edge of the bed, leaving as much space as possible between us. “You went a little overboard this time, but I kind of enjoyed the theatrics of it. You’re ridiculous and obnoxious, but . . .”

“But . . .?”

“But you’re family,” she says quietly, placing her hand on top of mine. “Miles’ family. My family. You always have been. Granted, I may not have always enjoyed the fact that you’re a part of this family, but it’s just that. A fact. You’re outrageous, and absolutely unhinged, but I like the chaos that follows you around. It keeps my life interesting, and my life has been pretty stagnant for a while. That’s why I didn’t call either of you out for your late-night rendezvouses upstairs. You give Miles something I never have. You make him happy. He’s practically giddy around you. I’ve never seen him as happy as he is now.” Her grip tightens around my hand. “He’s come alive over the last few months, and it’s completely changed the dynamic of our home. I like that.” She swallows, staring down at her hand on top of mine. “If you ever repeat this, I’ll put powdered glass in your mouthwash, but I love having you here.” She mumbles something else under her breath that I can’t make out.

“You sound like you’re talking with a mouthful of marbles right now. I didn’t understand a word you just said.”

“I said,” she says, sighing, “I guess I love you a little?”

I don’t know why it sounds like a question. I’m a very lovable individual. Still, it feels really good to hear it coming from her.

“I guess I kind of love you too,” I agree, quickly adding, “in our own way. You’re like the mother I never wanted.”

“I think you mean ‘never had’.”

I shake my head. “I said what I said. I didn’t want you in my life.” I pause when I see the hurt on her face, but I’m not done with my statement, so she can give that look to someone who cares. “But you’re in it. You’ve always been in it. Annoying to no end, but that’s just your charm.” I scoot a few inches closer, as does she. When we meet in the middle, we lean back against the headboard, and I rest my head on her shoulder. She weaves our fingers together and squeezes. Darting my eyes up, I catch her eyeing me. “You’ve been more of a mom to me than my own mother. My mom let me down a lot.”

“I know,” she says, looking more empathetic than I've ever seen her. “I know she did.”

“It hasn’t always been easy between us, but you’ve never sat back and let my dad attack me or emotionally abuse me like she did.”

“I didn’t know he was hurting you. I mean, I knew he had problematic beliefs, as does most of our church, but I didn’t know he was so cruel. I would have done something, Darren. If I knew, I would have helped.” The way she’s saying the words almost feels like a plea for absolution. I’m not the pastor here, though. He’s upstairs. I have no jurisdiction on absolution, but it doesn’t stop me from giving it anyway.

“I know you would have. I also know Miles would have killed him, and that’s the biggest reason I never said anything. I didn’t want his hands dirty. Maybe I should have just let him. I mean, he got there in the end, anyway.” I squeeze her hand. “I’m sorry for sleeping with your husband while you were married. I know that makes me a really shitty person. I can’t say I regret it, because it led us here, but if I could go back, I would have brought you into the loop.”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“I guess.”

“I felt relieved,” she whispers, aiming her gaze directly ahead, not looking at me. “When I would hear you together, I just felt so happy that Miles could finally walk in his truth. I’ve been trying to broach the topic of divorce for years.” She sniffles. “Do you remember when I had to go to Mississippi for the Ladies in Christ luncheon weekend a few years back?”

I nod. “You brought me peanut brittle. It was super good. I still think you sprinkled them with powdered laxative cut with powdered sugar, because I was indisposed for two damn days after I ate it, but it was delicious. Absolutely worth it.”

“It was actually caramelized Ex-Lax.”

I jerk my head in her direction. “I fucking knew it. Worst surrogate mother ever, Mal. Honest to God.”

She rolls her eyes. “When I was gone, I met a man at the hotel we were staying at. We had a really sweet talk in the bar, and one thing led to another—”

I gape at her. “You cheated on Miles?”

She glares at me. “If you would let me finish a sentence, you might find out.” She pauses, probably waiting for me to argue, but I don’t have an argument to make. “Anyway, we had a really long talk about his walk with God. He told me he tried to do what Miles was doing—hiding himself away just to save his soul. I never really paid much attention to gay people. I mean, I knew you were gay, and I knew Miles was, but we never spoke of it. We didn’t talk about what that was like for either of you, so I was able to put my blinders on and go about life like it wasn’t real. Earlier, after church, I talked to Gray. He told me everything his brother put him through. Everything his husband was put through.” She wipes her eye, and it’s a strange feeling, because I’ve never once seen her cry. “There’s so much hate in this world. So much unnecessary cruelty. I haven’t believed in God in a really long time. The things His followers do in His name are disgusting. I think that’s why I was okay marrying a gay man. Miles never preached hate. He didn’t drag others down just to lift himself up. He’s a good man with a kind heart. Even if I wanted to believe in God, how could I? How could I ever worship someone who allows people to be hated all their lives for something they were born with? How is that Christlike?” She pauses, staring at the picture I left on her bedside table. I guess I was right in thinking she hadn’t seen it, because she looks absolutely speechless. “You saved this one?”

I nod, scooting a little closer, pointing at her once-curly hair. She hasn’t worn curls in years, and that’s kind of a shame, because she looks awesome with them. “I always thought you were beautiful,” I admit. “And I hated you so fucking much for it.”

“Why?”

“Because how could I ever compete with that?” I point at the picture, then up at her, flicking my finger up and down the length of her face. “How could I compete with this? You’re a knock-out, and I was just a gawky teen with tragic hair and a troublesome wardrobe.”

“Yet, here you are, with the man of your dreams.”

I blush. “You’re not mad I slept with him?”

She shakes her head. “No. I probably should be, but I’m not. If it were anyone else, I would claw their eyes out, but you’re not just anyone, Darren. You’re his . You always have been, and we all know it. I’m just glad we’re finally addressing it. I do have a warning, though . . .”

“A warning?”

“If you hurt him, family or not, I will hurt you. He’s been through enough. That being said, if he hurts you, I’ll hurt him too. No one is exempt from my wrath.”

“Hell hath no fury like an ally scorned.”

“Exactly.” Pausing, she turns her head to look at me, and there’s a gentle smile settled in the corners of her mouth. “Do you want me to move out?”

I quickly shake my head. “No. I think Miles wants us to live together forever. Us and whoever you eventually find as a romantic partner. They can’t be a bigot though. That’s a hard line in the sand for me. I won’t live with a conserva-cuck.”

“I think I can agree to that.” I point at the nightstand. “I left that for you too. It’s pretty lengthy, so feel free to read it at your leisure. The long and short of it is, thank you.”

She lifts my hand and gives it a kiss. “You’re welcome.” She crinkles her nose like a psychopath. “Now get the hell out of my room. Tatum slipped a little trinket into my purse at church that I’m excited to try out.”

“A trinket?” I ask, afraid to know the answer.

She stands and walks to the table beside her bedroom door where she keeps her purse and keys. The moment she removes something that looks like a rambunctious rabbit, I high-tail it out of the room, taking the stairs two at a time.

Miles is in the shower, and there are a few boxes in the corner of our bedroom. I open one to find all my hidden treasures from the attic. Sex toys and sexy underwear. Old porn magazines with Miles’ face taped on top of the bodies. That’s not all, though. There’s another box with relics from my youth. Gifts for Miles throughout the years. There are doodles and drawings and macaroni likenesses of his face. There’s an old windchime I found at a flea market that sounds like angels singing when it chimes. A cracked coffee mug that says, “World’s Best Pastor.” At the very bottom is a stack of photographs of our little family through the years. Miles, Mal, and me on a trip to the coast. Us at a church revival where we’re both staring at Miles like he’s the reincarnation of Christ himself. Atheism be damned, some days I think he could be.

Mal must have brought these down from the attic, and I’ll never forgive her for winning me over.

I carry the box of clothing toward the dresser, pausing when I see a Word document open on Miles’ laptop on his desk. It’s the new book he’s writing. I don’t know much about it, but Miles has told me it features a gay man attempting to overcome his sexual orientation. I really hope he doesn’t plan on finishing it, because I won’t stand for homophobia in this household, internalized or otherwise.

The last paragraph in the document catches my eye, and when I reread it, my heart skips a beat.

A kiss.

A gay kiss in one of Miles’ novels. I’ve dreamed of this moment since the day he started writing. I used to have copies of his books where I used White Out and an ink pen to change the female love interest’s pronouns and rename them all Darren. Not at home. I would never be that stupid. When I was at college, I missed him so much, it was the only way I could manage. I had to throw them all away before I came home, and I think that hurt more than walking willingly into the closet after years of living in the light.

“I couldn’t stand the thought of breaking them up,” Miles says quietly. He walks across the room wearing only a pair of boxer-briefs, making my heart hammer in the process. When he reaches me, he pulls me against him, and I don’t complain about his damp skin pressed against my clothes, because this hug feels unbreakable. “I had to give them their happily ever after. They’ve earned it.”

“So do we.”

“So do we,” he agrees.

I smile up at him and nod. “Will you read it to me?”

“I’ll read it and every other book I write to you. You can cuddle up against me, and I’ll read until you fall asleep.” He kisses my forehead. “I’m probably going to rewrite all my books so far. The whole time I was writing them, I think part of me saw the female characters as men, and I want to honor the sad, scared man who wrote them.”

“I think that’s really beautiful,” I tell him, standing on my toes and giving him a quick kiss. “We’re going to be happy, aren’t we?”

“Baby, we already are.”