Page 4

chapter four

There’s something crusty on my face. It’s right there, just beside my mouth, making it look like I’ve been drooling in my sleep. It’s not the first time I’ve noticed the white crust after a long night spent alone in bed, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out what it could be. I’d noticed the patch of white flakes a month or so ago, and it’s popped up at random a few times, my jaw a little sore, my voice a little raspier than usual as I lean in closer, staring into the mirror secured to my dresser, musing, “What the heck?”

Oh, well. Another battle for another day. I walk to the ensuite and wet a washcloth, using it to dab away the crust. Once that’s done, I take my morning piss, moaning as relief washes over me while I empty my bladder.

Back in the bedroom, I power my phone screen on, and I can’t keep the smile off my face when I look at my background. Every night when I go to bed, my wallpaper is a crucifix atop a majestic hill. Then, sure as the sunrise, I wake to find it’s been changed to this picture. I think my phone is malfunctioning. It’s a picture of Dare and me. We're wearing sweat-drenched shirts as we try to save souls. Every abdominal muscle between us is visible. Gosh. I sure do love this picture, but I don't know why it keeps defaulting as my background.

I’ll tell you, those two fight like cats and dogs, but I know they’d be fast friends if they just gave each other a chance. Yeah, maybe Mal’s a little unkind to Dare, and maybe Darren can be catty in return, but they’re the most important people in my life. Now it feels like I’m losing them both. Well, I’m definitely losing one of them, at least.

Mal and I have been in counseling with the only sexologist in Tallulah, Texas, for nearly a year. It was her idea. A last-ditch effort to save our crumbling marriage. I try to love her the way she deserves, and the way I know I’m supposed to, but the fluttering hearts I write about in my books have never presented themselves to me. I’ve never looked at my wife and had a desire to fornicate. I enjoy her company. I enjoy bringing home little surprises after a trip up in town. I even love the way we used to cuddle while I wrote my books, before she decided she couldn’t do it anymore and moved her stuff into the guest room.

I’m a man headed for divorce, and as much as it should hurt me, it doesn’t.

As for my best friend . . . Gosh. Darren sure is something. He’s going to be my shining star one day, I just know it. As I lead him back on the straight and narrow, I know he’s going to win the hearts of millions. He’ll rise to the top of the evangelical map, and I’ll be right there, riding his coattails into my dreams. It ain’t that I’m trying to use him, I just can’t picture a future without him standing right there at my side, and he’s said the same about me a million times. He says we’re going to be iconic, whatever the heck that means.

Television.

If the speed with which he’s managed to pivot back to God’s intended path is any indication, I know the rest of his conversion will be a cakewalk. I can’t believe how much progress we’ve made over the last few months. I’ve always known he was a little fruity—even back when he was still a boy—but when Mr. Matthews sent his only son to college in Dallas of all places, I knew the fruit would rot. Sure enough, he was fermented in homosexuality when he graduated and returned home, four years later.

The first time I saw him after he came home, I almost threw up. He was wearing this little pink crop top that rested halfway up his stomach. The words Daddy’s Boy were big and bold, right in the center of his shirt like it was something to be proud of. And those shorts. Glory, glory hallelujah, those shorts were like a second skin. A neon shade of green that could probably be seen from space if an astronaut looked hard enough. Trust me, I couldn’t take my eyes off the thin slip of fabric. They were practically obscene.

“I come to you seeking a peaceful heart,” I pray. “I pray for your guidance and courage, my Lord.” Falling to my knees, I rest my hands on my wife’s side of the mattress. Surprisingly, it’s still warm to the touch, which doesn’t make any sense, because she hasn’t slept in our room in months. Leaning down, I put God on hold and sniff my sheet. It smells a little like vanilla with a light dusting of cotton candy. It’s familiar, though not overly so. The scent is everything great and good in this world, and whatever its source, I want—no, need—more.

“Sorry,” I say to God, staring up at my ceiling with a meek smile. “Where were we?” My mind races as swirls of vanilla invade my senses, making the world seem a little foggier than before. The memory of a man lying on top of me hits me like a ton of bricks, but whoever the man is, I can’t see his face. It’s distant, like staring the wrong way out of a pair of binoculars, all shapes and swirls of dark smoke. My entire body shudders when I hear a familiar-but-unplaceable voice echo, “ Miles, baby ,” in my head.

Was someone here last night?

Shaking, I stand and head to the closet. I don’t feel right praying to God when the image of a man on top of me is flooding my mind. I pause at the window and see Darren raking leaves in his front yard. There’s another man beside him, but his back is turned to me, so I can’t see who it is. They seem to be having a humorous exchange, because Darren is beaming brightly at the guy. Something triggers in me, and my hand curls into a fist, my nails digging into the skin. Who the heck is that man, and why the heck is he talking to Dare?

Trying to steady my breathing, I walk to my closet, but I pause in the middle of my room as another mental flash fills my head. Whoever the man in my dream is, I’m kissing his nipple. Taking it between my teeth and tugging. It’s been a vision I’ve gotten flashes of for the last couple of months, but I can never see a face. I must be losing my mind, because no one was in here last night. How would they even get in? I mean, Darren did a few weeks back, claiming I asked him to come over and pray his gay away while I was under the influence of my sleeping medication. I woke up with him lying beside me, using my chest as a pillow. I didn’t remember sending him the alleged text, and sure enough, when I checked my phone, there were no outgoing messages aside from the morning bible verses I send him. With the way my phone keeps changing backgrounds by itself at night, it probably just deleted the message too.

I pull on my khakis and tuck my Polo shirt into the waist. I’m spritzing cologne on my neck when the doorbell rings. The clock on my bedside table says it’s just a few minutes after seven, so I’m not sure who the heck would be here this early. Bounding down the stairs, I wonder if maybe Darren’s standing on the other side of my front door.

I have to pause, because it feels like my heart is fluttering, just like in my stories. I don’t know what that’s about. Maybe indigestion.

Seeing Darren is the brightest part of my day. We’re supposed to get together later this morning to pray for his soul, but maybe he got a little lonely being stuck at home with his parents. Maybe he wants me to give his day a little brightness too.

Unfortunately, when I open the front door, Darren is still across the street, raking leaves, his shirt sweaty, his shorts clinging to every nook and crook. I take another deep breath, because I’m feeling a little lightheaded.

“Pastor,” Brother Meadows says. Brother Meadows is our chapel’s newest congregant. Well, Doctor Meadows, I suppose, but we’re all brothers and sisters in Christ in the end. He joined our church a few months ago, claiming he’d heard wonderful things about the apostolic community. Ever since, he’s come to almost every service, and he even stops by my office for one- on-one discussions every few days. He’s curious about Darren’s progress as well. I can’t say I blame him. Darren is doing a remarkable job in overcoming his demon. He’s made faster progress than I did when . . .

No. Not today, Miles.

“Brother Meadows,” I say with a forced grin. “It’s nice to see you. What brings you over so early?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bottle of pills. “I’m going to be out of town next week, and I wanted to make sure you didn’t run out of sleeping pills while I was out.”

I’m thankful for having such a thoughtful congregation. I take care of my flock, and they take care of me. Other pastors might scoff at the notion of receiving medication without a prescription from their parishioners, but I’m not most people. I’m ordained by God. That’s what His voice tells me every night, at least. The moment my sleeping pill hits, my gaze goes vacant, and His word flows through me like an unending spring. He whispers praise and admiration for the work I do in His name. For the lives I change with my spectacular personality and charming, ruggish good looks.

“That was very thoughtful of you. I really appreciate it. I don’t know what it is about these, but I’ve never slept better in my life. Every morning when I wake up, I feel like a brand-new man.” The mention of his pills reminds me of a question I’ve been meaning to ask him, ever since I got curious a few days ago. “When I search for these on the pill identifier website, it doesn’t bring up any results. What are they exactly?”

His smile stretches wider, giving me what appears to be a genuine grin. “Heavy duty Ambien,” he says, like he’s been practicing the words, waiting for me to ask. Why have I never asked? What’s worse—why does it feel wrong to ask now? My head feels fuzzy, and there’s a dull pressure that spreads across my forehead.

“Sorry. Just—just need a second.”

“You’re okay,” Brother Meadows assures me. His hand is on my back. “Just try not to worry too much about where they’re from. All that matters is that they work. You’ve been sleeping better than you have in ages—that’s what you said a second ago, remember?”

“Yeah,” I say, still feeling a little lightheaded, but it seems to be getting better. “I’ve been sleeping really well.”

“Good boy,” he praises. The words are ridiculous, but my head feels too fuzzy to mention it. Brother Meadows says a few more words that I can’t hear, and I give an answer that I can’t remember giving.

What the heck is going on?

I close my eyes and blink, but when I open them, Brother Meadows and I are standing at the door. I don’t remember walking there. “And remember,” he says, but he doesn’t say anything after that. His lips move, but nothing comes out.

“I won’t say anything to him,” I agree, but I don’t know what I’m agreeing to. It’s like his words ran through me, but they didn’t register, and I’m responding by instinct. I don’t think it matters, though. Because with the sun shining through the open door, its light warms my cheeks, making me smile. All is well. I feel at peace, because Jesus loves me. This I know.

Across the street, Darren is still raking leaves. He’s wearing a tank top and a pair of shorts that rest halfway up his thighs. I sure love my best friend. He’s such a sweet guy; but then, he always has been. He never cried or acted up during service as a kid. He would march to the front of the church, sit down beside me, and remain absolutely silent for the next three hours. Our church once had over three hundred members. Those numbers may have faltered, but Darren never has. I remember us at our prime, side by side. Him fumbling through his teenage years as I studied the scripture. How he came back to town only once when he was in college, and how he’d done that for me. He heard my dad died, and he was by my side in less than two hours, holding my hand, telling me it was all going to be okay. Then he left me again, and his loss outweighed the loss of my father tenfold. I missed him.

God, I missed him.

But then my best friend came home to me.

My body moves on its own, forgetting about Brother Meadows or my open front door, leaving it open and letting the air conditioning out. I rush across the street without looking either way, my eyes glued to Darren’s shorts. They’re just so small and tight.

“Hey, bud,” I say, clapping a hand against his sweaty back. “The yard is looking good.”

“The yard’s not the only thing,” he says, but I don’t have the foggiest what that means, so I ignore the comment.

“Listen, I was hoping we could head to church. I want to film the introduction video to our YouTube channel. We’re going to save so many souls, Darren. You should be proud of yourself.”

A pained look crosses his face, but he quickly replaces it with a smile.

“ I’m betraying my community, and I’m doing it for you. ” The words echo through my head, but his lips aren’t moving. I don’t know if he’s ever even said those words, but there’s an urge to console him, and it’s stronger than anything I’ve ever felt, because all I can see is a mental image of his sobbing face. His hands gripping my shoulders like he’s trying to pour his heart into me by force. Telling me he’s given up everything, and he would do it again. Just for me. While I don’t remember the conversation at all, it feels like a lived experience. Like it’s a demon we’ve been battling for months. I just wish I could remember those battles.

“You’re not betraying anyone, Darren. You’re leading them into the light.” I don’t know what’s happening to me today, but these flashes and swirls of misplaced memories are really doing a number on me. I can barely think straight. It’s like my thoughts are scattered, littered throughout my mind, refusing to find their way home. His mouth falls open in surprise and his cheeks burn red. I know it can’t be from the weather, because it’s maybe seventy degrees, tops. “What’s wrong, bud?”

“I didn’t say I was betraying anyone.”

“You didn’t have to,” I lie, not wanting him to know I’ve been having head trouble today. “It’s written all over your face.” I smile warmly at him and nod. “What we’re doing is for the greater good.”

“I know,” he agrees, his cheeks red. “It’s just hard to reconcile my faith with what I believed when I was at college.” He gives me an insistent look. “Do you ever wonder if this is wrong? What if God made me this way for a reason? What if it’s okay to be gay?”

My eyes widen, because that’s blasphemous. “You can’t say things like that,” I hiss, pointing at the sky. “He hears everything. I don’t ever want to hear that propaganda again. Do you hear me? I won’t stand for it.”

His jaw clenches. “I’m the one who’s giving up their identity here. Not you. So, you’ll have to freaking excuse me if I wonder aloud whether or not I’m purposefully tormenting myself with conversion therapy.” He takes a step forward, letting the rake fall down. “You’re not the one going through this, so a little empathy would go a long way.”

A growl crawls up my throat as visions of my father and her flood my memories. I close my eyes, trying to blink away the memory, but all I can see is her soft form resting on my lap as she . . . “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

“I know everything about you. I’ve known you since I was five. You act like this is easy, but it isn’t. It hurts giving up a part of myself. Having to push down this little part of me so no one else will ever see it. I’m giving up everything here. Not you.”

“Yes, me,” I bark, my cheeks burning. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to overcome this burden? I’ve been doing it a hell of a lot longer than you have, so don’t you dare tell me—” I suck in a sharp breath when I realize what I’ve just admitted, and I know my eyes must be as big as the moon itself. I slowly shake my head and take a stumbling step back. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

His jaw trembles, and the sight of it feels like someone’s stabbed a knife into my heart. “You’re gay? I mean, you’ve always known? It’s not some new revelation?” He brings his voice to a whisper, adding, “I thought it was just the pills,” but I don’t know what the heck that means. I don’t care what it means, because I can barely breathe.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I haven’t identified as gay in over twenty years. I’ve built a life with an unfulfilled wife, and I did it for a purpose. For the greatest purpose. “I’ve been delivered,” I say, my voice as strong as I can make it. “I have overcome. So, I know exactly what you’re going through. The difference between you and me is I didn’t sit around moping about it. I took action.” I take another step back. “I think you need to take today to decide if this is even something that you want, because it sure as heck doesn’t sound like it.”

My stomach is in knots when I turn and walk across the street. I feel his eyes burning holes in my back. The second the front door closes behind me, I fall into a heap as the memories replay in my head like the world’s worst movie.

My dad barging into my room at midnight, dragging me out of bed. Us pulling up to her house. The red negligee. Her hands roaming everywhere, even when I begged her to stop. Even as I cried out for Dad to stop it from happening while he waited in the living room. The shame. It hasn’t faded with time. It’s festered. It’s grown into a massive mass inside my chest that weighs me down like an anchor, and no matter what I do, I can’t break the chains locking it in place.

I pleaded with God that night, but He must have been busy. He provided me no comfort, and He didn’t soothe my soul. I begged for Him to make it stop, but He didn’t, which made me think God was allowing it to happen. Worse, it made me think He wanted it to happen. He wouldn’t even make my erection go down. It stood at attention even as my heart felt like it was caving in, thanks to the erectile medication Dad forced me to take beforehand. When it was done, I begged God for something else. A permanent end to all my suffering. I tried to find that relief myself, but I was too much of a coward—too weak—to see it through. Some days, I wish I’d been stronger.

After it was said and done, I pushed all those old feelings—the biggest, brightest part of me—down into a ball and placed it in the farthest corner of my heart, never letting its light peek past the surface. Some days it’s excruciating, others, it’s a dull ache that can occasionally be ignored. Today is neither. Today is absolutely unbearable, because my sweet boy knows my darkest secret.

At the time, it felt like I was losing part of myself. Like I was ripping my soul in half, discarding the bad, keeping the good. It’s been twenty-four years, and the shame is still there, settled in the pit of my stomach. I try not to think about it much. I thought about it a lot less before Darren came home. For four years I was free from any-and-everything homosexual. The dull-ache days seemed endless, and everything didn’t always seem so pointless. Then he marched into town like a one-man Pride parade, muddling my vision. Making me think about parts of myself I’ve kept hidden for decades. Making me question the path.

I was born wrong, but I’ve made myself right again. Darren can do the same. I can save him, he just has to let me try. I won’t use the tactics my father used to convert me, because I want my best friend to have a total transformation, whereas with me, there are days where I wonder why I even try. A few minutes ago, I told Darren my dirty little secret, and I told him I overcame my burden, but it’s not true. I haven’t changed, I’ve simply adapted. I’ve kept myself hidden to keep myself safe. And that’s enough, I think. God, please let it be enough, because if it isn’t, what’s the point?

There’s a knock on my door, and it startles me, making me jolt.

“Miles,” my Dare-bear says on the other side of the door. “Talk to me.”

The doorknob rattles as he unlocks it. I don’t know how he’s gotten a key to my house or what makes him feel like he can use it when he pleases. I slide away from the door so it doesn’t hit me when it opens, and then Darren is standing over me, staring at me with so much pity in his eyes, I almost can’t stand it. He kneels in front of me and cups my cheek. It’s such a simple act, but it’s one that sends a shiver down my spine.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, his voice shaking. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have—”

“It’s okay,” I say, forcing a smile. “I’ve been delivered, and you can be too. I believe in you, but I need you to believe in yourself, and in the process. I need you to believe in me, little man.”

“I do believe in you,” he says, staring at the hand still caressing my cheek. “More than anyone.” His brown eyes burn into mine like he’s trying to look into my soul. “So, I’m going to get dressed, and we’re going to go to church. If we’re going to turn you into a superstar televangelist, we should start now.” He removes his hand from my cheek and wipes a stray tear from his eye.

“Darren,” I say, but I don’t have any words to follow it up with. What I’m feeling inside isn’t excitement or dreams of grandeur. I’m staring at my best friend shedding tears over me, and it fills me with this irrational urge to pull him in for a hug and tell him it’s okay. That it’s always going to be okay, because he’s got me on his side.

“I’m okay. I want this. Just give me a few minutes to get changed.” He plasters a phony grin on his face before adding, “Straight is great.”

I swallow, catching a whiff of him. He smells a little musky with sweat, but there’s an underlying sweet note to it. He smells like vanilla and cotton candy. He smells like home.

“Straight is great,” I agree.