Page 6

chapter six

It feels like my heart is going to fly out of my chest.

He knows. My Dare-bear knows, and he doesn’t hate me. I haven’t lost him. I thought when he found out, any shred of respect he once held for me would vanish for sure, but it hasn’t. If anything, he seems even more committed to our plan. Sure, he’s been giving me a lot of sympathetic looks, but it doesn’t bother me as much as it ought to. When Mal and I used to talk about it —back before the bottom fell out of our marriage—I always felt overwhelming levels of shame. Eventually, I just stopped talking about it, tucking that part of my life out of sight, out of mind.

I kind of want to talk about it with Dare, though. I think I’d like to share some of my experiences with him. Maybe he’ll even be willing to answer some of the questions I never got answered when I was younger. I know he probably has the answers. Dare’s been to Dallas, Texas, for gosh’s sake. He’s seen the world. And what have I ever seen? My childhood home, and my church’s pulpit. That’s as far as I ever got. It’s probably as far as I’ll ever get. Should it hurt this much? Should knowing I’ll never be anything more than what I already am feel so overwhelming? Dear God, Almighty. “Am I having a midlife crisis?”

“Probably,” Mal calls out from behind me, startling me. “Miles—babe—if you pace the floor any harder, you’re going to fall through the ceiling.” She’s probably right. I’ve been walking in circles for the last hour, replaying every moment in my head, and it still feels like I’m coming out of my skin. Mal sighs in the door frame, then walks to her old side of the bed and takes a seat, legs dangling over the edge.

She’s got her hair pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s wearing a pink t-shirt and a pair of jeans. I smile, because I love when she wears them. It’s not a sexual thing. Our church preaches women should only wear modest blouses and ankle-length dresses. Well, our denomination does, at least. I tend to shy away from topics I’m not sure I believe in. I know what the Bible says, but I also know a woman wearing a pair of pants isn’t hurting anyone. It doesn’t change her character as a human being, they’re just really dang comfortable, and I don’t think someone should miss out on comfort simply because they were born with a vagina. There are other topics I don’t preach about. Sexuality. Gender. A woman’s right to choose. The queasiness I feel anytime I read a new headline about our president. They’re all things that could lead to my dismissal, and that would cost me my home. My family’s home. My father’s legacy. The church owns it, and if I’m ever ousted, I lose the life I’ve built. Even worse, I won’t be across the street from Darren anymore, and that is simply unacceptable.

The evangelical status quo doesn’t allow much leniency when it comes to politics. I guess I’m a conservative. That’s what I was born into. It’s what Dare was born into, too, but I have no idea where he stands on the big issues. He lets things slip from time to time that almost make him sound like a dang Marxist, whatever the heck that is. Sometimes, he’ll make his point so well, it changes my entire opinion on something. Even when we argue and he lets the sassy Dallas, Texas, version of himself out to play, I come out the other side feeling like I’ve grown as a person. He makes me better. He makes me want to be better. Maybe one day I can be. Maybe we both can.

Mal pats the empty space beside her, and I shuffle over and take a seat. She rests her hand on my knee, staring out the window. “You can talk to me, you know. Even if we’re not . . . you can always talk to me.”

“I know,” I whisper, even though I don’t really know that at all. Not when it comes to this.

“Is it about us?” she asks, but I shake my head. “Is it about him ?” The way she says it. It’s not disdain or anger that’s coating her voice, it sounds like resignation. Darren’s always been a constant figure in our lives. A figure she never asked for. Someone she barely tolerated, much less liked. But something has changed between us. Our dissolving relationship seems to be a breeding ground for home truths and feelings that I don’t necessarily want to feel. “You told him about the separation, didn’t you?”

I shake my head. My marital struggles are none of Darren’s business. It’s not that I don’t trust him with the information, I just don’t want to add anymore unnecessary weight on his shoulders. Not when he’s battling demons of his own.

“I can’t,” I finally say. “He’d be so disappointed in me. I’m his role model, and if I can’t make it work with you, how can he be expected to . . .”

“Maybe it’s time to stop trying,” she says, her voice soft, not a trace of cruelty in her tone. “Miles, we’ve been at this for twenty years. We’ve pretended. We’ve spent two decades of our lives pretending to be a happy couple.”

I gape at her. “We were happy.” I don’t say we are happy, because I love Mal too much to lie to her. “Weren’t we?”

She rests her head on my shoulder the way she used to. I remember the first time she did it. We were sitting next to each other at church, and she’d been up most of the night before, helping her momma put together flyers for an upcoming revival. Our church had a ton of revivals when my father was still around. It seemed like we had them every few weeks, and I never understood how you could revive something that never faded in the first place. She’d been really sleepy that morning, and her eyelids kept drifting closer and closer together until she eventually fell asleep, her head softly falling on my shoulder. Mal had her hand on my knee, just casually resting on top.

Then I saw Dare. He was little back then, and the look of hurt on his face when he stared up at me felt like a knife to the heart. There were big, sloppy tears in his eyes, falling one after another. It was a look of absolute betrayal, but I didn’t know how the heck I betrayed him. Then he placed his hands on Mal’s arm and shoved until her hand was no longer on me. I’m pretty sure it was the day their silly feud started. He’s always been really jealous of Mal for stealing my attention from him. He didn’t get a whole lot of love at home, so I tried to sprinkle as much as I could his way. I still do. I hope I always will.

Mal gives me a look I can’t quite read, her eyes darting from mine to the picture of Darren and me on my nightstand. He and I have matching copies, and I swore to him I’d keep it by my bed as long as he wants me to. That was dang-near ten years ago, and since then the only time I’ve moved it has been to clean the glass and dust the frame. There’s a strange, queer feeling inside me, demanding I replace it with a newer one, because it’s like part of me doesn’t want to see him this way. Part of me almost wants to forget I’ve known him for as long as I have, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out where that twinge of guilt is coming from.

“No,” Mal finally answers. “No, Miles, we weren’t happy. Not as much as we should’ve been. Not nearly as much as we still could be.”

“You really want a divorce?” I finally whisper, and her hand squeezes my knee, giving me a little of her comfort. I feel humiliated. For so long, I’ve tried my best to love her in our own way. It’s not enough. I’m not an idiot. I know she deserves better than this thing we’ve become, because Mal’s special. She’s got a warrior’s heart. It won’t be long before she’s riding into the next chapter, trailblazing through life and making her mark.

But she’s going to leave me behind. She’s going to flourish, and I’ll be stuck here in this family tomb, surrounded by relics of my past, the story of my life painted across the living room walls in pretty golden picture frames to make us look more than we ever were.

“I’m not in any rush, but yeah. I think it’s the only way. We can still make it out of this as friends. I want that. Don’t you?” She falls back in bed and stares at the ceiling. “I’m going to miss this bed.”

“You can have it if you want it.”

She shakes her head, her eyes locked on the ceiling as if she’s trying to read words in the popcorn ceiling. “You have to be more careful, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“You and Darren. If you’re really planning on pursuing this conversion therapy televangelist dream, you’re going to both need to be a little more discreet. Honestly. You sound like dogs in heat every night. I’m surprised the neighbors haven’t called in a noise complaint.” My brows furrow as I try to piece it together. She must notice my confusion, because she rolls her eyes. “My bedroom is directly under yours. Did you think you were being sneaky?”

“What the heck are you talking about?”

“Your little late-night rendezvouses upstairs. I know Darren thinks he’s pulling a fast one by sneaking in through the attic, then down through the trapdoor he created above your closet, but this house is as old as Methuselah, and you can hear every single creak from a mile off. The man is fooling no one.” When she finally tilts her head and looks at me, she’s got this really sweet smile on her face that reminds me of when we were kids. She’s been my constant companion for twenty-plus years, and it feels really good to see this side of her again. “I’m happy for you.” She lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles. “We’re going to get our happy endings, Miles. I just know it.”

“Mal,” I say, shaking my head as I try to make sense of what she’s saying. “I don’t understand what the heck you’re talking about. What trap door? And why the heck would Darren sneak into our room at night?”

“You know, when you two . . .” Lifting her hands, she forms a circle with her thumb and index finger, then drives her other index finger in and out of it.

I gape at her, my eyes bulging. “Are you insinuating Darren and I are having—” I gag at the thought, unable to get the word out. Never. I would never do that with Dare-bear. He’s my best friend. “I have overcome, and Darren Matthews is on the offramp leading to the straight and narrow. I won’t let you create an unnecessary detour by insinuating he’s backsliding.”

“Backsliding? He backs it up for you every night, Miles,” Mal groans as she sits up, flinging her hands in the air like she doesn’t give a dang one way or the other. “Fine. If you want to continue pretending he doesn’t come over every night and cuddle with you—amongst other things—for hours on end, we can do that too.” She chews her bottom lip, staring thoughtfully at me like she’s trying to work up the nerve to say something, but she just shakes her head and stands before making her way to the door. Pausing in the door frame, she looks over her shoulder at me and gives me a parting smile. “I love you, you know. It might not be a romantic love but it’s still love. If he hurts you, I’ll hurt him.” With that, she turns and walks away, leaving me alone in our room with my heart racing a mile a minute.

Darren? Here? At night? The allegation is ridiculous, quite frankly. I think I’d know if Darren was sneaking into my room at night through a trapdoor. I know Mal and Darren don’t have the best relationship, but making up silly accusations—probably to drive a wedge between Dare and me—is crossing the line, even for her. Thou shalt not lie. It’s in God’s top ten sins, for goodness’ sake. And a trap door? Really? What’s next, secret passageways? Creepy portraits with their eyes cut out so someone can watch you doing whatever?

And now I can’t get my mind off the thought of Darren standing behind my bedroom wall, watching without me knowing. A shudder runs through me that I can’t explain. I reach for my phone, wanting to call Dare and tell him what Mal just accused him of doing, but I pause when I stare at the photo on my screen. I guess I forgot to change my background when I woke up today, because right there, beneath my most-used apps, standing at my side like it’s where he’s meant to be, is Darren Matthews in a sweat-drenched shirt. Why didn’t I change my background when I woke up? I always change it.

The longer I stare at him, the more at peace I feel, because this man . . . This charming, dazzling, sparkling man with his sweet smile fills me with tranquility in a way I’ve pleaded for God to do. It takes me a moment to realize I didn’t change the picture this morning because I didn’t want to change it. I like having him here, one button click away.

Before I call Darren and question him, I want to have physical proof that my wife was just pulling my leg. She mentioned the window in the attic, so that’s probably a good place to start.

In the hallway, I grab the cord for the pull-down ladder leading up to the attic. Each step I take makes me feel sillier and sillier, because the idea that Darren would commit felony breaking and entering to—what? Pray the gay away at midnight?—is so outlandish, there’s no way it can be true.

I hate our attic. It’s filled to capacity with my parents’ stuff. After Dad died, Mom was never the same. I tried to keep her spirits up by moving Mal into the house with us, since they’d always been close at church. It wasn’t enough to keep her grounded. I wasn’t enough. My mom was a kind lady who never hurt anyone. She didn’t stand up for me, but I never asked her to. I like to think maybe she would have, had I gone to her. It hurts to know she probably wouldn’t. The thought of throwing out all the keepsakes and souvenirs from our lives together felt impossible at the time, so I packed it all up and tucked it away, the same way I did with my sexuality.

I use my phone’s flashlight to guide me through the maze of boxes, all stacked from floor to ceiling. I’m sure it’s a safety hazard, but I never come up here, so it’s not something I really worry about.

I stop at the window and look down, my heart beating a little faster than before. Before Mom and Dad died, we planned on converting the attic into a living space for Mal and me, once we tied the knot. I was a nervous wreck for months, knowing the day was creeping closer, and I tried to distract myself by fixing the room up nice for us. The thing is, I’m not really all that talented in remodeling or redecorating, and I stupidly painted the window. I was going to crack the seal it created and repaint the wood, but then Dad died, and then I took over the church. My plan fell by the wayside. I never cracked the paint seal, but now there’s a crack where paint should be.

I know it’s probably just a silly coincidence, but I can’t stop my mind from racing with what if’s . What if Mal’s right? What if Darren really has been sneaking in every night? I woke up next to him that one time. He claimed I asked him over to pray the gay away, but what if he was lying about why he was here?

I shake my head, because that’s just silly. He wouldn’t lie to me. I know Darren Matthews better than I know myself. If there was something going on I didn’t know about, he would never keep it from me.

Slowly, I make my way back through the maze of boxes and down the attic ladder. When I walk into my bedroom, I make a beeline for my closet, because I remember Mal mentioning a trap door. Each step I take feels like it’s filled with purpose. The desire to prove Mal wrong. An unexplainable urge to call her out on it and tell her I won’t stand for her trying to drive a wedge between my buddy and me, hindering his conversion in the process. Souls are on the line here.

She wasn’t lying earlier. Our home is old as God himself. The ceiling in my closet isn’t really a ceiling at all. Whoever constructed the house must have been rushing to get it over with, because where a ceiling should be, there’s simply wooden floorboards separating it from the attic. I reach for the floorboards above me and push, ready to put this idiotic matter to bed, because of course, there’s no trapdoor in my closet. It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever—

The board lifts with no resistance, and it feels like every trace of oxygen leaves me. Dizzy, I let the board fall back into place, leaning against the wall for support as I catch my breath.

“Darren?” I whisper, my voice trembling. There’s still a chance, though. A chance Mal is wrong about all this. The board is a lot thinner than Darren, so he couldn’t possibly fit through. Maybe they just forgot to nail this board in. I stand up straight, glaring defiantly at the other boards, daring them to rise when I push. I lift my arms and press the second board. Sure enough, it lifts just as easily, and so do the next two. The fifth board at the very end doesn’t move, but Darren’s such a small guy. He wouldn’t need that much space. I’ve been telling him he’s too thin for years, why the hell haven’t I tried to fatten him up?

I sink to the floor, clutching my phone, trying to make sense of it all. Mal can’t be right. I know she can’t be telling the truth, so there has to be some explanation for this. I need there to be an explanation, because the one she’s providing is too horrifying to even think about.

I stare at the picture of Darren and me on my phone, my eyes drifting up and down his body, looking for something, but I’m not sure what. He’s a handsome guy, I’ll give him that. His thin frame with just the slightest hint of untapped muscle mass. His creamy skin. Those two dimples that go deep as canyons each time I make him laugh. I love to make him laugh. I just love him so dang much, so this can’t be true. Darren would never betray me this way. I know he wouldn’t, which makes the whole situation even more unsettling.

“I’m going to prove her wrong, buddy,” I tell my phone, and whether I mean the words for Darren, or if I’m just saying them to myself like a wish on a shooting star, I’m not entirely sure. I don’t change my background, and I don’t have a single reason to leave it there other than I want it to be there.

After placing the boards back where they belong, I set my phone on my nightstand and lie back in bed, staring up at the ceiling. My mind wanders for a while, scattering around as I try to settle my soul. I attempt a few prayers, but they all feel hollow, and I know God will be able to tell my heart isn’t in it, so eventually, I just give up.

There’s only one thing that can cure my sour moods, and I think I need it now, more than ever. I grab my laptop from the desk and bring it back to my bed. Cracking open the lid, I bring up the word doc for my newest story, tentatively titled Out of the Dark – A Novel. I like the way it sounds when authors toss “A Novel” into a title, because it makes it seem really classy. I don’t know if my stories would be considered classy, but the one I’m writing now is my most personal book to date. Beloved pop icon Max Mitchell has been married to his husband for three years. They share a beautiful life together—a life I once dreamed of having for myself—until his husband has a religious awakening. It’s a scene I’ve felt pressured into writing, for a book I never wanted to write. If I don’t write it now, I never will.

Max’s husband, Dillon, has sat him down to break the news that God has spoken to him. I have to end their marriage. I’ve tried so many times to put myself in their place so I could write authentically, but it hurts. It aches, twisting and turning inside me, making my insides feel like spun sugar stretched within an inch of its limit. I feel such a strong connection to Max that writing this scene—dramatizing the dissolution of his cherished marriage—feels like I’m putting him through hell. Part of me wants to power through, but there’s a tiny voice whispering in my head. It’s been whispering for weeks, telling me not to do it. It’s urging I give them the happy ending they deserve. A loving marriage. A life lived out of shadows. A life I could only ever dream of having for myself.

I close my laptop, because I can’t bring myself to break his fictional heart. My goal for the story is to have Max receive a spiritual calling for himself. God is supposed to come into his heart and finally make him whole, washing away the rainbow, leaving only God’s light.

I know it’s early, but I’m ready to call it a day. My soul is in shambles, and I just want to crawl under my covers and forget this day ever happened. I reach for my pill bottle on the nightstand and twist the lid off. Shaking the bottle, a pink speckled pill lands in my palm. I’ve been meaning to wean myself off the medication for a while, because I know relying on sleep aids isn’t a permanent solution to my insomnia; God’s love is. Instead of my usual dose, I crack a pill in half and pop it, taking a swig from the water bottle I keep beside my bed. I don’t know if I’ll rest as soundly as I usually do on these pills, but even three or four uninterrupted hours of sleep should put the spring back into my step.

Closing my eyes, I wait for sleep to claim me, and I imagine my Dare-bear’s face.