Page 24 of Glad You're Here

My new upstairs neighbors liked to have very loud sex at 3 am. I’d never met them, but I knew her name was Taylor, and he was Mike based purely on the names they’d scream before climaxing. The neighbors below me had a newborn and a toddler. The guy in the apartment to the left kept pretty quiet. He only played video games until midnight on the weekends. The apartment to my right was unoccupied.

But at least my new place was close to work. I could walk in the springtime when it warmed up a bit.

This November felt unreasonably cold. A whole week before Thanksgiving, snow had already covered the ground.

Why did I come back to Cedar City? I should have quit my job and moved somewhere warm where I could hike daily—maybe when my lease ended.

My phone buzzed, and I still felt that embarrassing glimmer of hope that maybe Thea was breaking her silence. That hope was dashed to pieces when I picked up my phone and saw the message from my mother.

Brigham, please bring cheesy potatoes to Thanksgiving dinner. We all loved Gina’s recipe, so it would be appreciated if you could make them like that. I can text her to get the recipe if you need me to.

I rolled my eyes and replied.

Please don’t bug Gina. I’ll make the potatoes. I’m not completely hopeless in the kitchen.

Oh, and we’ll do our annual “Thankful for the Savior” activity before dinner. This is a lovely family opportunity to express gratitude for all the Savior has done for us. We expect you to participate even though you’ve distanced yourself from Him. He still loves you despite your recent choices. You still believe in Him, don’t you?

I groaned and tossed my phone to the other side of the couch. I’d asked my mom countless times not to bring up church and beliefs with me. It only ever led to her crying and me feeling like I would explode with rage. But talking to a Mormon with an agenda was like talking to a brick wall. She wouldn’t listen, and she’d never respect my boundaries.

My phone buzzed again. I knew my mom was still trying to reconvert me, but again, I hoped it was Thea.

I hadn’t spoken to her for eight damn weeks, but she lived in my head rent-free. I’d typed out hundreds of texts to Thea, explaining that I’d never had sex with that woman she saw in my hotel room. The brunette — I couldn’t remember her name to save my life— had kissed me and then giggled that she needed to pee after all those margaritas. While she relieved herself, I pretended to fall asleep.

I couldn’t have sex with her. I momentarily lost the ability to breathe at the thought of touching a stranger’s body. I didn’t lose my breath in the exciting way that Thea always stole it with her beauty. Instead, it felt like an elephant sat on my chest and something demonic squeezed my throat.

I had sex issues. Not all the discoveries I made on my new journey were good.

How could I explain that to Thea? On the off chance that she believed my story anyway, she’d think I was insane. She certainly wouldn’t be turned on by the psychological mess that might never be able to touch her.

Besides, she’d left my head spinning so hard and fast that I didn’t know which way was up. In 24 hours, she’d both laughed at the thought of being with me and blown up at the thought of someone else being with me. What did that mean?

What did she want from me?

Sometimes, I stalked her artist social media accounts. She never posted pictures or videos of herself, and the art she shared was tame. It wasn’t her, but it was the closest thing to Thea that I could have.

Okay, honesty time? I scrolled through her damn accounts every day. I also hung the painting she gave me in my bedroom so it would be the last thing I saw before falling asleep and the first upon waking.

I let out a frustrated sigh and picked up my laptop. I needed to grade some accounting assignments before the break. My inbox was full of emails from concerned students who needed to report passing grades to their parents.

Holy shit, I hated my job.

Instead of grading assignments, I opened a tab and searched for common career changes. My bachelor’s degree in education and master’s in accounting were useless unless I wanted to teach or be an accountant, and I didn’t want to do either. So weird.

I could take one free class a semester at SUU. I’d sign up for something completely different from accounting to find out what I liked. After an entire lifetime of doing what others expected of me, I sure as hell wouldn’t do another thing I didn’t choose.

I viewed course descriptions for UX design and then explored beginning C# and C++ coding paths. I even clicked on psychology. Maybe I could learn something useful and fix my broken self.

The buried artist in me chose graphic design. I enrolled for the next semester before I could talk myself out of it.

“Brigham, it’s good to have you!” My mom watched me set the pan of cheesy potatoes on the counter as if I were a three-headed shark instead of her son. That never got old.

My older brother, Matthew, breezed through the front door next, followed by his poor pregnant wife, Becca. Becca carried their two-year-old on her hip, held a pan of freshly baked rolls in her free hand, and begged their four-year-old to hurry up the stairs and come inside. Becca seemed to tremble under the weight of all she carried, but my asshole brother collapsed on the couch and switched on a football game.

Mormon Patriarchy at its finest.

I relieved Becca of the pan of rolls and the heavy diaper bag slung over her sagging shoulder. “Bex,” I smiled, “Pregnant women aren’t supposed to be lifting so much stuff. Give me that.”

Becca gave me a weak smile but didn’t say anything. She and Gina used to be close. She held Gina while she cried over my apostasy. Becca couldn’t talk to me now. She’d get Ex-Mormon germs from me.

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