Page 192 of Wrath

I fight through it, even though I feel like I might get sick. My whole upper body starts to shake a little, so I have to swallow a few times and lock my jaw at other times to keep my voice steady. Not that I’m talking yet.

Pastor McDowell says, “You have the floor, kid,” and I look down at the real floor. It’s kind of impressive how my head gets so spacy. I feel like I’m high as I look up at him.

“I was wondering,” I manage to say clearly, “about conversion therapy.”

My voice goes raspy on those words, the way I figured it would.

I know I fucked up because his face goes startled and his eyes widen behind his glasses.

I look down at my feet. My throat tightens as if Paul has got his hands around it.

“Just…you know.” I suck a breath in as my eyes well up. Then I fucking force myself to look at his face. “What do you think about it?”

In the moment that his face goes solemn and he sits up straighter, my stomach feels so topsy-turvy that I really think I’ll puke on his rug. His eyes narrow on me, and I wipe my palms on my knees. I know he can see it—I can’t hide the way I’m breathing.

His eyes get slightly wider and his mouth twists like he’s angry. And he says, “I’m unequivocally against it, of course. Not only is it damaging—it’sabuse—but it’s ineffective, and most importantly, it goes against what I see as the will of God. Who makes no mistakes. There’s an anti-conversion therapy nonprofit called Born Perfect, and that’s what I would say about it. Every one of us is born perfect. Innocent like little Eden, my daughter. If something like that happened to you, it’s not your fault. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t needed, and it definitely wasn’t Christian.”

I’m nodding as tears drop down my cheeks and his face gentles.

“It’s something a lot of people went through.” His eyes get slightly wide again, and he takes a deep breath as he looks down and then back up at me. “Listen, kid.” He blows his breath out as I wipe at my eyes. “One weekend when I was about your age, I got sent off somewhere just like that.” His face is composed when he says it, but I can tell it bothers him because he swallows right after.

“You know who sent me?” he asks.

I shake my head, holding my breath as I wait on his answer.

“My parents.” His hand comes to his forehead, two fingertips rubbing for just a second before he moves it, frowning back up at me. His brows are pinched like he’s a little confused as he says, “My parents—who both loved me. My dad’s dead, but he was a good guy. My mom is pretty awesome, too.” His nostrils flare as he sucks air in. “They thought it was for the best,” he says, so quiet. “The people they sent me with? They thought they were helping. Weren’t really ‘bad’ people. Just wrong.”

That turns on the fucking waterworks for me again, because that’s not true in my case.

He leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees and fixing me with eyes that look careful. “Did you get sent to somewhere like that?”

I find myself nodding.

He nods with me. "Okay," he says. "So you came to the right place." His hand are pressed together in the classic prayer-hands pose. "My stuff," he says, quiet but steady, "was embarrassing. And weird," he offers. "I kept it to myself for ages. And when I thought about myself after that—being gay—it seemed like something dirty."

Tears keep dripping down my cheeks. I'm not losing my shit, thank god, but I can't stop them coming. I keep wiping at them, even as I try to keep my face from looking weird and teary.I can’t believe I’m not alone, that it happened to him—Luke McDowell.

"Who sent you? Your parents?"he asks.

"Just my mom," I manage somehow.

He nods. "You get any say so in it?"

I put my hand over my eyes as I nod. Because this part is one of the worst. "I picked the place," I rasp. I rub at my forehead, telling myself to calm the fuck down. I don't want to break down in here with him. I look up at him, swearing I won't cry while Italk. "There was this place that said they'd teach you how to shoot a bow. It had like...cabins," I say, swallowing the crack in my voice. "It was on this land. Remote. I thought it sounded like survival courses."

More tears fall down my cheeks as he nods. "Okay," he says softly. "But it wasn't, was it?"

I shake my head.

"None of that was your fault," he says, quiet and steady. "Whatever happened there—you wanted what you thought was best. Maybe to please your mom? Your pastor?"

I nod, feeling like a fucking moron.

"Did you want to be straight?" he asks me.

I nod again.

"I get it," he tells me. "Me too. For a long time. That's a failing of our modern Christianity. A really harmful one that hurts a lot of people. But it's different when it's you, isn't it? It's not theoretical or theological. For me, it all came down to a few memories. Like...these peak moments of feeling embarrassed. Or violated," he adds softly.

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