Page 39 of Slay the Gay Away, Daddy

One of the church’s most longstanding members, Sister Andrews, slowly stands from her seat, gripping the back of the pew ahead of her for support. It takes her a moment, because she’s been on death’s doorstep for as long as I’ve known her. Shelooks around the church, taking in the sight of our dwindling congregation, and sighs.

“Miles,” she says, her voice frail, but I don’t give a damn how frail it is. He’s not Miles when he’s in this building. He isn’t Miles. “Sugar, I’ve known you all your life. Most of us have. We’ve stood by you because your father was our pastor. He was the backbone of this church, and he left it to you.” Closing her eyes, she slowly shakes her head. “The fact is, that young man was right.”

What little color left on Miles’ face drains, and his mouth opens and closes like he’s trying to say something to save himself but keeps drawing a blank.

“Miles.” It isn’t me speaking. It’s Mallory. She stands and walks down the aisle, making her way to him. Taking her place at his side. No. My place. Because I should be the one comforting him the way she is. It should be my hand reaching for his. It should be me he turns his head to and stares at in terror.

“Our church is dying,” Sister Andrews says, her voice meek and babylike, just like my mom’s. “There have been rumors for years, but we’ve all overlooked them. The fact of the matter is, we can’t keep going on the way we are unless you want your daddy’s legacy to die.” She pauses, taking a deep breath, building herself up for what she’s about to say. “Are you a homosexual, Miles?”

“I . . . I’m not—” He looks at me but quickly turns to Mal, lifts her hand, and kisses it. “If I were,” he adds, his voice measured, each word precisely spoken in his pastorly voice, “it would be news to my wife.”

Mal stares sadly into Miles’ eyes before putting on her pastor’s wife mask and beaming brightly. “Ain’t that the truth.”

And as they force a loving glance, it pacifies the crowd, breaking my heart in the process. I don’t know what this means for us. Is he just scared and buying himself some time? Is heuncommitted to the commitment we share? He looks at me, and for the first time in my life, I can’t gauge his feelings. He stares down at their interwoven fingers and nods.

For a moment—one singular, godforsaken moment—it almost looks like he mouths, “Straight is great,” to himself.

“Miles,” I whisper, and his eyes meet mine, hearing my quiet voice above the crowd. I shake my head, because no. None of that. We’re not backsliding into heterosexuality. He looks away, but I say his name again, and his eyes are back on me. I dart my eyes toward the door leading toward the hallway where his office is.

To my horror, he quickly shakes his head and looks away from me.

Alright. We’ll fucking see about that.

chapter fifteen

He clocked me. That sassy sodomite clocked me faster than I’ve ever been clocked. He sniffed out my sparkle like a bloodhound, then went in for the kill in front of God and everyone. Literally.Well, maybe not the killing part, but I think I may have died a death of sorts on that stage. The death of hope. The death of any level of courage I may have built up beforehand.

“I wish you’d talk to me,” Mal says, but I’m too busy securing the new window bars on the attic window. Once they’re screwed in place, I grab the drill and move through the maze of boxes cluttering this space. I need to clear all this crap out. It’s just taking up space. I never go through the boxes, because it hurts too much to remember. I kneel in front of the spacehecrawls through every night.

No. I can’t think of him. I can’t picture my sweet—

I place the drill against the wooden plank and drive a screw through, locking it in place. When it’s done, I place another screw right beside it. I plan on having at least ten per plank. I’m not giving him a chance to pull me back in. If I let him in, I lose everything.

Dreaming of a picture-perfect life with Darren as my partner is just that. A dream. Something I can never have, because if I have him, I lose everything. My wife. My church. The life I’ve built for twenty years.

I don’t remember messaging the young man from church on Grindr. I don’t remember snapping a selfie and sending it to him so frivolously. I’ll need to flush my pills when I’m done with the trapdoor, because I know if I take another, it will be my undoing.

Who am I if not a pastor? My home doesn’t belong to me. Not technically. It’s in the church’s name. That’s why there’s never been a mortgage. It’s why I’ve never had to worry about making ends meet. I make enough from my books to keep the electricity and water on. If I come out—if I take what Dare is offering me—I lose all that. My house, since my church has made it clear they’re ready to oust me if that’s what it comes to. My author career, since my readers are straight women who believe homosexuality is a sin worthy of death. Myself. This entire version of me. I’veforged a life built on lies for so long, I don’t know where the real me stops and the lie begins. I did it to keep me safe. I’m doing it because it’s what I’m supposed to do. What God has called me to do. Darren—my sweet, beautiful Darren—is a distraction. A deviation from God’s path.

So why does it feel so right? Why does it have to feel so true if my truth is sin?

“Miles,” Mal says, placing her hand on my back, startling me. “Baby, what are you doing? There’s no need for all this. We’ve talked about it. We’ve made our choice.”

“The wrong choice,” I say, the lump in my throat making me sound like a croaking frog. “I was stupid. I was stupid, and I was weak, and I was small.” I sniffle, placing the drill against the next wooden slat, having to hold back a sob as I drive it in, driving yet another wedge between me and my boy. It aches. It physically aches to shut him out, but by doing so, I’m staying the course.

I’m on the straight and narrow.

I have overcome.

Once the final slat is screwed in tight, I dry my eyes with my sleeve and stand, making my way downstairs. She follows behind, sighing like I’m throwing a tantrum or something. Once she’s down from the attic ladder, I lift it closed behind her. When I lift the drill to secure it, she finally puts her foot down. Literally. She slams her foot right on top of mine to stop me in my tracks.

“Absolutely not.”

I glare at her. “I will not invite sin into this house.”

She stares down at my tie, a sassy strip of fabric with little Bibles dotting it up and down, and cocks an eyebrow. “That tie is an affront to God himself, so maybe you should start there.” Grabbing the drill from my hand, she shakes her head. “Knowing Darren, he’ll cut a hole in the roof and end up starving to death when he can’t get back out. Is that what you want? Do you wanthim to go missing, only to find him when his body begins to decompose above your bedroom?”

“Darren doesn’t die,” I bark. “Darren never dies. He’s a good boy! He’s going to live forever.”

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