Page 68 of Slay the Gay Away, Daddy

The moment we’re inside, Mal starts shrieking, pointing behind her at the wall. She’s screaming slander ninety-to-nothing, her voice far too fast and far too piercing for either of us to make out the words.

“I need you to slow down,” Miles says, rubbing the side of her arm. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying. What’s wrong?”

She points down at the coffee table, right where I left one of many surprises for her earlier. On the table, forty-four cut-out faces stare up at us.

“He cut my face out of all our photos and stuck his in their place.” She points at the wall again, and I watch as Miles’ mouth hangs open in shock. All across the wall are memories they’ve shared, but now, in Mal’s place, I stand proudly at Miles’ side. Their wedding photograph now holds an image of me sticking my tongue out at the camera while wearing her wedding dress. In an old family photo of Mal sitting next to Imogene Andrews at a social gathering, I’m staring longingly at Mal’s breasts. I even drew little arrows with a magenta sharpie, mapping my line of sight for all to see. The one she seems most hung up about is a newspaper clipping where she’d been interviewed about the joys of being Tallulah’s Spiritual First Lady. Now, in place of her black and white headshot, is a picture of me sucking Miles’ erect cock.

“Sweet Jesus,” Miles whispers.

“Exactly!” Mal shouts. “Tell him, Miles. Tell him he’s been a bad boy. Spank him if you have to; I will not stand for this.”

Miles turns to me, looking . . . wonderstruck? What the fuck?

“Miles?”

“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispers, moving closer, leaving no space between us. As my heart races at the sight of him, he takes me by surprise by rearing back his arm and spanking my ass as hard as he can. I lunge forward clinging to him as he scolds, “Bad boy, baby. Bad, bad boy.” Even as he says the words, he doesn’t soundlike he means them. I think he’s just placating Mal, but that’s okay. I was bad. I get it. There’s no doubt in my mind I deserve to be punished, but it’s a little embarrassing to be punished in front of her.

Mal points toward the entertainment center. “Go stand in the corner. I’m absolutely livid with you.”

I glare at her. “Daddy already spanked me. You don’t get to punish me too. That’s double jeopardy, and it’s fucking cruel, Mal.” For a moment—the briefest of moments—I swear to God, a raging fire swarms her irises, and she marches forward, grabbing me by the arm and leading me to the corner.

“You will stand here until you’ve learned your lesson.”

“I’m not a child,” I pout, looking to Miles for support, but he’s of absolutely no use. He’s got this stupidly sexy, dreamy look in his eyes, and as he wanders the room looking at all the pictures I altered, the corner of his mouth is curled into an amused smile.

“Then stop acting like one,” Mal says. “I don’t even really care about the pictures. I just don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to top this when I get you back. I am genuinely at a loss.”

I beam proudly at her. “I got you good.”

She blinks slowly at me, then her lips curl. “You got me good,” she agrees. The look she shares with me is a strange one. All intensity and unspoken words that I don’t understand, but I think I know their meaning. It almost feels maternal. It makes my heart race a little, because my mom was never much of a mom at all. A bit ironic that I would find this feeling with Mal, what with the whole me-fucking-her-husband-behind-her-back thing, but it’s true. She’s essentially known me all my life. It makes me wonder what we might have been like if we hadn’t wasted our lives hating each other. She has to feel it too. I can tell.

She places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “It’s good to have you home.”

My jaw trembles. Can’t help it.

“You gave us a love story,” Miles interrupts, looking at their-slash-our wedding photo, touching the glass with his fingers. He wanders around the room, taking in the new remastered version of his life’s story. He pauses beside a picture of him and then-Mal, now-me, and breathes out a shaky breath. “This was taken a few months after . . .” His shoulders slump. The picture he’s staring at was taken shortly after I met Miles. In it, Mal is sitting beside Miles at a church brunch, and there, sitting on Miles’ lap, is young Darren, sleeping peacefully against his chest. Before I removed her face from it, Mal wasn’t the Mal I remember. She wasn’t hateful or horrible, and she wasn’t fighting a lifelong war with me. She was smiling. She was looking down at my sleeping face, and she was smiling at me. I found the picture when I was raiding their attic a few weeks back, looking for knick-knacks and souvenirs. It was powdered with dust, forgotten with time. I loved seeing Mal with a look of genuine affection aimed at me, so I had the photograph copied. I framed it and put it on her bedside table. I’m guessing she hasn’t seen it yet, because I left a really sweet letter for her, too, and I’m sure if she read it, I would be engulfed in an unbreakable hug right now.

As I study Miles’ expression in the picture, my stomach churns. When I found the picture, I thought the sad look in his eyes was because he was bummed I was asleep. Now I realize it’s because of what happened to him. Because ofher.

Mal must notice he needs me right now, because she gives me a nod and motions toward Miles. “Go on. You’ve learned your lesson.”

I walk over to him and squeeze his hand. “I love you, Miles.”

“I love you, too, baby.”

“Okay. I think I figured out how I can get you back.” Something crashes behind me, and when I turn around, Mal has a baseball bat, and she’s smashing my laptop repeatedly.She probably thinks she had the upper hand, but I was smarter than her, replacing my computer with a decoy before hiding my actual laptop away before I left, prior to church this morning. I’ll let her think she’s gotten the upper hand, because I know I probably overstepped with the whole removing-her-face-from-history thing.

When she’s done, she flings her bat to the other side of the room and grins cockily at us. “And that, Darren Matthews, is the night the lights went out in Georgia.”

I roll my eyes. Ever since I brought a television into their home, she’s been watching old episodes ofDesigning WomenandThe Golden Girls, and she’s been interjecting little lines she’s heard into everyday conversations.

“We’re in Texas,” I remind her.

She points at the fireplace. “And there’s going to be a stunning urn on that mantle if you ever pull anything like this again.”

I narrow my eyes. “Yeah. For you.”

She balls her hand into a fist. “I ought to knock your socks off.”

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