Page 16 of Slay the Gay Away, Daddy

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 onmy 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’twantto 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 safetyhazard, 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 withwhat 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 itover 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 inmy 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.

chapter seven

When I wake, it’s still dark outside, and I squint my eyes as I try to read the numbers on my clock. It’s just after twelve, and unless the sun has decided to take the day off, I’m guessing thatmeans it’s midnight. Flipping on my bedside lamp, I sit up and grab my phone. Like always, I don’t have a single missed call or unread text message. As our church numbers dwindle, the lack of outreach with my parishioners feels like another way I’ve let my father down. Growing up, our kitchen phone was in constant use. More often than not, when I walked into the kitchen, Dad would be standing by the phone, the receiver wedged between his ear and shoulder, both hands lifted to the sky, praising God and begging for Him to show Dad’s wayward flock His favor. I get three calls a week at best. They may have been his flock once, but they’ve never felt like mine. After so many years, it stings. I was never their choice. I’m a shepherd without a lamb. Well, that’s not entirely true. I do have one lost little lamb. Who needs a flock when you’ve got someone who looks at you like he’s staring at God himself?

With a sigh, I stare at the picture of my boy.

My boy? Where the heck did that thought come from?

There’s a strange, dull pain spreading across my forehead, and I pinch the bridge of my nose like that’ll somehow help. To my surprise, it actually does. Most of the pain fades, and I’m left with the same groggy hangover I always get when I take these sleeping pills. It usually takes half an hour for me to feel like myself again, and I’m half-tempted to just lie back down and try to get a little more sleep. Then I hear floorboards creaking above me.

I remember being in the attic earlier, but I can’t remember why. Chalking the sound up to a meddlesome mouse, I kick back in bed and stare at the picture of Darren on my phone.

“Dare-bear,” I whisper, smiling sleepily at him. Gosh, I wish he was here right now. He always knows how to put my mind at ease, and my mind is all over the place.

Ahead of me, there’s the sound of a doorknob turning, but I can’t make myself look away from the picture. From his pale skinto those big, beautifully brown eyes. How his lip is twitched into a loving grin, aimed right at me. My sweet, sweet Dare.

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