Page 25 of Sapphire Spring

The goal was clear.

He wasn’t out to invade MasonWorther’sprivacy. Or steal anything from him. What he wanted was a little justice. A levelingof the scales. To that end, he was content to pursue payback for just oneincident in particular, theone he’d brought up on the pooldeck moments before. In Naser’s view, it towered over the many others by virtueof how it had arrayed a host of unwilling participants against him.

He gave himself over to painful memories, figuring theywould focus and embolden him.

Saw Coach Harris’s sculpted features trembling withred-faced anger as he held a sheet of paper in one hand he’d sharpened into a daggerwith three precise folds, heard him spitting out words like inappropriate andoutrageous and disgusting. Even though Naser hadn’t written it, the email hadmade him feel as if someone had reached inside of him and pried loose secretshe’d been storing behind walls of brick and mortar. Sure, Coach Harris hadplayed a role in his most secretjerk-offfantasies,but never in his life would he have shared those fantasies with anyone,especially their source.

Mortifying meetings followed. With the principal, theguidance counselor, and an increasingly rageful coach who acted as if areserved sixteen-year-old social outcast with few friends outside of Math Clubhad tried to fondle him in the shower.

For years, Mahin Kazemi had managed the surgical labs of someof the best and most arrogant neurosurgeons in Southern California. High schooladministrators proved no match for her. When the threat of expulsion was raisedagainst her son, she turned into mother lion, bringing in samples of Naser’swriting and slapping them down on the principal’s desk so he could see theawkward phrasing and long, run-on sentences in the email bore no resemblance toher son’s eloquent essays. And the school produced no evidence connecting theanonymous Hotmail account to Naser, either.

Victory, when it came, proved bittersweet. In the end, theschool caved. Talk of firm discipline was dropped, and Coach Harris ended upwith a slap on the wrist for directly confronting a student over sensitive andsexually explicit material. But nobody ever asked Naser who he thought sent theletter, and Naser never bothered to share his suspicions. MasonWorther, Chadwick Brody, and Tim Malbec were far toocentral to the success of Laguna Mesa’s beloved sports teams to be brought downwith anything other than incontrovertible proof.

Then, a few days after the matter was settled, someone hadslid a pamphlet for a gay conversion therapy clinic inside Naser’s locker.

But he’d known instantly it wasn’t his regular tormentors.Coach Harris was the culprit. He’d been sure of it. The man’s well-knownhomophobia was exactly why Mason and company had used him for their plot.

The memories worked their intended effect.

Years later, Naser’s fingers were trembling with rage.

He opened the text messages app on Mason’s phone.

His plan was to send Mason’s special, emotional, coming-outmessage far and wide. Then the son of abitchwould beforced to deal with the resulting explosion the second he woke with a splittinghangover. Back in high school, word of Naser’s supposed love letter to CoachHarris had torn throughout the school. Nothing short of widespread humiliationwould square the debt.

Then a text popped up on the screen.

Too busy sucking dick to answer my emails???

The sender’s name was Pete, but his address book entry hadno last name.

Another text followed it.

How many times have I told u we don’t get wknds inour biz? U want fun Fridays go wait tables like those faggots you went to UCLAwith.

“Jesus.” The second text didn’t feel like a joke. It felt angry,and the homophobia in it was more biting and explicit. It also carried a whiffof authority. The phraseour businesssuggested this Pete guy was asupervisor or employer.

He opened the thread containing Pete’s other messages. Itwas long. Very long. And every single one was just as hostile. Nagging,repetitive reminders of work tasks, nitpicking criticisms of Mason’s behaviorin the office—everything from the way he walked to the clothes he wore—most ofwhich began with hateful rhetorical questions.

You too dumb to figure this out on your own?

Do you need sign language on proposal formatting?You wrote this like you were getting dragged behind a truck.

Who was this Pete, and why hadn’t Mason murdered him beforenow? Naser turned to his computer. A few keystrokes later, he was looking atthe stylish website for WORTHER PROPERTIES. It featured slideshows of sparklingMcMansions with tiled roofs and glittering swimming pools spread out across dryrolling hills set aflame by California sunsets. And there, under the ABOUT USpage, was a studio photograph of MasonWortherand asimilar-looking and similarly coiffed Nordic tower of muscle who was abouttwice his age. And the older man’s name was Pete.

Oh my God. This monster is hisdad?

A dad who seemed incapable of addressing his grown sonwithout employing a profane description of a sex act between two men.

The more he scrolled through PeteWorther’stexts, the worse it got. Maybe because it never let up. The man used gay slurslike most people used indefinite articles. And his son was on the receiving endof his abuse day after day after day.

No wonder.

Naser told himself to stop scrolling, told himself that ifhe kept reading, he’d lose his nerve. But now he was taking in all the passive,spineless responses from Mason. Never once did the guy snap back, and Mason’sresponses made clear they weren’t just joking around. Again andagainMason apologized, rolled over, and promised to do abetter job. The abuse kept coming, and MasonWortherjust took it.

Just like Naser had back in high school.

Suddenly his revenge plot felt like a rope that would pullhim headfirst into a soup of hatred and anger. He sucked in a deep breath andtook stock of what he’d been poised to do. Shame bloomed deep in his gut. He’dbeen about to use the idea of sex between two men as a tool to smear, todestroy. To inflict pain. He wasn’t a teenager anymore. He was a grown man.What kind of gay man would that have made him?

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