Page 42 of Gay for Pray
“I likeyou,” Jude says. “This you. The guy I only see in my bed. He’s different from the Theo I see everywhere else.”
Tension steals through my body, a thief pillaging my languid contentment. “I can’t be this Theodore everywhere else.”
Jude pushes up, propping himself on my chest so he can gaze down at me. “Why not?”
It should be obvious. Surely, he knows as well as I do, yet he’s forcing me to say it out loud.
“People need me to be someone else,” I say.
“Who cares what they need? What doyouneed?”
You.
I physically clench my teeth to bite back the word. If I ever admitted that out loud my entire world would come crashingdown around me.
“It doesn’t matter what I need,” I say. “I have certain obligations, and I can’t j—”
Jude rolls his eyes. “Fuck your obligations, Theo. Christ, are you going to live your whole life for other people? I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but you’re gay, or at least queer. Are you really going to pretend otherwise for the rest of your life?”
Every word strikes like hail raining down on me, stripping away the defenses I’ve used to maintain this double life. I’ve known since I was a kid, but no one, not even me, has ever said the word out loud to me. Gay. I’m gay. And it isn’t going away no matter how many Hail Marys I recite.
The frustration in Jude’s face melts to something far worse—pity. “Don’t you know God loves you exactly the way you are? Isn’t that, like, His whole deal?”
I manage to speak around the sudden lump in my throat. “No one’s ever loved me the way I am.”
“Maybe they should have.”
Jude holds my gaze, furious and on the verge of tears all at once. Combined with his words, it’s more than I can take when I’m stripped naked not just in body, but in soul as well. I guide him to my mouth, but this kiss is different from all the rest. It isn’t the frantic passion that started this or even something seductive and longing. It’s closer to an apology. Or perhaps a goodbye.
Come morning, I can’t be his “Theo” anymore, and we both know it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jude
A BUZZ OF ANTICIPATION fills the church on Sunday. It permeates the halls behind the chapel and filters into the practice room where the liturgical choir restlessly awaits our performance. Mass will go on as usual today, but it will last nearly twice as long so we can pepper in extra songs to regale the friends and family who’ve arrived for this special occasion.
I myself have no family or friends here, aside from Nick, I suppose. There’s no way Mom could make the trip out for this. We don’t have the money for that, though she did text me last night asking for the link to the live stream.
The same can not be said for Theo.
He paces in a corner of the choir’s practice room. I haven’t seen him stand still for even a moment since arriving. His whole family will be here, likely right up in the front row. His deacon father will watch most closely of all, analyzing every second of the performance. Even I feel the weight of that on my shoulders, but it must be doubly hard for Theo, on whose shoulders rests not just this performance but an entire future that his father mapped out for him before he was even born.
A future I’m despoiling every time he’s in my bed.
Theo never truly responded to my prodding on Friday night. He stayed, but left early the next morning, saying he didn’t have time for even a cup of coffee. Too far behind in his classes, by his own assessment, though I suspect he’s a week or more ahead inall of them.
The second he left, I felt the separation, a wall slamming down between the guy who taps timidly yet eagerly at my door and the guy I’ll encounter in public. That wall stands between us more firmly than ever as we await our choir performance, but I catch his eyes and offer a reassuring smile regardless. Theo’s answering expression is watery and brief, barely a flicker.
My heart drops, but I don’t push it. He’s only going to freak out more if I approach him in a crowded room. By everyone else’s estimation, we’re bitter enemies, and I’m sure Theo wants to keep it that way.
I hang out with Nick instead, who’s nursing a hangover and none too happy about the extra hour we’ll spend here.
“I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” he says with a groan.
“It’ll be fun once we get to perform,” I say.
He grumbles, but doesn’t complain. I’ve seen him perform when we were in high school. I’m sure he’ll light up the way he always does when given a stage.
