Page 11 of Fabulous Filthy Friend

“Impeccable.”

Him and the pancakes.

3

FLYNN

Kneeling between Mom and Rachel, while staring up at Jesus on the crucifix, hanging over the altar, has a ten-thousand-pound rock of shame and regret sitting in my stomach and makes my skin crawl. I reach over and scratch at my arm like some sort of addict who needs a fix, but it does nothing to quell the feeling growing inside me.

His eyes seem to see right through me.

They watch me as I shift uncomfortably under his assessment.

It’s like He knows what I do, what I did just last night.

It’s like He can see the dirtiness marring my skin—the sin blackening my soul.

I always knew the Catholic guilt had been driven into me hard my entire life. Twelve years of Catholic school and Mass at least twice a week will do that. But until this moment, I didn’t really, truly feel it.

Maybe because I’ve avoided thinking about what I do while I’ve been in this building. It has been easy to try to push it to the side when it’s Mom and me. I focus on her. On praying for her to find happiness again. Praying for her health. Praying for her to have everything she ever wants or needs to live a fulfilling life. I rarely pray for myself. The only thing I need is the woman kneeling next to me, and there’s nothing God can do to help me in that department. Even praying for help moving on hasn’t done shit.

Having Mom on one side, Rachel on the other, her elbow brushing against mine every few minutes, her lyrical, beautiful voice singing along with the choir, has the guilt I’ve managed to keep at bay for so damn long clawing at me.

I should be sitting in the confessional for the rest of my life.

Father Lafayette says something that doesn’t even register, and the congregation rises. I can’t drag my eyes away from the crucifix, though. The cold, hard, brown, glossy painted eyes never leave mine. Judging me. Stripping me as bare as I was on screen last night.

Stop looking at me like that.

Now, I’m actually going crazy. Talking to a damn statue like it’s a real person instead of an inanimate object designed to do exactly what it’s doing to me.

Rach nudges my ribs, and I scramble to my feet while Father Lafayette drones on, his prayer nothing more than a senseless jumble. I focus on him, though, trying to pick out anything that sounds like recognizable syllables that might form actual words my brain can process.

Perhaps he has some wisdom to bestow on me. Something that will help me sort through the quagmire I’m suddenly drowning in here.

I really messed this up.

Having Rachel come with me was a bad idea. I should have anticipated this. Seen it coming. I should have known the weight of what I’ve been doing would eventually come crashing down on me. I just never suspected it would be because the two women I love are bracketing me in the house of God.

I can’t possibly ever get clean again after everything I’ve done. And I can’t come clean to the women in my life either. Rachel would be disgusted. Mom would disown me if she knew. She’d ask herself where she went wrong. Where her perfect, sweet, innocent son has gone. Why I would resort to something so abhorrent.

Mom won’t understand. It’s not only about the money. It’s the freedom to be everything I want to be. The ability to be someone else. Someone who doesn’t feel the guilt. Someone who doesn’t love Rachel when he can’t have her. HRD4U has Rachel every single time he performs.

But there’s no way to erase what I’ve done. I can’t go back.

Can I? Is it possible?

I mean, what I’m doing is natural, a part of life. I’m just letting people watch.

What’s so bad about that?

The man on the cross stares down at me again as if to say, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me with that question.” My eyes meet his again, and I shudder.

You know what’s so bad, Flynn.

People begin filing out of the pews. I hadn’t even realized the service had ended.

Thank you, God!

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