Communion (On My Knees Series Book 3) Page 9

  He laughs—it sounds choked, but it’s a laugh for sure—and I hug him tighter. "I know there’s that old misconception that being gay is a choice. It's falling out of favor more with every generation, and with common sense and research and shit. But it's something people still say sometimes. But we both know it's like having blue eyes. It’s just something about you. And it's okay. You are okay. And this misconception...you could maybe fix it. I know that sounds radical, but—"

  "No, you're right, Rayne." His arm comes around me. "I know I could…maybe, at least. I've just been scared to."

  I wait a second for him to go on, and when he doesn’t, I say, "I think you should accept that some people will walk. You're going to lose some of them. Some people won't be able to break out of the box they're in, others won’t want to. And that's..." I suck a breath in, trying to choose my words with care. "I think that's gotta be okay, McD. If not emotionally, then intellectually, it's gotta be something you understand and can accept.” Fuck, I sound preachy. I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing onward, to my point here. “Who's left when the dust settles—that's your people."

  "What if there's no people left?"

  "From the original crowd?" I ask, and he nods, looking round-eyed. "If there's no one left, we'll find more. More people who think like you and I do. Okay, maybe just you." I smile, feeling like a fraud myself. The way I think doesn’t matter here; I’m not the figurehead. "We'll find people who are gay, or who are open-minded, who believe that love is love and God is love, like you said. And our church will be their place. Well...your church."

  His lips twitch a little. "I like that you called it ours."

  I smile and ruffle his hair, giving it a tug. "You know what I think?"

  He shakes his head.

  "I think you got this. I think you're the best person in the whole damn world to do this. I think if you believe in God, you gotta ask yourself why did He make it so you’re born into this family, why did he give you all these...followers, knowing you bat for the rainbow team, if this isn't what you're really meant to do?"

  He nods. For a long moment, I’m pretty sure he’s holding his breath. Then he blows it out and gives a small shake of his head. "Maybe you're right."

  He kisses my lips, and things go from there. He falls asleep with his dick out and my saliva drying on the inside of his thighs. I slather weed rub on my shoulder and lie close by him. And finally, the day is over.

  7

  Luke

  Yesterday, I got two calls from sister churches who do outreach with us. Both wanted to discontinue that work. The first thing that happens when I get to work this morning—a peaceful Wednesday when Vance and I dropped by a bakery for breakfast and didn't even get a second glance—is my phone rings again.

  The first ‘cancel’ call is from a small church, so it doesn't bother me; they benefitted more from the connection than we did. But the second one's more dicey. It's a massive ministry headquartered in the Southeastern U.S., and it's run by some people who are known for their homophobic views.

  I've known for years and always felt uncomfortable about our association with them. Still, the partnership was mostly charity-based—overseas aid work—so I thought the good outweighed the bad. Every so often, a gay church member would reach out and ask why we worked with them, and I'd get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  I try to think about that when I answer the phone and one of the group's executives—a man named Mitch—says, "Hello, Luke."

  It's not the normal way he greets me. I'm Pastor McDowell, to almost everyone.

  "Mitch."

  "You know what this call is about,” he says.

  I answer bluntly. "I do."

  "So I won't say it."

  "That’s where we disagree. I think you should. There's value in being honest, wouldn’t you say?"

  He laughs, and it's as fake as it could be. "Well, it's about the homosexual issue."

  "Ahh. The homosexual issue."

  "We can't be doing business with a gay preacher. Not even if his name is Luke McDowell."

  "I think that works out fine, Mitch. We can't be doing business with a group of thinly veiled bigots. Not when we're about to be the site of a whole new charity and outreach center for inclusivity and diverse membership."

  "You're...I'm sorry, what did you say?"

  I grin against the phone. "You heard me. This is the new wave, Mitch. We both know the numbers on millennials and downward in birth-year progression. Leaving church faster than a bunch of lemmings off a cliff. That's a demographic that we can't afford to neglect. Nor would we wish to. I bet you also know the numbers on youth homelessness. And you know that association—don’t even try to tell me you don’t. It's kids of religious people. Like ourselves. I know it took a while, but I'd say it's about time we put an end to that hogwash. So that's what we'll be doing here at Evermore. Along with all the usual endeavors. So that's what you were saying, yeah? You're finished with the partnership? Unwilling to work with us on international aid endeavors because of where I like to put my dick?"

  He sputters, and my heart rate surges, even as I grip the phone and suck air in through my nose.

  "That's…mmm I believe about 20 million dollars we can re-direct and funnel through some other middle-man. So thank you, Mitch. It's been a pleasure working with you, and we wish you not over much success in sticking with that older and more dated model."

  "Well, I'm not saying—"

  "No. I think we agree, our philosophies no longer align. No hard feelings."

  He sputters again. "No hard feelings, sir."

  It takes some work to suppress a chuckle at him calling me sir. Mitch is a good twenty-five years older than me.

  "Have a lovely hump day."

  "Yourself also."

  My pulse rate is still soaring when I hang up the phone. I laugh in the silence of the office.

  Help me, God. A weak, soft voice adds, Let me know this is the way. That this is really right.

  The phone rings again.

  “Pastor McDowell’s office,” I answer.

  There’s only breathing on the line, and right away, I’m thrown back into panic territory.

  “Yes?” My voice rings out sharp in the quiet room. “I don’t appreciate breathing on a dead line. Is this a threat call?”

  “No.” The voice is muffled, but I hear the low note of it.

  “Kindly state the purpose of the call, or I’ll be ending it.”

  More breathing. I replay the “no” from a moment ago, trying to discern from its sound more about the caller.

  “What can I help you with?” I try.

  “It’s about you.” His words are whispered.

  “What about me?”

  “Are you gay?” Okay, this is definitely a younger guy. His voice is muffled, but I’m sure. I’m also pretty sure the words shook.

  “Are you okay?” I ask reflexively. “And yes, I am gay.”

  “Really gay?” He sounds hoarse.

  “Yes. I’m really gay. As gay as one can be.”

  There’s silence. For a quick second, I worry he’s hung up.

  “You don’t think you’re…going to hell?” His low voice is soft and hesitant. Something warm swells in me—an ugly marriage of rage and impotence and concern.

  I think of asking for his age, but that might scare him off, so I say, “No. I don’t think. I would even say I know I’m not. God loves everyone. The essence of God is love. And love is unconditional. Also, some of the more anti-gay sentiments our nation is experiencing are influenced by things like text translations and politics. Thinking people know—can sense—that it’s not sinful to love someone.”

  More silence.

  “I stand by those words. And you can, too. Trust me. I’m an expert, right?”

  I hear him inhale. Then he’s gone. The line is dead, the dial tone sounding, and my hand is sweaty clutched around the phone.

  “There’s your sign, McDowell,” I murmur.

&
nbsp; After that, I call the money people to ensure we stop all payments to Mitch. We do an outsized portion of our international outreach through their program, since their infrastructure was in place when I was getting started.

  Then I text Pearl. ‘Come up to my office at 12:15. Please.’

  ‘You got it, chief.’

  Then I walk downstairs to tell Vance the idea I just shared with Mitch.

  Vance

  "Where are you?"

  I grip my phone. I can't tell if Sky’s pissed or if he's laughing. "I stopped by the doctor's,” I say in a tone that I hope conveys casual.

  I can hear his tone change when he says, "What?"

  "Yeah, just thought I'd go on by and see someone. Arman had a guy he recommended."

  "Arman?” He sounds confused. “You asked Arman for where you should go?"

  "Well...yeah. He has a friend in Walnut Creek who—"

  "Vance, I have a team of doctors."

  Yeah, so maybe he’s pissed. "Okay, Luke, that's good. But I saw someone your good friend Pearl’s husband Arman rec’d. And it went fine."

  "Where did you go?"

  "He has an office affiliated with John Muir. Near this green space called Heather something park?"

  There’s a brief silence, during which I’m sure—like, two hundred percent positive—Sky is seething, and he’s trying not to lean into his type-A control freak urges. "Rayne. I see the best people. If you're going to see someone, it makes sense to—"

  "See your doctor?" My anger spikes from out of nowhere. "No, it really doesn't. You're not paying for my medical shit. Not yet, Luke."

  "What do you mean?” When I don’t answer—how can I, with gritted teeth?—he says, “Is this about not being married?"

  "Wait, I thought we were married." I suck air in through my nose, already patting my pocket for the fucking inhaler.

  "We are. That's why I want you going to the same place I go."

  "Well, I didn't this time. I can always change up later…if you really want me to."

  My shoulders deflate. I feel sorry that I set this up behind his back. My intentions were pure, but I rode to work with him and left on the sly; omitting information is still technically lying, I guess.

  "What did he say?" Sky asks, his voice more calm.

  "Not that much. Gave me a numbing shot."

  "A shot?" Well, that doesn’t sound calm.

  I can't help a soft laugh. "Yeah, like it had cortisol and some shit. Used a needle, too, Sky. Anyway, it helped. I'm good as new now." I let my left hand, which looks extra-large compared to my recently casted left arm, hover over the right shoulder—which actually only feels about seventy percent better.

  “What did he think?”

  That I probably tore my already fucked-up rotator cuff getting ass fucked on an office desk. Not that I told the good doc that part. And I’m not telling Sky the doctor thought the injury was significant. “Ehh, just something I can get more insight into later. Later, I can get an MRI and they'll know more. For now, I feel fine.”

  "Do you really?"

  I smile, shaking my head at him. "Yeah, Sky. I do."

  I can hear him exhale. "Okay." The word echoes slightly. "You realize it’s not just about where to go. That I would have wanted to be with you, had you told me you were going today."

  "Well, not necessarily. But I didn't need you with me. Not that I don't want you here, but you know...I'm all good. And you have stuff to do."

  "I'm waiting in your atrium." My heart clenches at the word. Because the doctor said that any little movement to the shoulder, before I have a surgery to fix it, could fuck things up worse.

  I try to keep the sadness out of my voice. "You must have had some free time."

  "I made some for you. Because I missed you, Rayne."

  "I miss you too, McD." I duck into the car, which I was about to get in when he called, and start toward the church, so fucking relieved to be rid of that awful ache inside my shoulder. "You want to rain check for in a little while?" I ask him.

  "Yeah. It might be after lunch, though. I'm working on a surprise...something really big. I was going to tell you today, but I think I might wait a little longer. So it has more impact."

  "That works."

  I'm feeling so unfiltered at this moment—maybe because I just got a needle stuck into my shoulder—that I almost want to ask Luke how he had so much time for me before he dumped me, and so little now. But I'm just being needy. Actually, it's not even that. It's more like I'm worried. He called it right last night. I don't trust him—not completely. I'm still haunted by the idea of Sky changing his mind. Now that the blush is off the rose. Now that he's fucked me like five thousand times and had his fill.

  I blow my breath out as I stop for a red light, knowing how much it would hurt him if he knew I felt this way. Poor McD has tried to make me feel secure. I don't know why I've got such cold feet after everything we shared on the yacht. We said our vows and everything, and it was real; I know that. Maybe it's because I'm so invested now. I don't think I could be more invested if I tried. He's got me by the heart and soul, and all I really want is to be enough.

  “Can’t wait to hear about it,” I tell him.

  “I think you’re really going to like it.” He sounds excited. Must be some new idea. Or…mission. I don’t even know enough about the various arms of Evermore to hazard a guess at what Sky’s talking about.

  But I say, “I know I will.”

  We get off the phone, and I still feel unsettled. I guess he's more gripped by all this church stuff than I thought he would be. It doesn't bother me that he loves work, but…fuck, I guess I’m just too insecure. That I don’t fit into his world at all.

  I turn up the radio and try to let my mind wander. I'm trying to figure out how much of the current projects I can finish if I keep my hurt arm mostly immobile. It's hard to say, but I'm going to try. My other fucking arm’s not normal, but it’s getting closer—even if it does still look a little skinny.

  I'm taken off guard by the way my eyes well when I pull into the parking deck. I think about the day I came here from New York, and how afraid I was. How I couldn't even go into the building without taking a drag off my inhaler. And then he acted like he didn't even know me.

  Shit.

  He loves me, and I know he does. I've gotta get better at moving on from the past. I lay my forehead on the steering wheel and let my eyes well till they spill over.

  He's not your dad, man.

  I push my left hand into my hair. I'm okay. It's gonna be okay.

  Please help me, God. If you're listening. Just tell me what I need to do to keep this all okay. Mom...you, too. Help make this work. However would be best…or whatever.

  I blow out a breath, surprised to find I feel a little better. I don't know about God. I'm not against the idea, and I see how it might help. But I think focused energy works for sure.

  Help me turn this all around. And feel better. Just help us chill. And be a normal couple. Please. Whatever you want—that doesn’t get one of us killed, I tack on for good measure.

  Then I walk slowly to the side door in some misting rain. As I near it, I see a brown cardboard box—the same kind I just packed to move my shit from New York to here—with its flaps open at the top. As I near it, I hear something like—

  I shake my head. It can't be.

  But it is.

  Another step, and I can see there's something in the bottom of that box. My heart pounds harder as I kneel down, lift a flap up, and find myself peering down at a tiny, red-faced, wailing human.

  There’s a Post-It note tapped to the bundle. I bring it nearer to my face and frown as I read, This one's for the two queer lovebirds. Pastor says he wants a big fam.

  I see spots as I stand back up, blinking down at the tiny, scream-stretched face.

  Holy fuckshit. This is one hell of a move by the Big Guy Upstairs.

  The rain starts falling harder, and I scoop the little guy—or girl—up.
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  "It's okay, baby. We're gonna figure something out."

  8

  Vance

  Wow. Holding a baby is just not the way I thought it would be. For such a solid little bundle, this one is still somehow sort of…floppy.

  And so distressed. Like, screamy. I've never seen anything like its little round, red face with wrinkles on the forehead and its little, thin-lipped mouth stretched open in a primal fuck-you-all yowl.

  "Hey now, buddy-o..." I hug it closer to my chest and try to bounce on the balls of my feet as I stand in the hall just inside the door where I found its box. "It's gonna be all right. Whoever left you here is a real piece of work, but we'll forget about them for now, yeah? Mmhmmm...that's right."

  I remember hearing somewhere that they—babies—like it when you walk, so I start walking—toward Luke's office. "I don't know who leaves a baby on a cold and misty day. That's pretty crummy. So maybe it's good that they left you. Get you someone better. I don't know if we can keep you, but somebody can.” I nod down at it, as its distressed wails die into a milder sequence of half-hearted screeches. “Mmhmmm...that's right."

  I sound like a moron, but the little thing is blinking up at me and, at some point in the last point five seconds, has stopped screaming.

  "What do you think, do you want to be two men's baby? That sounds pretty crazy to me. I don't even know for sure what's going on with us. But maybe Pearl could take a little critter like you."

  As I say those words, my chest aches; I don’t know why. The baby shocks me when its little lips tug upward like it's smiling. "Oh, damn, baby, that's some pretty cute shit right there. You like me? Your Uncle Vanny? You wanna have some gay uncles? Cause we can do that for sure."

  I look down the hall and then around, in case someone is watching—other than the cameras, of course. At some point in the future, someone—probably Luke—is gonna have a field day with this footage. As I’m worrying over my image, the critter starts to cry again.