by John Herrick
“I don’t have all the answers,” Hunter said. “I know you aren’t happy with me right now. Maybe you don’t even want to look at me.” He paused. His father wouldn’t look at him, but he managed to catch his mother’s eye. “I’m not asking you to understand me. All I’m asking is to know you’re here for me.”
It took a few moments, but his mother’s painful expression transitioned into a look of maternal concern. She rose from the sofa. Though her steps were hesitant, more cautious than usual, she made her way to her son’s side. She wrapped one arm around his back, nuzzled her nose against the top of his head the way she did when he was a child, then planted a kiss there.
“You need to understand this is hard for me,” she said, “but you know I’m here for you. I’m your mother. I don’t stop being your mother just because I don’t understand what’s going on.”
Hunter felt an initial hint of relief. His family wasn’t the closest-knit he’d seen. Yet, whether rooted in love or insecurity, he cared much about what his parents thought of him.
Hunter realized his father hadn’t said a word in response. He looked up at his father, who still had his arms crossed and now stared at his own calloused feet, shaking his head in wonder.
“Dad?”
His father grunted under his breath, at a clear loss for words. “This isn’t something I want to talk about. Sorry.”
“Dad, I’m sorry I ruined your image of me as your son. But I don’t think I’m going to live up to everything you wished I’d be. I’ve tried—I’ve honestly tried to be the son you wanted—but I can’t. I’m not that person, I’m me.”
“I want time to process it. I—” He stopped speaking, rubbed his temples, then he got up from the sofa. On his way out of the room, he said, “I can’t deal with it now.”
Hunter had forgotten his mother still had her hand on his back until she patted him again. She didn’t say a word about his father, nor could she have said anything that would have removed the knife slice Hunter felt make its way down his heart as he watched his father walk away. His father’s shoulders had never communicated anger to the extent they did as he left the room that night. The floor shuddered, small tremors of thunder as Hunter listened to his father descend the stairs to the basement.
Hunter hadn’t expected a perfect outcome. He had, however, hoped to walk out of his parents’ house knowing he had both parents’ assurance.
The winter breeze had intensified into a bluster. As Hunter walked out the front door and into the icy night, the lack of closure with his father brought ache to his soul.
On second thought, that wasn’t it. Rather, it brought a fresh burn to the ache he’d felt for as far back as he could recall.
CHAPTER 37
The next morning, Hunter pulled into a parking spot in front of Gabe’s apartment building and left the engine running. He thumbed through a text message to let Gabe know he’d arrived. Overhead, the cloud cover seemed to thin, as if sunshine might find a way to break through for a few minutes. Hunter turned up the heat another notch and waited for his toes to thaw.
Saturday morning. A mere 36 hours had passed since Kara had discovered their secret, but it felt like two weeks.
Another minute passed and he watched Gabe make his way down the wooden staircase with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. He had dressed in a hoodie and a well-worn baseball cap. The cap didn’t boast a sports team; instead, it was the sort you would find at a casual clothing store.
He climbed into the car and shut the door, rubbing his hands together and blowing into them to warm them.
“Where are we going?”
“Nowhere in particular,” Hunter replied, pulling out of the parking lot. “I needed a drive, if that’s okay.”
“Fine with me.” Gabe paused, then morphed into a wry smile. “Trying to escape the upcoming gossip, eh?” An awkward attempt at humor.
Gabe turned on the radio and settled on a Gavin DeGraw song, but kept the volume low enough for Hunter to hear the rhythm of the tires on the pavement. Within a few minutes, they had merged onto a freeway heading west. At a few minutes past eight o’clock on the weekend, Hunter was glad to find the traffic sparse. He felt like he had breathing room. Neither he nor Gabe needed much conversation. They needed each other’s presence. Hunter wanted the proximity of someone whose support—whose degree of support—wasn’t in question.
“I talked to my parents last night,” said Hunter after several minutes of silence. “I told them everything.”
Eyebrows raised, Gabe turned his head toward him. “How’d they take it?”
Hunter’s mind traveled back to the final minutes in his parents’ living room, up to when his father stormed out.
“Needless to say, they were stunned,” Hunter replied. “I can understand why, though: I don’t think it’s what any parent wants to hear their son say. It’s not exactly what I wanted to tell them. It’s not what any of us wanted to confront.”
“Did it end on good terms?”
“My mom started to come around. It was hard on her. No doubt, it’ll continue to be difficult for her to sort through.” With a smirk, Hunter glanced at Gabe. “Join the club, huh?”
Gabe grinned in return, though his lips remained pressed together. The grin of someone smiling through heartache.
“At least she’s willing to stand by my side,” Hunter said. “That’s all I can ask. I don’t need her to understand. She couldn’t understand even if she wanted to. But there’s a measure of peace in knowing she’s with me.” Hunter ran his thumb along the steering wheel. “Which is more than I can say for my dad.”
“What happened?”
“He didn’t take it well at all. He didn’t explode on me. I had that image in my mind before I got to the house, where he’d get angry and start yelling.”
“But he didn’t?”
“He didn’t yell, no. Then again, he seldom shows emotion. Keeps it all hidden inside, much like I do.” Hunter pictured his father’s face right before leaving the room. “He didn’t need to go ballistic for me to see the anger in his eyes, though.”
“Anger?”
“Anger … resentment … disappointment at the knowledge his son will never turn out the way he’d hoped.” Once again, Hunter heard the rumble of his father’s footsteps as they descended the stairs to the basement. “He walked out of the room, said he couldn’t deal with it right now. He told me I’m his kid and he didn’t raise a faggot.”
Gabe grimaced. “Hunter—”
Hunter focused on the freeway ahead of him, the hypnotic blur of the lane markers as he sped along. “It’s no big deal, right? That doesn’t mean it didn’t sting when he said it, but he’s disappointed with his own life. Why should I expect anything more from him?”
“He’s your father, Hunter.”
“And this is how my dad handles things. It’s who he is. Maybe I should’ve let them hear it through the grapevine. That way, I would’ve gotten a phone call from them and we could’ve discussed it without looking at each other.”
“You did the right thing.”
“Maybe so.”
They stared at the freeway and listened to the undulation of the tires as they spun. Hunter passed a moving van, the roar of its engine diminishing to a whine as it retreated in Hunter’s rearview mirror. Sara Bareilles’s “I Choose You” played on the radio.
“Do you plan to tell your mom?” asked Hunter.
“I already did. You and I both had an eventful Friday night.”
“How did she handle it?”
“It sounds like she took it better than your parents did. Lots of questions, but she didn’t seem angry at me. No harsh words. I could see the disappointment in her eyes, though.” He gazed out the passenger window. “That said, I couldn’t help but think she saw this coming, like she sensed something was wrong, the way mothers can pick up on things. I think she was waiting for me to say it. She’ll look to God to comfort her.” Gabe peered at Hunter. “Did your m
om cry too?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the hardest part of the conversation,” Gabe said, “watching your mom cry and knowing you were the one who busted her heart.”
Hunter understood too well.
“How’d things end up with you and Kara on Thursday night?”
“Not good. A big fight, as you saw. We haven’t spoken since and probably never will.”
“You know, it’ll be a matter of days before a lot of people hear about this. The world has a way of shrinking when news buzzes.”
Hunter nodded.
Gabe leaned back in his seat. He tilted his head against the headrest and stared at the dome light above him.
“So where do we go from here?” asked Gabe.
Hunter felt his jaw grow rigid. He increased his foot’s pressure upon the gas pedal. As the car accelerated, the lane markers blurred faster, combining into solid gashes of white.
Hunter shook his head.
“I wish I knew.”
CHAPTER 38
On a Sunday morning two weeks later, Hunter sauntered across the parking lot beneath an ice-rink sky. He hadn’t seen the sunshine in three weeks. A normal January condition for where he lived, and one to which he’d never grown accustomed.
Word had begun to spread around the area. While leaving the house that morning, he had found a hate note taped to his front door. On Friday night, someone—a group of teenagers, he assumed—had TP’d the tree in his front lawn.
Hunter had skipped church and Bible study meetings in the last two weeks since his secret had gotten blown. As ridiculous as avoidance had struck him, he couldn’t bring himself to face the people. At a minimum, he knew one friend of Kara’s was a member of his church, so he was confident people his age had heard about him. No doubt, word had spread. The only question was how far. Yet he knew a return to church was inevitable.
Besides, he had yearned for the worship time. As close as he felt to God during his times of personal prayer and worship, he grew invigorated worshipping God in the midst of other believers. To Hunter, it felt like drinking water from a fountain of life. So, this morning, he’d forced himself to return and trust God to take care of the rest. He would do this, he determined. Even if he had to do it humiliated.
Hunter had timed it so he would arrive a few minutes after the worship service started. By that time, the auditorium lights would have dimmed. He hoped people would be too preoccupied with the songs to notice him. Plus, a thousand people attended each church service from several communities, too large for Hunter to know each individual on a personal basis. That meant, by his estimation, plenty would attend who hadn’t heard about him.
Still, he couldn’t help but look for responses as he entered the church auditorium. The doors muffled the music inside the room, but when he opened one door, the audible blast hit him at full volume. At first, he stood at the rear of the room. An usher, positioned on the other side of the door, smiled at him with a nod. Hunter nodded in return and pretended he felt normal.
At the front of the room, an array of overhead lights lit the platform on which the worship band played a joyful, upbeat song. The rest of the room was dim, yet illuminated enough for Hunter to see faces. His eyes darted in every direction on a search for reactions, particularly from people his age, to determine whether he was safe. Was it childish to think that way? After all, would people spend their lives focused on him?
Maybe so. From the corner of his eye, Hunter caught sight of a few young adults, male and female, huddled together along a wall toward the far side of the auditorium. He recognized one guy from his Bible study meetings. The guy had started attending the meetings a few months ago and Hunter didn’t know him well. In fact, Hunter didn’t know any other individuals in the huddle.
The individuals in the huddle appeared to have engaged in conversation before the church service started and hadn’t settled into seats yet. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence, given the massive number of people in the room and the loud music that drowned out any lingering chatter. These church services began with an informal ambiance.
But the individuals in the huddle kept glancing at him. They chatted, then appeared to stop as one or two eyed him before turning back to the group, the way people do when they want to get a clear visual of the gossip subject—There he is! That’s the guy! Did you hear what happened?—but are too polite, or scared, to make it obvious by a physical gesture. None of the individuals walked up to him. Finally, Hunter turned his head and looked at them directly. They averted their gazes. Now he knew he was their subject of conversation. Either they gossiped about him, or they were afraid of what he—or others—would think if they were seen talking to the pathetic pariah. Hunter wondered which was more childish: his concerns about what others thought or their seeming pleasure in his humiliation.
Hunter felt the clap of a hand upon his shoulder: Jesse Barlow, Pastor Chuck’s son, Hunter’s friend from Bible study and Saturday morning basketball.
Jesse sidled up beside him, a calculated grin on his face.
“Come on,” Jesse said with a gesture of his thumb, “you’re sitting with me today.”
Until now, Hunter hadn’t realized how alone he’d felt the last two weeks. He had planned to walk in unnoticed, but a friend’s company proved a welcome relief.
Jesse led him to a seat in the middle of the auditorium, where they blended into a sea of people. Knowing Jesse, he’d intended his invitation as a deliberate, bold gesture in case anyone had a problem with his friend Hunter. But the people who surrounded them continued to sing and lift their hands in worship. Most had their eyes closed. When Hunter realized these people weren’t focused on him, he shed his coat and started to relax. He wished he hadn’t stayed away on recent Sundays. He shut his eyes and shut out the world around him.
Within a few minutes, the band transitioned to a slow, reverent song of worship. The lights dimmed further: an atmosphere of intimacy. For Hunter, the moment belonged to God and him.
First he listened to the lyrics, which spoke of God’s rescue, of His love and undeserved forgiveness, all of which Hunter had experienced firsthand at various junctures in his life.
As he pondered the lyrics, gratitude overwhelmed him. A broken Hunter lifted his hands toward heaven. He didn’t feel as though he deserved to lift his hands to God. Then again, thought Hunter, he never had deserved it. That was the whole reason he had given his heart to Christ in the first place—because of what Christ had done on his behalf. Hunter had found pure love in Christ, pure acceptance, and He had never expected Hunter to earn it. Hunter had received it as a free gift. The notion fascinated him: a huge, eternal God who cared about a speck like Hunter. Now Hunter soaked in God’s presence—the way he had for years, both at church and during his private encounters with God—and joy filled his soul. Joy from the Lord.
But soon a shift occurred. Hunter’s thoughts drifted again toward his struggles, and the conflict that tugged him, back and forth, between his faith and his desires. The knowledge crept into his mind like a thief trying to steal his intimate moment with God.
At a loss on how to reconcile his circumstances in light of his faith, Hunter grew disappointed in himself. He wondered if he had made Jesus look terrible. After all, people knew he was a Christian. Those same people had also heard some Christians—though Hunter was not among them—speak harsh, angry words about the hint of same-sex attraction. Would they consider Hunter a fraud? Would they consider Jesus a fraud because of him? Would they conclude Hunter had kept quiet so he could appear religious? The truth was, he never would have harbored the secret if he had felt like he could confide in someone. The hurtful words spoken by other Christians had helped drive him into himself. Hunter wondered at the irony. And now, the thought that others might reject Jesus because of Hunter tore at his soul.
He wondered how God could love someone with Hunter’s shortcomings and regrets. How could Hunter, surrounded by people in this moment, feel so isolated, as if God were
his only true friend?
Hunter was sick of weeping, tired of the tears. He had wept more in the last few months that in the last few years put together. Yet here they came again, filling his eyes and spilling out as he lost himself in the beauty of the worship song. At least his were honest tears, he figured.
Then he remembered he wasn’t alone. Hunter opened his eyes and glanced to his left, where Jesse stood beside him. Hunter remembered the teardrops on his cheeks and pretended to scratch his face as he wiped them away. Yeah, right. Who was he fooling?
Jesse turned his head toward Hunter. In Jesse’s countenance, Hunter found an air of compassion, like someone who had stood in Hunter’s position before. Then again, Jesse had. Although Jesse hadn’t experienced the particular challenges Hunter faced, Jesse, by his own admission, had spent years falling short of God’s perfection and had found a fresh dose of God’s forgiveness. Maybe Jesse understood the pariah factor after all.
Awkward with the knowledge another guy had seen him weep, Hunter scratched his face again to ensure the tears were gone.
“It’s okay,” Jesse said as he leaned toward him. “You do what you need to do right now. Let God love on you for a while.”
That acceptance, the assurance from someone who had faced struggles of his own and come forth—scarred but safe—ministered to Hunter’s heart. Hunter closed his eyes and resumed worshipping God.
Just God and Hunter.
A glimmer of freedom emerged.
* * *
“So, how have people treated you?” Jesse asked. “I haven’t seen you at Bible study to ask.”
After church, Hunter and Jesse had grabbed burgers at a fast-food restaurant in nearby Twinsburg. The simplicity of the environment, funny as it seemed to Hunter, was one less thing with which he needed to concern himself.
He swallowed a bite of his burger and said, “You mean since—well, since I got found out?”