by Max Hudson
Owen’s heart sinks. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear. Had you guys been dating long?”
“Yeah, I guess—like nine months. Not super long, but long enough.”
Owen nods, silently contemplating what Mason had said. So – definitely hadn’t been a fling. Definitely interested in women. Good, so was he. Nothing to worry about then, they could be good friends without worrying about anything more happening.
But even as Owen tries to convince himself that Mason dating women is a good thing—it doesn’t matter to him—his stomach drops and he wants more and more to go home.
They continue to talk, though, and as the conversation moves along, the weight on Owen’s chest begins to lift. They talk more about work, who to avoid and who was all right, how to navigate their boss’ weird way of interacting with his subordinates. Mason asks questions about the city, where to go for a drink, where to eat, parks to hang out at. He mentions that he likes to go to parks and sit, either reading a book or writing his own.
“You write?” Owen asks, shocked that someone who accepted a job working completely with numbers would be into writing.
“Kind of. Nothing serious and mostly just journaling. Nothing that will ever see the light of day.”
“Still, more than I do. Last time I wrote anything not work-related was in college for an exam,” Owen laughs.
Mason joins in. “Well, it’s getting late. I should probably get home. I have a mountain of boxes waiting for me to unpack,” he groans.
Owen agrees, and they stand and head toward the exit. As they reach the parking lot, Mason stops and faces Owen.
“Thanks for doing this, man,” Mason says, holding out his hand.
Owen shakes it firmly. “Any time.”
“Seriously. It’s good to know that there’s at least one person in that building that I can talk to,” he chuckles. “See you tomorrow.”
As Mason turns on his heel and heads toward his car, Owen feels a smile curl his lips and more flutters in his stomach.
Chapter Four
As Owen dresses the next morning, he finds himself pickier and more aware of how his clothing hangs on him than usual. It had been a long time since he had truly looked at himself in the mirror and cared about what he saw, basically since the early years of his and Jenna’s marriage. Then, he’d been young and in somewhat good shape. Now all he sees is a middle-aged man with morning scruff, a slouch that increases the appearance of a pooch in his belly, and creases in his face that he hasn’t noticed before. He pulls at them, leaning closer to the mirror as he tries to smooth out his face. He frowns when it doesn’t work, turning his attention to his untoned stomach. He grabs at it, squeezing the skin and the fat that never used to be there.
I have to start exercising again, he sighs to himself, turning away from the mirror and to his closet.
He pulls out his usual button-down shirt and brown slacks, pulling them on and again facing the mirror. Again finding himself more than unsatisfied with the reflection looking back at him. The shirt doesn’t quite match the pants, and none of his ties look right with the outfit. He fidgets, pulling at the seat of his pants and tugging at his tie, trying to make the fabric sit more flatteringly on his body. Realizing that this is as good as it is going to get—his wardrobe doesn’t have a wide variety, and there is only so much clothing can do to make his body look better anyhow—he sighs and heads to the kitchen for breakfast.
He sits and munches his cereal in silence, staring blankly at the cabinets across from him. It was always eerily quiet when the girls were with their mother. When they were here, the mornings were always filled with sounds of clattering dishes, tapping on phone screens, voices from the television, and bickering between siblings when someone is taking too long in the bathroom. The room would flash with the colors of their clothing, the rush of them trying to get out the door on time, and Owen would always feel more invigorated and alive while helping them get a move on. When they didn’t have school, mornings were more relaxed, but still warm, filled with the smell of pancakes and bacon and cuddling on the couch.
On mornings when they weren’t there, the kitchen seemed duller, the white of the cabinets dirtier, and only the sound of the cereal crunching in his mouth cracked the silence.
He finishes and starts driving to work, trying to keep thoughts of what the day would hold out of his mind. As he pulls into the parking lot, he flips down the visor and glances in the mirror one last time, checking his teeth and pulling at his collar. Taking a deep breath, he opens the door and heads inside.
He settles into his desk, sipping on coffee and letting his computer boot up. As he does, he continuously glances at the entryway, tension coiling tighter and tighter as the minutes tick by. The clock moves closer to nine, and Owen worries that Mason isn’t going to show. Maybe he took Owen’s advice. Maybe he realized that this job is shit and isn’t worth any amount of money. Or maybe he thought that Owen had been too interested or eager and thought he was weird like Greg and didn’t ever want to see him again…
The door bursts open, slamming against the wall. Owen’s head snaps up and the weight on his chest lifts as Mason steps through the doorway, wincing and closing the door quietly behind him. He walks briskly to his desk, waving at Owen as he does. Owen waves back, smiling softly.
“Hey,” Mason huffs, his cheeks flushed and his tie loosely wound around his neck.
“Rough morning?” Owen jokes, leaning back in his seat and trying to look nonchalant.
Mason rolls his eyes and groans. “Completely slept through my alarm. I sped the whole way here. I’m lucky the roads were cop-free and dry.” He throws his stuff down on his desk and takes off toward the kitchen, coming back with a mug of coffee and slumping into his chair. Owen’s lips curl up and he tries to focus on his work.
The next few weeks continue in much the same manner. Owen learns that Mason is a perpetually late person. More often than not he runs into work several minutes late, clothes disheveled and bags under his eyes. Mason admits early on that he’s a serial television show binge watcher and that most nights he’s up until one or two in the morning. He jokes that Owen will need to come and wake him up in the morning to get him to work on time, and Owen isn’t sure if he’s joking or not.
They fall into a routine, getting lunch with one another most days of the week and keeping to themselves. Owen can’t help but feel a sense of pride that Mason doesn’t seem interested in getting to know any of the others in the office. Owen is the only one he stops to talk to or go out with. Every so often, Mason will pop his head over the cubicle barrier to give Owen an exasperated look or complain about whatever project he’s working on. Owen listens good-naturedly, smiling and laughing at Mason’s jokes and contorted faces. He tries not to look too eager, but he continuously looks forward to seeing Mason’s hazel eyes peering over the gray wall of the cubicle.
For weeks, Owen writes off any excitement he feels as the rush of making a new, great friend in such a short time. Butterflies are ascribed to nervousness at keeping up a good impression. Flushed cheeks are attributed to the cold weather or to strictly platonic embarrassment, feelings of anticipation or eagerness are almost completely ignored and shoved to the wayside. It’s not until one Friday night that Owen realizes that he cannot pretend that what he feels for Mason is completely out of the realm of the physical.
Mason, having a particularly bad week of waking late and complaining of work, asks Owen if he wants to join him for a drink at the end of the week. Owen agrees, not thinking much of it. They had got food or coffee after work multiple times at this point, and it doesn’t faze him at all in this moment. They bundle up and walk to a bar close by, soaking in the warmth of the small establishment gratefully.
They snag an empty booth, arriving just ahead of the after-work rush on a Friday evening, and Mason heads to the bar to order drinks. When he returns, Owen presses his lips together to hold in the laugh that’s bubbling up his throat. Mason sits and notices Owen’s face.
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br /> “What?” he asks.
Owen chuckles, unable to hold it in any longer. “What the hell is that?” he says, pointing at the enormous fuchsia drink sitting in front of Mason, complete with a fat blue straw and a little yellow umbrella sticking out of the top. Across from it, looking rather dull and sad in comparison, sits Owen’s dark whiskey.
Mason scowls. “Shut up; it’s delicious,” he mutters as he snatches the drink off the table and sips, clutching the drink close to his chest and glaring at Owen the whole time. Owen laughs, and Mason offers him the drink. He takes it, and to his chagrin, he has to admit that it is indeed delicious.
They continue to talk—and drink—for what seems like a few minutes. Owen realizes, though, that the bar is thinning out and there are a few too many empty glasses littering their table. He pulls out his phone and is shocked to see that it’s almost one in the morning.
“We should probably get going.”
Mason looks down at his watch. “Shit, it’s late. Or early. Whatever floats your boat.” He stands to grab his coat and sways, grabbing the edge of the chair for support. He grins. “I don’t know about you but I’m too damn drunk to be driving. Want to share a ride home?”
Owen nods, and Mason continues to trudge over to the coat rack. Owen pays the tab, leaving a few extra bucks on the table to apologize for being one of the last ones out the door, and goes to wait outside with Mason for their car.
It arrives quickly, and the two slide into the warmth of the backseat. Mason climbs in after Owen, but doesn’t quite make it, tripping, his foot catching in the doorway. He falls in, landing against Owen’s side. They both start cracking up, Owen’s eyes running from laughing so hard. Mason eventually gets situated in the car, shutting the door and allowing the driver to take off. As he does, however, his hand comes into contact with Owen’s, which is flat on the seat next to him. The laughing ceases, and he doesn’t move his hand right away. Instead, Mason looks up at Owen, keeping his hand in place. They make eye contact, and a rush of warmth fills Owen’s stomach and chest.
Owen starts, suddenly realizing what’s happening. He yanks his hand out from underneath Mason’s, folding both of his decidedly in his lap, leaning against the door and away from Mason. He stares pointedly out the window, painfully aware that Mason is only a couple of feet away from him. Mason leans back slowly, his body creaking against the leather seats. The smell of alcohol and Mason’s cologne fill the small cab of the car. It’s intoxicating, and Owen breathes through his mouth to keep the smell out of his nose. The rest of the ride is tense, and neither man looks at the other.
They pull up to Owen’s house. He throws a twenty over the seat to the driver and jumps out of the car, slamming the door before the driver can give him change and before Mason can say anything.
Chapter Five
Jackhammers pound in Owen’s head the next morning. He groans, fumbling around his nightstand for his phone. He looks through bleary eyes at the screen—eleven o’clock. He can’t remember the last time he’d slept this late or drank this much. He focuses on the screen again, looking at his notifications.
His heart sinks a little when he sees he has nothing from Mason.
He closes his eyes, trying to banish the feeling, trying to write off the feelings last night as drunken desire. But he wasn’t drunk anymore. Hungover, yes, but drunk, no. Yet he still finds himself wanting to see Mason, to touch his hand again, to wind their fingers together instead of pulling away.
His stomach turns. Though his feelings toward Mason are pleasant, his emotions about those feelings are not. He thinks of Faith, Grace, Rebecca. How would they feel if they knew their father was interested in another man? And Jenna? Jenna would have a field day with this one. She’d always been obnoxiously vocal about her feelings about homosexual relationships, making snide comments or disgusted noises any time a gay couple walked by, even if they were just talking or holding hands. Owen always felt uncomfortable when she acted that way. Though he understood her feelings, especially in light of her faith, he’d never been able to feel okay with her making others feel badly, no matter the circumstances.
He tries to avoid the next question, but he can’t for very long—what about God? He had grown up learning that lying with another man is a sin, it’s shameful in the eyes of God, and he was thankful he never had to worry about it. He’d married, had kids, and had been happy doing it. The divorce, of course, veered away from the righteous path, but it had been Jenna, not him, who had broken their vows and instigated the necessity of a divorce. Aside from the divorce, however, he had always done as he was supposed to, was always faithful to Jenna, no matter how difficult the rough patch, being active and present in his daughters’ lives no matter how busy his schedule, attending church, praying daily, and being as good of a person as he could be, no matter how angry he was at the world.
But now… now what?
Owen rolls out of bed, downing the glass of water on his nightstand before shuffling toward the shower with the goal of going to church today on his mind. He keeps the shower to a minimum, getting dressed quickly and calling a car to take him to his own at work. He grabs a quick coffee before getting in his own car, driving slowly and somewhat reluctantly to the church parking lot.
When he arrives, he simply sits for a few minutes, holding his empty coffee cup between his hands. He closes his eyes, trying to fight off the dread creeping up his spine. Taking a deep breath, he sets the cup down and jumps out of the car before he can change his mind.
He opens the door slowly, trying to be as quiet as possible. Though it’s Saturday, events are often held at the church and he doesn’t want to disturb anyone or be seen by anyone. He slips into the auditorium, glancing around and sighing in relief when he realizes he is the only soul among the pews. He settles down in the middle of the room, for the first time stiff and tense in the face of his Lord.
The wood creaks beneath him as he shifts his weight. His knee bounces nervously as he clasps his hands in front of him, placing them neatly on the back of the pew in front of him. He bows his head and stares at the floor between his feet.
Normally, talking to God isn’t a problem for him. He’d never had an issue with praying before. When his children were being born, he immediately prayed for their safe arrival and Jenna’s swift recovery. When Jenna destroyed the last remnants of their marriage, he turned without hesitation to the Lord for strength and guidance. There had never been an issue or obstacle that he had been unable to speak to God about. Yet, instead of praying, Owen finds himself intently studying the patterns in the carpet, drawing different pictures within the pattern in his mind and definitively not forming a coherent thought.
Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he stills his knee and tries to focus.
Lord in Heaven, I need thy help. I am weak, and sinful, and need your guidance. I…
A laugh escapes Owen’s throat, and he leans back in the pew and covers his eyes with his hands. Though he had barely started, the prayer is bullshit, and he knows it. It’s scripted, insincere, and flat. Nothing of the real problem was touched upon or going to be touched upon, and he’d never been a fan of treating God as someone who needed to be spoken to in such a stilted and formal way. He prefers to think of Him as family rather than a spiteful, lofty king. He was their Father, after all, and it had always comforted Owen to think of him as such.
Inhaling deeply again, he closes his eyes and folds his hands in his lap, choosing to remain as relaxed as possible this time.
Look, God, I don’t know what to do here. I’m having feelings for…for a man. I’ve been told since I was young that being gay was a choice, that it wasn’t in accordance with my faith. But… but I wouldn’t choose to feel this way. I wouldn’t choose to act in a way that disobeyed Your wishes. And I’m terrified that You will turn Your back on me if I continue to feel this way.
Tears prick Owen’s eyes. He pauses, wiping at his eyes angrily. He takes a moment to breathe again, waiting for th
e tightness in his chest to loosen.
I’ve followed You faithfully all my life. I’ve never doubted You, never turned away from You, tried to be as good of a person as I could. Why would You do this to me? Why would You let me have feelings You don’t approve of, when I’ve been nothing but a faithful servant? Please, God, I need You. I need Your help. Give me strength to leave these feelings behind. Guide me back onto Your path. Please, help me.
Owen waits for a moment before opening his eyes, the tears leaking freely this time down his cheeks. He stares at the vaulted ceiling for a while before sighing and picking himself up off the bench. Normally, he would feel better, lighter, after talking to God.
Now, however, he just feels heavier, guiltier, dirtier.
He keeps his head down as he walks out of the auditorium and runs right into his pastor, Joshua.
“Pastor – sorry, sorry – I didn’t mean…”
Joshua reaches up and grasps Owen’s shoulders to steady them both, chuckling as he does. He raises a hand, stopping Owen’s stuttered apology. “Nothing to apologize for, Owen.” He smiles, gesturing toward the auditorium. “Were you just inside?”
“Yes, but I was just leaving.”
Joshua tilts his head to the side. “Are you all right, Owen? You seem…agitated.”
Owen reaches up to his forehead, wiping away small beads of sweat and running his fingers through his hair. He nods, inhaling deeply and holding it as he smiles tightly at his pastor. “Yes, yes, I’m fine, Pastor. Really, just a rough week at work and needed to speak to the big guy upstairs for a minute. Clear my head.”