by Lisa Henry
Nate stared at her, panicked and angry. “Wait, what? Do you have any idea…? Do you have any idea how hard I’ve worked? How hard I’m working?” His voice wavered, and he stopped.
He wished he didn’t have to be here, in this building, with all these people talking and laughing. He wasn’t in the mood right now, and he couldn’t stand the thought that he’d let his father down. That, through his own weakness, he’d made his mother think that Moving Forward was a failure.
He’d known the camp wasn’t her darling like it was his father’s, but he hadn’t realized she had so little faith in it. In his father.
He helped me. He fixed me.
“Nate?” his mother said. “I didn’t mean that as a criticism of you. Just that I don’t know if your father’s expectations are always reasonable.”
Nate didn’t answer.
“I really do think it’s okay to have the thoughts,” she continued. “Unless they’re interfering with your happiness. Unless you’re truly struggling not to act on them.”
Something inside Nate wrenched. Suddenly he was Nathan again, in a crisp white dress shirt, standing in Jason Banning’s tiny kitchen. Terrified, but determined.
“You heard him,” Nate said coldly. “If you have the thought, you’ve as good as committed the sin.”
“Even he doesn’t really believe that.” She leaned forward. “What concerns me isn’t the thoughts themselves—it’s that they’re about Jason.”
He flinched. “I know. It’s—it’s messed up; I get that.” He forced himself to meet her gaze. “I’d do anything to go back to that night and—”
She shook her head. “It’s over and done. And he’s at fault, not you.” She paused. “That’s what I hope you realize.”
“I know,” he snapped.
She set down her fork and took a sip of milk. Right out of the carton, not even using a straw. She smacked her lips and sighed. “Being a Catholic was so easy. I felt guilty about everything, but at least it was sin, confess, forgiven. You’ve got it rough.”
“Confessing doesn’t do any good if you don’t learn from your mistakes and do better in the future.” Nate was being nasty to her, but he couldn’t help it.
She looked at him with sadness and regret, and he could tell her mind was somewhere else, on some memory of him. Of Nathan. And that made him even angrier.
“You and I used to be close,” she’d slurred to him last year, when he’d caught her polishing off a bottle of wine while the reverend was away promoting the camp in Oregon. She’d looked at him with tears running down her cheeks, leaving tracks in her makeup. “I’m glad he’s helped you. He’s h-helped me too. But don’t let him make us enemies.” She’d said the word with a strange emphasis, like it shocked her a little, the possibility that that’s what the reverend had done.
“Go to bed,” he’d told her, not sure whether to be furious or sympathetic. His chest was tight, and he ached with the effort of holding back memories of the days when he and his mother had been inseparable. He’d been innocent once. Then he’d grown up, and he’d lost that beauty of spirit. He had, through his own choices, sullied himself. “Dad’ll blame himself, if he finds out you did this.”
She’d looked at him with that same distant, sorrowful expression, and in that moment, he’d wanted to hit her. How was he supposed to be strong if both of his parents couldn’t lead by example?
“You are doing better,” she said softly. “You’re doing so well.”
He slid his phone out of his pocket and checked the time. “I’ve got to meet Marissa now.” Another lie—he still had an hour. “Maybe we’ll make it to group prayer.”
He took his tray up the counter, handed it to the kitchen staff, and left as quickly as he could.
The house was the same as Jason remembered: just a single level brick place with a plant-infested patio out the front. It was no different than any other house lining the street, and Jason felt the same overwhelming sense of disbelief that he had the moment he’d first laid eyes on the place. How could someone as vibrant as his mother have come from this forgettable corner of suburbia? And how could he, having fallen into its clutches, be certain he could escape it?
At fifteen he’d been a snob, not looking down on people for the things they didn’t possess, but for the ideas they didn’t possess. He’d hated everything about Pinehurst. A part of him still did, or at least still felt the sense of oppression creeping over him as he stared at the house from the sidewalk. Made him want to rattle the cage.
His Aunt Rose had made it out to the porch to greet him. She was wearing her pink and blue bathrobe, and her graying hair was tightly curled.
“Aunt Rose!” he called, shutting the driver’s door and going around to the trunk. “You didn’t have to get up. I’ll be right in.”
“I wanted to see you!” Rose called back. Jesus, her voice sounded frailer than it had last time Jason had talked to her.
“Go sit down.” Jason grabbed his duffel bag. “I’ll be right there.”
Rose didn’t move as Jason lugged his bag up the front walk. His leg was killing him. And with Rose infirm as she was, shit, wouldn’t they be a pair?
She waited until he was on the front stoop, then walked into the house with him. “Your sheets are clean.” She waved her hands. “Don’t ask me about dinner; I haven’t put any of the frozen meals out to thaw. I figured we’d just order pizza. Cara showed me how to do it online.”
“Who’s Cara?” Jason dropped his bag by the couch and stood there breathing much harder than a trip up the driveway warranted.
“She’s a friend.”
“Well, pizza’s good. I’m not that hungry. I stopped on the way.”
He thought about Isaac. Poor kid. Jason wished he could summon some of that righteous anger he’d felt a few years ago. Now the thought of Reverend Tull and Moving Forward just made him tired.
“Well, I like mushrooms now,” Rose said, hobbling toward the den. “I didn’t used to, but a lot has changed since you left.”
“I still like mushrooms,” Jason said.
“Okay, I’m going to order extra.” He heard her clicking away on the computer.
He sat on the couch. Leaned back and sighed. Home sweet home? Hardly. Maybe he’d go up to the lookout after dinner, if his leg was up to more driving. Get some air. “When you’re done,” he said, “Come out here and tell me what else has changed since I’ve been gone. Am I still a pariah?”
No answer for a while. Then: “Hon? You’ve got as much reason to be here as the next person.”
Sure.
Tell that to the Tulls.
Chapter Three
Nate took Marissa to the lookout spot behind Armenhautz Farm. From there you could see over cliffs into misty valleys that faded to soft blue and silver in the evenings. Marissa was unusually quiet tonight. Maybe he should be glad.
She could be...difficult. Selfish. Putting her own needs before God’s will. She had a sharp tongue, like Nathan’s mother. But he did love her. She was pretty, and funny, and she could put that strong will to good use when she wanted.
Nate hated himself when he judged her, or when he judged anyone. So what if she had her faults? Everyone had faults. God knew he was as flawed as they came. And he was so grateful to Marissa in so many ways. She had agreed to date him knowing, like the whole world did, exactly what sins he’d committed.
Sometimes Nate thought the burden of his guilt would have been easier to carry in secret. His father didn’t believe that. His father said that a burden shared was a burden halved. But Nate had always needed to compartmentalize his feelings, from the time he was a kid. He could almost have managed his unwanted feelings if he’d kept his secret. He could have been the dutiful son, the upstanding citizen, the good Christian, if only he’d kept that other part of himself locked away. But he’d failed, and now it was out in the open, all the time, and everybody knew, and Nate felt like he was always struggling against it. He couldn’t hide from it behind tho
se other roles: son, citizen or Christian. He wished there was a way to shove it back in its box.
“Look at those douchebags.” Melissa had a low giggle and a bright smile. She was looking out the window at a group of teenagers—Nate recognized a couple of them from church: Nick Gallagher and Colin Brown. They were throwing stones off the cliff. “God, wouldn’t it be hilarious, if they fell into the gorge?”
“Stop that,” Nate said.
She looked at him sharply. “Don’t tell me what to do. I’m just kidding, anyway. Sort of.”
Nate’s head hurt. He’d felt off all day. He tried to focus on what few stars were visible through the blue and purple clouds. Marissa was harsh sometimes, caustic, not the sort of of girl she pretended to be in front of Nate’s parents, or her own. But then neither was Nate. It irritated him though, when she didn’t seem to try to be better. Maybe because her hypocrisy, harmless and small, shone a spotlight on his.
Marissa leaned back. “You need to lighten up.”
Nate had lightened up once. With Jason. That night, he’d been simultaneously a stranger and completely himself. He’d relaxed, let go, and had become invincible.
The memory blazed through him, so sudden and strong he stopped breathing for a moment. His eyes stung.
“So are we gonna make out, or what?” Marissa asked.
“I don’t...I don’t really feel like it tonight.”
“That’s fine.” Marissa put a foot up on the dash. “God damn, usually you’re all over me. I get tired of it.” She was right. Nate often kissed her in a desperate frenzy, as though adrenaline could make up for a lack of real passion.
Nate could tell he’d hurt her feelings. For some reason he wanted to hurt her a little more. “Could you not take the Lord’s name in vain?”
She stared at him. “Are you serious?”
He looked away from her. “I just… It’s disrespectful.”
She gave a disbelieving laugh. “You of all people, telling me to respect our lord’s will?”
Nate’s throat tightened. He took off his seatbelt and opened the car door. “Let’s go for a walk.”
They walked along the lookout point. The town had put a guardrail up over most of it a few years back, because drunk teenagers kept getting themselves killed. But there was a spot nearby where you could actually stand on the edge of the cliff.
Except when they reached that spot, someone was already standing by the cliff. Nate studied the silhouette—tall, powerfully built. Short hair. Something uncomfortably familiar about the posture. Nate couldn’t quite believe it—maybe this was another phantom—but as he got closer, he realized he was right.
It was Jason Banning.
They were too close now to turn and walk away. It would have looked weird. But maybe they could just walk past him and keep going. Nate took Marissa’s hand and sped up. Jason seemed intent on watching the last of the light fade from the sky.
But Jason turned just as they were passing. In the gloam, Nate could see him startle. “Nathan?” he said.
“Oh. Hey.” Nate had tried to say it coolly, but his voice came out uncertain. Nervous. “I didn’t—I mean, I’d heard you were back in town.” Heat streaked through him like someone was waving a sparkler in his chest.
“Yeah.”
Part of Nate couldn’t believe Jason had the nerve to talk to him. He curled his free hand into a fist.
Jason glanced at Marissa.
“This is my girlfriend,” Nate said thickly. “Marissa.”
Jason nodded. “Hi.”
“I know who you are,” Marissa’s voice was cold, and not the least bit nervous.
Overhead, a cloud pushed off, revealing a large, patchy moon.
“Well,” Nate said. “We’re on a walk. So...hope you’re...hope you’re recovering okay and everything.”
He’d heard people in the town say Jason’s injury was just what the guy deserved. The same people who said the men and women in uniform were heroes; those people didn’t seem to think that applied to Jason Banning. Jason, who had gone to Afghanistan with a camera instead of a gun, but who had still risked his life in service to his country. Did they think he deserved it because of what he’d done to Nate? Or because he was gay?
Nate wasn’t sure what he thought Jason deserved.
He was supposed to have let all that go. He was supposed to have forgiven Jason.
“Yeah. You too,” Jason said. “I mean—shit.” He laughed awkwardly. “I didn’t mean that. It’s like when you go to the movies and they tell you to enjoy the show and you say ‘you too’ before you realize it doesn’t apply to them…”
Nate held Jason’s gaze for a moment. They both knew the “you too” did apply to Nate.
Nate felt Marissa tug his hand. They walked on. He expected Marissa to make some snide comment about Jason, but she was quiet for about ten minutes, while Nate’s heart slowed and his breathing returned to normal.
She finally said, “I’m sorry about earlier.” She stopped and looked at him, the whites of her eyes glinting. “I didn’t have any right to, like, throw your past in your face. You’ve tried really hard.” She got up on her toes and kissed him gently. “And you won.”
He studied her in the fading light. She looked...vulnerable. He didn’t know her deeply, not yet. But he had learned her as much as he could over the last year. And he thought he knew why she was apologizing. She’d felt threatened, seeing him and Jason. However exasperated she got with him, however obvious her doubts that he was actually “recovered”, she didn’t want to lose him. Nate knew her mother must have cautioned her: Look after Nate. Be patient with him. It’s going to be a long, rocky road. He’ll need you by his side. She must feel a sense of responsibility pressing on her all the time, like an orphaned older sibling forced suddenly to take on the care of a younger brother or sister. A responsibility too big for her; unfair.
It took him a while to find his voice. “I’m sorry too. I don’t really care if you say ‘goddamn.’ And I...I’m sorry I didn’t want to make out.”
She grinned. “It’s okay. Maybe you’ll feel more like it when we get into the woods.” She led him on.
It had started Friday night when Nathan had visited UW Tacoma. Jason, a senior, had gone to a party hosted by a group of juniors. Most of the prospective students had been there, including Nathan Tull. Jason had known immediately who he was—everyone in Pinehurst knew the Tulls, and Aunt Rose was a churchgoer, after all. But did Nathan know who Jason was? Jason wasn’t a churchgoer, and Nathan had been homeschooled. They’d never spoken. Bigsby had introduced them, in a casual, “Hey, Jason, aren’t you from Pinehurst too?” and suddenly they were in an awkward conversation, because I hate your father and everything he represents wasn’t exactly something Jason could use as an icebreaker.
Nathan had been so nervous and shy, so patently out of his depth in the real world, that Jason had warmed to him. And then he’d noticed the way that Nathan’s gaze has kept dropping from his eyes to his mouth, and then lower down to his groin.
It was so wonderfully absurd that Jason had wanted to burst out laughing: Nathan Tull was gay! How was that for karma, Reverend Pray-The-Gay-Away Tull? And then the germ of an idea took hold in some dark place in Jason’s head.
Reverend Tull’s son was gay. Reverend Tull was a hypocrite and a liar. The whole world should know. The whole world should see.
“Do you want to get out of here?” he’d asked after a while.
Nathan had jerked his head in a nod. “Sure.”
They’d gone for a walk around campus. They’d talked about the school. About the countries Jason had visited. And eventually about Nathan’s father.
“Why don’t you tell him?” Jason had asked casually. They were standing near the Russell T. Joy building—the last of Tacoma’s defunct warehouse blocks to be renovated as university buildings. Jason had photographed the building from every angle over the years. In the nineteenth century, it had housed companies that made wood stoves,
candy, gloves, Studebaker wagons, and more. It wasn’t much to look at from the outside, but Jason had been determined to find ways to photograph it that would bring that history to life.
Nathan’s gaze had shifted to him, wary. “Tell him what?”
“You’re gay, aren’t you?”
Nathan had stared at him as though Jason had made a sword cut across his belly, too clean and sudden for it to even have started bleeding yet.
“It’s okay,” Jason had said. “I am too. And I assumed we were flirting?”
“I…” Nathan had said.
“It’s okay. Really.”
They’d kissed, by the building with all its ghosts. Nathan’s lips were soft and a little dry, his hand hovering just above Jason’s shoulder, sweetly hesitant. The next day, Nathan had bailed on a tour of the admissions office to have coffee with Jason. That afternoon, while Nathan was interviewing with the dean, Jason had set up the webcam in the bookcase. And that night, he’d taken Nathan to dinner at Noodles-2-Go, and then invited him back to his place.
Jason had been so anxious on the way there he’d nearly run over a group of students heading to an early Halloween party. He’d stopped at a corner store on the pretext of buying coffee and tea, when what he really needed was an opportunity to collect himself.
Back in the car, he’d been all easy smiles and jokes. A teasing hand on Nathan’s thigh, moving steadily up. Eying the growing bulge in the front of Nathan’s jeans, his own dick getting hard. The Reverend Tull’s son…
What did the collateral damage matter when it was for the greater good?
And it was for the greater good.
Jason had told himself that then, and he told himself that now. The best journalism served both the journalist and the public.
He’d done Pinehurst a mercy, even if the town couldn’t—never would—see it that way.
He scowled and tossed another stone over the cliff and waited, imagining he’d could hear it echo.
What had changed? Jason’s story had spurred protest against the camp by civil liberties groups and LGBTQ organizations—but it had also brought forth an impenetrable wall of support for the Tulls from the Pinehurst community. The reverend could do no wrong here; he was loved and respected, and his camp wasn’t some Medieval torture den where kids were electroshocked into heterosexuality.