The Fiancé (It's Just Us Here Book 6)

by Christopher X Sullivan

  I did not grow up with ‘Confession’. Mark apparently poured his little heart out to his priest. He confessed his longing for a few of the boys he knew. He confessed to having conflicted feelings.

  His priest did not judge him (as I had assumed would happen). His priest was gentle, then offered prayer and guidance from the community and otherwise refrained from condemning Mark to the fiery depths of Hell.

  Mark had a great relationship with his priest even after he was more sure of his sexual orientation. Because Mark was from an influential family, the priest could have turned on Mark and in some way alerted Mark’s parents or grandparents. He didn’t. Mark really, really appreciated what that man did for him, just by listening. The priest was a sounding board when Mark said he ‘might be gay’ even though Mark already knew the truth. The priest was not angry when Mark said he ‘was gay’.

  The priest offered a path of celibacy, which the youthful Mark thought sounded easy enough. Then his hormones kicked in and his lust overrode that silliness.

  If the priest had ever told me that a life of celibacy was in order, I would have shrugged and been perfectly fine with it. Sometimes it feels like I was born to be a monk. Mark and I traveled through France one summer and we stopped at the Mont St. Michel monastery. It’s a beautiful island in the silty delta of a French river. Monks built a walled compound around the island. It’s amazing. There’s a monk who apparently tends to all the wisteria and makes sure it looks beautiful for the public.

  I could do that. I could do that so easily. I love my plants. Not having sex would not be a problem. I wouldn’t even call it celibacy—celibacy is when you have desire but you willingly block it or give it up. I am non-sexual. I don’t have sexual desire... well, aside from the one exception. And I can trick my brain into it if I think up the right, kinky fantasy.

  Mark faced a lot of self-grief during his early teens by convincing himself that he was going against God’s will and God’s plan and God’s design. But he couldn’t help himself. He loved men. He loved looking at their bodies, he loved thinking about their cocks; he loved everything about them. Facial hair. The fact that they don’t have round breasts or curvy bodies.

  If sexuality is on a scale, then Mark was one of those young men that had absolutely zero interest in women. He ‘dated’ a girl he had been set up with by his mother. He enjoyed the status that dating her brought him. He loved being flattered and he loved that they were a ‘cute’ couple.

  He kissed that young lady while dreaming that he was kissing his best friend from the baseball team.

  These tensions and conflicts of interests made for a very bitter, hot-tempered young Mark. He fought against his dad. He eventually hated his church and hated his priest. He wanted out. Out, out, out.

  Mark got his wish and he didn’t return to that Catholic church for at least a decade. Not for weddings or funerals. Never once.

  “YOU’RE GOING TO LOVE it,” Mark assured me as we walked into the church at 9:30 in the morning. “You’re a spiritual dude. You’re going to love it.”

  “I can’t believe you got up this early.”

  “You started me on this habit. And this place brings me so much peace of mind... I love it here. You’re gonna love it.”

  I held my tongue. I didn’t have the best relationship with congregations or religion in general. I hated the myths taught as fact. Humans are storytelling and myth-making machines. That’s how we live—it’s how we remember and learn. Storytelling is the engine that drives society.

  Brands are myths. When you think of a Ford car or LeBron James or any celebrity, you are accessing a myth inside your head. An internet meme is a type of myth—a legend—something with a backstory that can be reinterpreted in new ways to give new meaning in different situations and which provide a type of social identity. I like this meme because... I like Ford cars because... I like or hate LeBron because...

  Religion is no different. I don’t know if any of the scriptures were guided by a divine author (and I have a very scientifically inclined mind, so I need proof.) What I do know for sure is that religion is a human experience controlled by humans and performed by humans. Humans decide what to read. Humans decide what to interpret and how to think of those interpretations.

  All I know for sure is that every human, no matter how clever or how smart or how ‘divinely’ inspired... we’re all going to be at least a little wrong. We’re all misinterpreting something. None of us are perfect, but seeing as we’re humans, there’s no way to know for sure what we have right and what we have wrong. At least when it comes to God.

  That unknowability drives me absolutely bonkers. How can you evangelize if some of what you teach is wrong? How can you evangelize if the heathens you are trying to convert are living more spiritual lives than you?

  I will never understand religion. I believe in humanity... and the religions that survive the test of time all believe in humanity, too. They believe in being nice to each other, respecting human life and being good stewards of the earth. They believe in making the world a better place for all God’s creatures (which has to include those that don’t believe as well as those that do).

  Dear Reader, I’m not comfortable with where this little segment of my self-portrait is heading. I have a complex relationship with Mark’s faith. I attend every Sunday. I don’t participate in the Eucharist. I sing the songs (the songs are the best part). I listen to the prayers. I send my condolences to the community when someone is unhealthy. I send my congratulations when something good happens. I talk with Father Dunworthy about important things in my life.

  I don’t know... maybe I’m becoming more Christian in my old age. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Plus, Episcopalians are quirky, which I can appreciate. I’ve always been an outlier and blazed my own trail instead of following the crowd. Most people will tell you they do their own thing because they don’t give a shit what other people think, but that’s not me. I care a great deal about what other people think. But I’ve felt ‘defective’ my entire life. My family would ask me why I didn’t have a girlfriend or my friends would ask me if I was gay. I felt pressured to be something I was not, but always knew in my heart that I wasn’t what they wanted me to be. So I deferred. I considered myself defective when compared to all my friends who seemed to know what they were and what they wanted.

  Mark’s church has helped me understand myself better, so that’s a plus.

  For me, Episcopalians are like watered down Roman Catholics. The Episcopal Church started after the American Revolution when it broke from the Anglican Church because the Anglican Church had to hold the King of England as the head of its body, which wouldn’t have gone over well in the American revolt against the Monarchy. And the Anglican Church, of course, broke from Rome a long time before that.

  But to my eyes and ears, the church stuff is all basically the same. They dress similarly and repeat the same verses and Psalms and they have similar Communions. From the outside looking in, I don’t see how Mark can say that his new church and his old are ‘completely’ different.

  But then again, the Episcopalians do allow women and openly gay men to receive Orders. And the Episcopal Church is organized more democratically than either the Church of England or the Roman Catholic Church.

  I don’t know... I kind of like it. Oh shit! I’m almost evangelizing! If you’re looking for a new denomination and are wanting my opinion on whether you should look at mine, I would say go for it. I’ll never be comfortable with all the chanting and the ceremonies, but I’ve met a lot of people who like that stuff. (And Alex got to be an altar boy! Which he loved!)

  But anyway... I swear I won’t talk this much about the Church in the future. I guess I’m just thinking about it because my health isn’t the best and because Mark and I got married by Father Dunworthy and because the Church is just quirky enough that I may have grown fond of it. And then there’s the fact that they welcome all people into their congregation as equals regardless of e
thnicity or orientation... well, that’s a nice bonus, too.

  Also, I’m currently in convalescence out in the country and away from Father Dunworthy’s congregation. Our new church just isn’t the same.

  MARK AND I SAT THROUGH that first sermon without holding hands. I was relatively stone-faced and felt like everyone was looking at me. Mark chose the pew where we would sit for the next three and a half years, until we moved out of the city. The people around us all knew Mark. I was invited to share refreshments and cookies after the service.

  Mark and I stayed and chatted with the congregation after the service. Mark was beaming the entire time. He introduced me as a writer, which prompted me to wonder what God’s policy on mind control erotica might be... probably a sin. Mark talked about my books that were selling. I wondered if I should mention that some of my romances were the bodice-ripping kind because the sexified ones sell better than the clean ones. Mark was very proud to show me off, like a show pony. I wondered if I should comment that I had actually stopped writing and was focused on developing a diagnosis and treatment application for smartphones.

  “But wait, babe,” Mark said with his arm around me instead of letting me escape. He introduced me to a doctor and his wife. “Chris is multi-talented. Now he’s trying to save the world.”

  “I am not,” I scoffed.

  “He’s making this computer thingy that’s supposed to help diagnose and encourage lifestyle changes in people with autoimmune diseases.”

  “Disorders,” I corrected. I smiled blandly at the people we were talking to. “I wish I had something like this a few years ago. It would have saved me years of pain.”

  The doctor engaged with me. “But how would you get this program into the hands of those who need it most, those who have no inkling as to their diagnosis?”

  “That is the main issue,” I agreed. “So we're marketing it as a lifestyle app to help you live healthier with your disorder. Eventually, probably twenty years from now, I would like to see something similar incorporated into every doctor’s office. Like a virtual assistant that crunches all the input and spits out a potential diagnosis. If my doctor had been aware of the signs of my disorder, I might not have spent so many days in his office and wasted so much of my life.”

  The doctor agreed that it was a worthy idea, but he also had a list of five reasons why it couldn’t work, and those were just off the top of his head.

  I nodded along calmly, then glanced at Mark and saw that he was about to either snarl at the doctor or knock him out with his fist. I tugged on Mark’s sleeve. He looked at me and I smiled, wiggling my eyebrows.

  “Aw,” the doctor’s wife said. “Look at them. “We’re so happy to meet you, Chris. I hope you come back next week.”

  “He will,” Mark stated.

  “That has yet to be determined. I’m not a Communion type of guy.”

  “Let’s meet Father Dunworthy,” Mark suggested, taking my hand and practically dragging me to the punch bowl. “Father,” Mark said. “This is Chris.”

  I stopped within handshaking distance. We introduced ourselves.

  “How nice to meet you, Christopher. Mark was talking about you just the other day.”

  “Um... in Confession?”

  Dunworthy laughed. He was a warm guy. Mid-forties. Soccer dad with a dad body. I couldn’t help but like him. “Confession is private. Mark just said in passing that he was thinking about you.” Dunworthy smiled. “Maybe he should think about some lottery numbers.”

  “Um... are you allowed to play the lottery?”

  Father Dunworthy was very patient with me and has been these last six years. I liked him from day one, even when he teased me over my narrow-minded view on ‘priesthood’. Little did I know that this would be the man who would stand for Mark as a witness to our civil union and that he would be the man to make our marriage official in the eyes of the Church (after marriage equality legislation passed, obviously).

  I was shy. I didn’t know any of these strangers, yet everyone seemed to know me—or it felt like that, anyway. They certainly all knew Mark.

  Mark was wound up like I had never seen him before. Okay, I’d seen him wound up many times, but this time we were in a church! Show some respect! If the walls were made of rubber, he would have been running at them just so he could bounce off. He didn’t do as much of the talking as I would have liked (I had to answer a lot of questions). I clung to Mark’s shadow and made sure I wasn’t more than five feet away from him at all times.

  All these crazy church people kept trying to ambush me and ask me questions like ‘How did you meet Mark?” and saying things like, “I hope to see you next week.” Lay off all this silliness! Leave me be! I didn’t ask to be here! He brought me here against my will! Can’t you see that I’m a captive!? Why isn’t anyone asking if I’ve been abducted?

  “Would you like some fresh air?” Dunworthy asked when the conversation moved away from us. I nodded so he led us away. We walked down a narrow, white-washed hallway. It was sparsely decorated compared to the room where the congregation gathered and it triggered my claustrophobia.

  Mark was right behind me about half a step. He grabbed my hand and caught up to me. I didn’t hold him. This whole thing felt strange. We were in a church. And the hallway was too narrow to have a pair of grown men walk side by side like that.

  Mark didn’t take the hint. We walked abreast and scrunched together with our hands occasionally brushing each other. Father Dunworthy led us to a small picnic area out in the morning sun.

  “This is beautiful,” I said, and could almost pretend like the car noise from the street was running water or something.

  “Have a seat,” he said, indicating a square seating area with benches on three sides. We sat, Mark and I on one bench and Father Dunworthy on the bench perpendicular to ours. Mark was on the outside of me—like he was trying to force me to stay in this garden.

  “This isn’t very formal,” I said.

  “I’m not a very formal guy,” Dunworthy replied pleasantly. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?” He was looking at Mark. “What’s with this sudden change?”

  “It was just like you said,” Mark babbled. “He works in mysterious ways. I had Chris on my mind, and there he was. Like it was all supposed to be.” Mark grabbed my hand. “We met in that same park as the first time, so it was, like, fate. We were supposed to meet there.”

  Holy moley... What am I dealing with here? He works in mysterious ways, indeed!

  “I’m happy for you, Mark. And for you, too, Chris. I hope we will see you here in the future.”

  “He’s coming,” Mark assured Dunworthy. “What else does he have to do?”

  “Mark. I’m not... Episcopal.”

  “We’re not pressuring you,” Dunworthy said. “We believe that you can live Godly lives without being conscious of it. We all believe in Jesus Christ here, but Godliness is not limited to churchgoers, or even to those who profess a love of Jesus.”

  “Um...”

  “I told him all about you,” Mark explained cheerfully. “And about your big heart. And about how you get so passionate about things, and how you’re so much more moral than anyone else I’ve known. Other than, maybe, Dunworthy.” Mark nodded at the priest. “And I told Dunworthy that I wanted to live more like you, with an open and caring heart.”

  “You do have a caring heart,” I said.

  “But I wanted to be more like you,” Mark whispered near my ear. “I wanted to be better so if we ever... I mean, I never gave up on seeing you again. Not really.” He grabbed for my slippery hand.

  “Nobody should be like me,” I complained. “I want to make it so that people who grew up like me don’t become what I’ve become. I want them to be happy and healthy.”

  “You are—”

  “I was talking about my app. Sorry, I’m thinking about too many things right now.”

  “Are you overwhelmed?” Mark asked. “You were holding up nicely at the refreshments
bar.”

  “I was... but now my head is... all over the place.” I raised my hands and waved them in front of my face so that my gaze didn’t have to linger on the priest. “I don’t feel comfortable,” I whispered to Mark, feeling ashamed and not knowing why.

  “Okay.” He tapped my thigh. “We’re going to head out. Maybe we can schedule an appointment and have dinner with you?”

  “Of course,” Dunworthy said. “Come visit us for a meal. Karen loves to throw together a dinner.”

  “Who’s Karen?” I asked.

  “My wife.”

  I coughed once and had to slap my chest to regain my breath. “Your... wife?”

  “They’re allowed to marry,” Mark said. “And they’re allowed to be women and allowed to be gay.”

  Dunworthy nodded. “But it depends on the Bishop. You only get that in the liberal congregations. You wouldn’t go to Alabama and expect to find a gay priest.”

  I could not figure out how to talk to this man. I kept hoping he would act worldly and aloof, but Dunworthy was not that at all. If anything, he was trying to be too cool. Everyone has met an older guy that tries too hard to fit in with the younger crowd. I’m not saying Dunworthy was that—because he wasn’t. But that’s the closest vibe I got off him.

  Dunworthy walked us back through the church. We didn’t go through the pews like we had earlier. Instead, we stopped in the kitchen where there were two women drying dishes.

  The priest introduced me to his wife (and that was such a weird combination of words that it felt like I had been transported to a different reality). “This is Karen. She keeps this ship running.”