by Ella James
When he disappears again and returns, telling me he’s made arrangements to dock at the nearest port of call, I’m not surprised—or shouldn’t be. This is how it goes, right? Find someone who piques your interest, that’s the surest way to know they’ll be off-limits for one reason or the next.
In the light of day, dude wants us to act like strangers. I give it to him. We talk about sports as he fires up the yacht’s motors. On the way to the yacht club, he barely looks at me. I tell myself it’s whatever. This was a one-night stand. A pretty fucking good one, too.
We wait in line for half an hour at the port before he’s cleared to dock. We talk about our favorite artists, favorite bands; I file away his answers (Dali and David Hockney, the Beatles). Just before we get a dock slot, he looks me in the eye and gives me a small, tight smile. It hits me right between the pecs.
As he stands to help a deckhand with a rope, he looks over his shoulder. “Thanks.” The word is quiet. Maybe imagined.
We say goodbye with a firm handshake. Other people come and go around us. The sea breeze blows my hair back off my shoulders. For a second, he looks like he might reach out and touch it. Instead, he gives me that small smile again. He turns away without a word—and that’s that.
I wear his soft, expensive clothes on my short trip back to the Sierra. That must be why I feel different: rich guy threads. Sometime that night on the cruise ship, I realize I’ve still got his hook in me. The next day, I hardly climb out of the bed. I think of Lana, but more so, I think of him.
He turns out to be the last person I fuck on the trip. Three days later, I meet with my prospective mural client in George Town. She wants three murals—all on old brick buildings she’s converted into long-stay rentals—to be completed as soon as possible. When I decide to stay and do them right away, I tell myself it’s not because of him—some nameless fuck I spent one night with.
Each night, when I tuck into my rented room alone, I tell myself the same lie: hell is other people. Even men and women I could fuck. I need some time to myself. Especially after what went down with Lana.
It’s late May before I’m finished with the murals—abstract pieces incorporating imagery of waves, billowing sails, a curl of smoke, a man’s green eye. I stick around for the formal unveiling and do an interview with the local paper. Then I hop the last flight of the day from Grand Cayman to LaGuardia and pull a hat over my eyes to try to catch some Zs.
That’s when I hear it.
I hear him.
My body flares like a camera flash went off inside me. I sit straight up, glance around.
An elderly woman in the seat next to me flinches at my movement. I trace the sound of his voice to her iPad. I reach for it.
“Excuse me…” She draws it back, even as I try to get a glimpse of the screen.
“What is that? What’re you watching?”
She turns the screen to me, face crinkled in confusion, and there he is: my captain. He’s wearing a crisp button-up that’s somewhere between powder blue and indigo, a pair of sharp-looking dress pants, and a navy blazer. Behind her iPad’s “pause” button, his blond hair looks like spun gold. He looks fucking dapper on the stage.
“What is this?” I demand.
“It’s Sunday.”
“What?”
She sighs, shaking her head and clucking. “It’s church,” she says flatly, as if she’s not surprised I don’t know.
My head buzzes. Suddenly my mouth is very dry. “I don’t— What?”
“Evermore United.” That comes out definitive and proud, and also as if it’s self-explanatory.
“Who is that man?” I point to the screen.
“That’s Luke McDowell. Surely you’ve heard of him. Luke McDowell? Of Evermore?”
I shake my head, my gut doing a slow roll as she sighs again.
“Luke McDowell is the most famous pastor in America. He runs Evermore, in San Francisco. Evermore has tens of thousands of members. Two schools. Its own bank.”
“Luke McDowell?” I rasp.
I stand up, gripping the chair in front of me before I note the bathroom line and sit back down beside her.
“You should give it a try sometime,” she’s saying. “There are recorded sermons and podcasts. Even a Sirius radio channel. He’s got great words. I knew his father. All the McDowells went to Yale—Luke and his father, his grandfather.” She grins. “Isn’t he handsome?”
Part II
One
April 1998
Luke—Age 11
You know when your throat feels like a frog climbed in and curled into a little ball, and now it’s stuck? And your stomach feels like you’re on a roller coaster?
That’s how I feel as I follow Mrs. Lehman through the corridor, past closed doors that seem to squeal and giggle as the kids behind them do their Sunday school lessons. She leads me past the water fountains, past the meadow mural Mom’s friend painted, to the far-end stairwell—one that hardly anybody uses.
She’s wearing a pink dress that looks like Pepto-Bismol and some white high-heels. The heels clack-clack against the shiny stairs. I’ve got on my loafers, and they clop-clop-clop. The clops sound kind of rude and stupid. They hurt my ears, so I try to walk a little different, but I don’t know how, so it’s just loud and stupid.
I’m not sure I like Mrs. Lehman. She’s got a bird-chirpy voice that’s always chirping out instructions to us during fifth grade Sunday school. Every time she says something she thinks is important, she looks up from her clipboard with her eyebrows way up by her hair-sprayed fluffy bangs, like she’s waiting for someone to agree with her.
Especially me.
I don’t like to. No one likes a show off, and I’m already a show off even if I don’t want to be one.
Dad is famous. Lots of people know him, all over the world. He’s famous for his orating, and his charismatic TV presence. Mom says he’s even more magnetic than his dad, Grandfather McDowell. He had a heart attack when I was a baby and went to be with Jesus.
My friends’ dads get to be at home on weekends, but not dad. He works every day—all seven—and for him, the “day of rest” is the busiest. Every single Sunday, he gets up before the sun and drives over to Parkside, near the San Francisco zoo. Sometimes don’t see him face-to-face again until Monday.
Sometimes we come by here after I get out of school and see him in his office. But we never go up to the third floor pastoral wing on a Sunday.
Never.
That frog in my throat flexes his muscles. I do a loud cough to try to get him loose, so I can breathe.
Mrs. Lehman glances back at me before she opens the third-floor door.
“You’re not in trouble,” she says birdishly. But I know she’s lying. She looks like she just smelled something gross. “I just want to have a brief word with your father. Then I’ll let your mother take you.”
Something whooshes in between my ears, a crashing ocean wave that makes my heart feel like it’s beating in my eyes. What did I do?
But I know, don’t I? It was what happened with Sally and Simon. I don’t like either one of them. Twin brats, if you ask me.
“Come along,” Mrs. Lehman chirps.
I smell the smell of my dad’s office even from the far end of the hall. It’s a coffee smell. My dad drinks a lot of coffee.
Mrs. Lehman walks past the giant paintings—one a desert, one a garden—hanging on the left wall…past the wall of windows on the right. Then she turns back and sees I’m falling behind. Her pink lips pinch.
“Come on along.”
I know I need to, but my feet won’t move. I feel…like I’m going to throw up. I can feel it like some bad slime rising in me, trying to get out.
I nod. Her face goes weird and blurry as my eyes ache. “Okay.” It’s a whisper. I can’t breathe or talk because of the frog.
She leads me through the doors to dad’s wing and past the sitting area. Past the long, white marble counter where people are standing in small groups,
wearing headsets, holding clipboards. They all look spit-shined and ready to go. Some of them smile at us. Mrs. Lehman smiles and nods, but I can’t look at them.
We pass the fountain on the left, the small library on the right. Then we’re to the long wall with the artifacts in frames, some family photos scattered between those old, important things. There’s a gold door in the brown wall—the door to my dad’s office.
Mrs. Lehman stops in front of it and knocks twice.
I hear my father clear his throat. I swallow super hard, trying to get the frog out. No luck. My whole body seems to flicker, like I’m going into ghost mode. My face and chest feel weird and cold as the door slowly opens.
I suck air through my nose and let my hot eyes reach up till they find my dad’s brown ones.
“Son?” His eyebrows scrunch up as he looks from me to Mrs. Lehman.
“We had a— Something came up. I couldn’t find your wife.” She looks at me with her eyes narrowed, then back at my father, who already has TV makeup on and looks all ready for the cameras in his navy suit.
“May I speak to you in private for a moment?” she asks.
He frowns at me. “Certainly. Come on inside.”
He lifts one brow at me, telling me to stay put. They disappear inside, and my face feels like it’s on fire.
Rules are stupid. You don’t blindly follow rules. Sometimes you have to go with what feels right in your heart. You have to go against the grain. I know that. Dad has told me that for years now. Mrs. Lehman is just dumb. All of this…overreaction is just—
The door opens, and Mrs. Lehman starts to clack-clack-clack away with her blonde head down. Her eyes don’t lift to meet mine as she passes.
I feel sweat pop out on my back as my father’s gaze locks onto mine. “Come in, son. We’ve got just a minute. Let’s talk.”
That’s when he tells me.
It’s okay, he says. I shouldn’t feel upset or bad for saying boys can kiss boys and marry boys if they want to, for saying girls are gross and boys are cool. But I should never say that again. Because it’s not what people believe. Because of our viewers.
“The word of God’s not clear on this. But the people who support Evermore are. We should remember to treat every person with the love of Christ. But sometimes if we want to please the Lord and keep the church’s members content, we can’t go against the grain.” His mouth flattens and tugs down at the corners. He looks like he did when our dog Flappy got run over by Brian, the lawn man. “The Christian Church has traditionally been against these sorts of…unproductive unions. There is much wisdom to be found in tradition.”
I’m nodding as he speaks—as if to say I understand. I’ve got my molars locked together so my eyes don’t do the stinging thing.
Abruptly, Dad stands up. He looks me over with his eyebrows pinched. Then he steps around his desk and holds his hand out. I grab it, and he shakes mine—like we’re both full-grown men.
“You’re a good kid. The best. You’ve got the world in front of you.” His mouth bends like it wants to smile but doesn’t know how, like something somber posing as a smile. “You’re a McDowell, and you’re my boy.” Now he does smile—small and tight.
Then he lets go of my hand and looks down at his watch. “We can talk about this later. I’ll talk with your mother.” He winks. “And you’re right. Sally Smith isn’t a nice girl. But some are.” He claps my back and points me toward the door. “Go sit in the green room and eat peanuts. We’ll talk later.”
But we never do. He never mentions it again.
Two
September 2016
Luke
I stare at the raindrops, watch them shimmer on the window as the runway rolls behind them. Then I count them. Twenty-five. His age.
Underneath my shoe soles, the floor trembles.
“Getting ready for a smooth and easy liftoff, people. Shouldn’t be real bumpy—not till the third hour, when we’re moving over a little bit of something in Illinois. But I gotcha. Got the ole girl tuned up and we’re ready for a good five hours and some change. Check your buckles, kick your feet up, just don’t get up and go to the latrine. Give me ten or fifteen and it’s that time. Mr. Panjic and me, we’ll be checking in with you again in just a little bit.”
I hear a click of static as Shauna goes over and out. Then we’re turning slightly, the plane’s wheels bumping over the runway as Shauna angles the plane into a straight-shot and, too soon, we start to pick up speed.
I start reciting a mishmash of verses from Isaiah, Psalm, Proverbs, Luke, 2 Timothy, and 1 Peter. It’s a litany from my UNICEF days—around the time I started to hate flying.
I can say my mishmash on a loop nine times as we go from horizontal to nose-up and finally level.
I hate nothing more than liftoff, right after the wheels come off the runway and we wobble, tilting sharply upward. It’s better after we level off. Unless it’s turbulent. Which is why Shauna was warning me.
I crack a small smile as I think of her resume. She’s a third-gen pilot from a small town in Georgia, granddaughter of one of the Tuskegee Airmen. Did two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan, and was test-crashing planes for Boeing when I lured her into dullsville. I pay her salary out of my own pocket, and I pay her well.
Thank you God for Shauna.
I slide my phone out of my pocket, wake it up. I get a deep breath, and my assistant, Pearl says, “Check you out!”
Her freckled face is animated, her red brows arched sharply as she swivels the seat across from mine and sits, swinging her sandaled, purple-toenailed feet. “You look chilled out, PL. Maybe even sleepy?” She screws up her face, exaggeratedly inspecting me. I widen my own eyes in denial.
Ansley Stevens, our associate pastor, sinks into the chair beside mine, the leather squeaking slightly as she settles. She blinks at me, frowning. “Noticed we were out of espresso beans first thing this morning. Did you miss your cuppa?”
“Nah.” I blink, then shift my gaze to Rufus White, our lobbyist, who’s got his head back, putting drops in his eyes.
“This Lasik recovery is killing me.”
Sometimes I dream in chitchat—just an endless, murmured loop of it. Like me telling Rufus I’m sorry about his eyes and him telling me that they should be better any day now, and me saying I hope so, and Ansley making a joke about how Rufus seems to be parking in his spot at Evermore with the same success rate—which is, as we all know because we’ve joked about it many times, not very successful because he’s always got a tire in Ansley’s spot—and then we all laugh. I think small talk must be no less than a quarter of my job.
It does keep my attention for a few minutes, but eventually my mind returns to it—my secret. It’s like a weighted barb burrowing deeper. I’ve swallowed something fatal-sharp, but I like how it cuts me.
It’s a problem. I know that. But I can’t seem to stop myself. I don’t know why.
I do know why.
The small talk continues around me, and I try to push those thoughts aside—as if my co-workers can see them on my face. I tell myself they can’t. I’m an expert-level secret keeper, surely.
We’re doing dinner with two senators the second we’re wheels-down, and Rufus has a ten-page agenda for us to leaf through. Reviewing it in detail takes almost three hours, mostly because of Pearl. She’s new, and young—23; this is her second year with me—and she has lots of questions. Which I appreciate.
After we finish the packet, we take a brief break, and I head for the espresso machine.
“Don’t caffeinate, PL. I think you’re better off in zombieland. There’s less anxiety for you there.”
PL. Pearl calls me this—shorthand for Pastor Luke.
“Gotta get some eyelid tacks, PNW.”
Pearl is from Portland—the Pacific North West—and these little funnies get us through long days.
She steps over to me, bug-eyed and round-mouthed as she tugs at her skirt’s hem. “Is this okay, you think? What I’m wearing?”<
br />
“Absolutely not.” I give her a pointed scowl. “I thought you’d change before we land.”
Her eyes stretch so wide, they may fall between our feet and roll across the plane’s floor, and I can’t hold back a smirk.
She shakes her head, red pigtails bouncing on her shoulders. “You’re terrible.”
I lift a brow. “So I’m told.”
“Is it true Senator Campbell is a giant sexist? I read that.”
“It’s true I’ve been thinking about changing your job description.”
Her mouth opens. She shuts it. I can tell she’s trying to play cool—not that she can. She blinks rapidly when she asks, “Change it to what?”
I press my lips together, holding back a smile. “Pastoral adviser.”
“Are you kidding me?”
My lips twitch. “Do you think I am?”
She brings her palms together. “Really?!”
“Maybe.”
“Do you want advice?” She’s beaming.
“From you?” I make a face. “Not even a little bit.”
“Will I have different stuff to do?”
“Do you have a body double?”
“No.” She looks crestfallen.
“Clone?”
She shakes her head.
“In that case…my Eight Ball says unlikely. You will get a modest raise, though.”
“And the bragging rights at Christmas! Heck yeah!”
Pearl’s dad gives her crap about being an assistant. I figure “adviser” will get him off her back.
“Thank you, PL! You’re the bestest.”
She does a little jump, and moves in like maybe she wants to hug me. I’m not big on hugs, so I do the side-step thing and pat her back.
“You’re so awkward.” She giggles.
“Pot.”
“I know. I’m totally the pot, you’re the kettle.”
