by Lisa Henry
Chapter Eight
Maybe Jason was finally learning to pray.
He didn’t want to think about the embrace he and Nate had shared at the coffee shop, didn’t want to remember how Nate’s body felt against his. Didn’t want to reflect on Nate’s obvious need—lust, sure, but something beyond that. So he asked some invisible force for strength. Not God—never God. But the universe, maybe? Himself?
He begged for the power to turn his thoughts to something else. He repeated, like a mantra, that it was time to forget the past, move—no fucking way was he going to say “forward”—on. But he only succeeded in making himself wonder if this was how Nate felt every day. Trying to banish thoughts that wanted to be there. Castigating himself when he couldn’t.
What surprised Jason most was the fear he felt. A cold, heavy dread that sat with him for a fair portion of each day. Rose had asked him before he’d left for Afghanistan if he was afraid. He’d said no. He’d even believed it. Because he’d thought she’d meant afraid of dying. And maybe everyone in a warzone was afraid of that on some level, but most people Jason met acted like that was an abstract threat. Jason had figured he was more afraid of living a trapped, isolated existence than of dying doing something he loved.
Borenz, a soldier Jason had hung out with, spent most of his free time emailing recipes to his girlfriend. She had a recently-diagnosed thyroid problem and wanted help modifying her diet. Since Borenz knew a lot about food, he wanted to help her. He didn’t just send recipes, either. Reminders, encouragements. Baby I know how much you love chicken, but that shit’s full of hormones that are gonna make your thyroid go bitchcakes. Try some saltwater fish.
One night, Borenz had confessed to Jason that he was scared if he didn’t make it home, his girlfriend would go back to eating junk that messed up her system. Not scared he’d get blown apart, not scared of pain. Just scared he wouldn’t be able to remind Julia to eat fish.
Jason wasn’t scared of ending up like his parents. He was just fucking scared of being trapped. He thought at first that’s where the feeling in his gut was coming from—
he was back in Pinehurst, he was going nowhere, and he couldn’t even land a shitty job at the one-hour photo place. “Regretfully”, the manager had signed the email, and Jason called bullshit on that. “Gleefully”, probably. He was Jason Banning. People hated him in this town. He hated himself.
But then he realized the feeling came from thinking about Nate.
The morning after they’d slept together, Jason had driven Nathan to the student center to wait for his ride home. Nathan had been shy again, awkward. Jason had been frustrated and restless, unsure if he was disgusted by Nathan’s inability to make eye contact or charmed by it. They’d wished each other good luck. Jason had gone back to his apartment and typed furiously for six hours straight. The words had come easily. Every time he referenced Reverend Tull or the camp, he saw Nathan gazing up at him.
“Thank you.”
Impossible not to get high on that kind of power. The power to do good.
He’d thought his ideals would always be what mattered most to him. He’d thought changing the world sounded grander than changing somebody’s situation. Nathan had texted him when Jason was a sentence away from finishing the article.
You make me feel like I can do anything.
What a cheesy thing to say to somebody you didn’t even know, but Jason had drunk it in. He could inspire people. He could, with his words, his ideas, his passion, move others to take action. It had already worked with Nathan.
In retrospect, he’d had a choice in that moment. He could have let it be enough that he’d inspired Nate. He could have closed out his article and never opened the doc again, and the next weekend, he could have driven to Pinehurst and taken Nate out on a real date. Driven him to the lookout point and fucked him in the backseat of his car. He could have spent every day of the last four years making Nathan Tull happy any way he could.
Instead he’d texted back another Good luck and had started pulling stills from the video and cropping them.
The need Jason had felt in Nate in the coffee shop was familiar—it was Nate asking to be saved. It was Nate, who claimed to be at peace, cornered with nowhere else to turn. Jason of all people knew phrases like I’m at peace or I’m not afraid for the lies they were.
I am afraid, he told himself now. Afraid there was a way to redeem himself. A way to be a happier man. But it meant he’d have to do what he’d failed to do four years ago. It meant he’d have to leave behind his bitterness, his arrogance, his self-pity. And put his whole heart into doing good.
As soon as he could figure out what that was.
Nate couldn’t sleep. He lay in bed for hours and finally got up and went downstairs, only to find his mother in the kitchen, finishing a beer. There was already an empty bottle on the table. For a second he was too shocked to say anything. He was shaking. His face felt heavy, his eyes bald and aching, his skin feverish, itchy.
They stared at each other, his mom’s calm expression masking a defensiveness that Nate understood too well. “I won’t tell,” Nate said immediately. “I won’t tell, but I have to go out. I’ll be back in the morning to help, but right now I need to—to be alone. Don’t tell him that. Please?”
She nodded slowly. “What’s wrong?” Not a trace of anything cutting in her voice. He didn’t answer, and she said, “Oh.” A single, soft word, like she knew.
“I’m fine, really. It’s just, there’s a lot of noise in my head and I feel like maybe if I go out for a little while, I’ll be able to hear Him more clearly.”
“You don’t have to explain.” She glanced at the beer bottle. Tilted it. “And I’m not trying to hide this from your father. ‘Be a sinner and sin boldly,’ as Mr. Luther once said.”
With a jolt, Nate remembered that Martin Luther had quite a lot to say on the subject of sinning freely.
“Your sin cannot cast you into hell.”
“Sometimes we must drink more, sport, recreate ourselves, and even sin a little to spite the devil, so that we leave him no place for troubling our consciences with trifles.”
What Nate wanted to do with Jason went well beyond sinning a little.
And it was surely no trifle.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. Something was tearing at his brain, trying to get out. He headed for the back door.
“Nate?”
He turned reluctantly. She didn’t speak for a moment. Just looked at him. “I want you to be happy,” she said softly.
Fuck that. He wouldn’t be. Couldn’t be.
He walked past her and out the door.
Drove to the lookout point and lost track of time there. Listened to the breeze in the leaves of the oaks. Watched the white pines tremble and dark shapes fly across the canyon. And hoped, so hard it turned to prayer—Nate kneeling in the grass, stomach aching, head and heart pounding—that Jason would come here and find him. That tonight they were two sleepless souls that could heal each other.
When Jason didn’t show up, Nate had sense enough to be relieved. Phantoms had overrun his mind, stolen his body. He was sick, very sick, and he knew that. He just didn’t know how to fix it.
He went to the lookout point every night that week. Sometimes he felt peaceful, like he was awaiting a message from God. Other times he felt frantic, physically ill. Burning with fever. On those nights, he let himself get swept up in fantasy. Let shame feast on him, and used it like a drug. Images of Jason finding him, fucking him, wanting him. Looking at Nate’s body and grinning appreciatively, wicked as the Devil himself.
One night, after waiting by the cliff’s edge for two hours, guilt was pulsing in him so hard that he couldn’t balance enough to stand. He thought about what a relief it would be to pull himself to the very edge and simply slide over. Let himself fall.
He couldn’t remember what he’d done at the camp today. Who he’d talked to, whether Emily had played guitar. He could barely remember what his fat
her’s face looked like. He knew he was sick for real, not just spiritually sick. The amount he was sweating, the pain in his body, none of it was normal. He tried to let himself cry, but no tears came. He tried to throw up, but he ended up dry heaving.
He started to crawl back toward his car, but he only made it a few feet before he collapsed, grass tickling his face. The night noises—cicadas, the soft hush of trees—sounded mocking. He laughed and closed his eyes, listening.
Listening.
Why the fuck didn’t he hear anything useful? Why was the whole world either senseless noise or awful silence, and hardly anything in between?
Where. The fuck. Was God?
He made it to the spot by the guardrail where he’d parked. Squinted in the darkness, because he thought he was imagining things.
There was another car parked beside his, a figure sitting on the hood, staring at the sky. When the figure looked over and spotted Nate, it slid off the car and stood. “Nate?”
Nate laughed again, his breath moving the grass. Either it was a miracle, or Nate had made some accidental pact with Satan. Or there really was a connection between his soul and Jason Banning’s, and somehow Nate had called Jason here.
“What’s wrong?” Jason hurried over. “Shit, Nate, what’s wrong?”
Nate didn’t think this was a fever dream. “I’m sick,” he tried to explain to Jason.
Sick, ruined. No use to anyone. Hypocrite, liar, a fucking weakling. I don’t know how to fight. I’m already on the ground. His teeth chattered.
“Are you hurt?” Jason demanded, kneeling beside him. “What the hell happened?”
Nate stared up at him. “You win,” he whispered. “I’m not a happy man.” Satisfied? “I’m not any fucking kind of a man.”
“Listen,” Jason said sharply. “Are you hurt?”
Nate shook his head.
“Then come here.”
Jason pulled him up so they were both kneeling.
“Come here,” Jason repeated.
Nate let Jason bring him closer.
“You’re burning up.”
Nate choked on a laugh. Gonna burn forever.
“Shit. You need to go to the hospital.”
“No.” No no no. Nate tried to pull free, but Jason held him by the shoulders. “Just let me...”
“Let you what?”
“Just let me die.”
“Oh, c’mon, Nate.”
“Haven’t sinned again,” Nate whispered, his throat aching. He blinked, but couldn’t see Jason properly. The world was grayed out. “In my heart, I have. Same thing. Same thing. I should die now, because I’m not going to get any cleaner.”
“Stop.” One syllable, but Jason’s voice broke on it. “Can you stand? You need to get in my car. Please.”
“Wanna stay here.” The grass was cool, and Jason was here, and in this moment he was safe, but there was hellfire coming for him. If he moved, it would burn him.
“Please. I can’t lift you on my own.”
Please.
“Oh. Your leg.” Too many scars. Everyone had too many. And Nate’s was tiny, but sometimes he felt like it was big enough to wrap around his neck and choke him. He rubbed his wrist anxiously, checking it hadn’t moved, hadn’t grown monstrous and slithered up his skin like a serpent. “I just wanna…sleep. Please?”
He pitched forward, and would have hit the grass except Jason caught him.
Nate was skinny, but it still took all of Jason’s strength to get him to his car. He wasn’t even sure how he did it. Like those people who suddenly lifted cars when their loved ones were trapped under them. Adrenaline or something. Or a miracle.
Probably adrenaline.
A miracle would have been nicer about it, surely, and kept his leg from hurting like a motherfucker on the drive to the hospital.
Nate was awake again by the time they pulled into the parking lot, mumbling to himself from the back seat. Jason didn’t think he could manage the short walk to the doors of the ER so he leaned on the horn instead until an orderly came running.
“He’s got a fever, I think,” Jason said. “He passed out, a while back, for a few minutes.”
A second orderly pushed a wheelchair out.
“Jason?” Nate called from the back seat.
“It’s okay. You go with these guys, alright?”
“Are you coming with me?”
The fear in his voice almost undid Jason. “If you want.”
The orderlies got Nate into the chair and pushed him into the hospital. Jason followed, his leg fucking killing him. Shit. He could use a wheelchair himself.
And half the hospital’s drug supply.
Grimacing, he followed Nate and the orderlies inside.
Nate blinked. The room was white, mostly, apart from the flickering screen in the corner. A television.
“Nate?”
“Jason?” He turned his head and blinked again to clear his vision. “What’s going on?”
“You’re in the hospital,” Jason told him. He was sitting in a chair beside the bed, his leg propped up on a second chair and his phone resting on his thigh. There were dark shadows under his eyes. His jaw was stubbled, and Nate wanted to touch it. Wanted to feel the rasp of it under the pads of his fingers, his lips. “They thought it was meningitis, but now they’re saying it’s just an ear infection.”
His ear didn’t even hurt. “What’s this tube for?” It was sticking out the back of his hand. It itched. Stung a little when he made a fist.
“Antibiotics, I think.”
Nate furrowed his forehead, staring at the tube, then at the television, and then at Jason. “What happened?”
“I found you at the lookout. You don’t remember?”
“Not really.” He hesitated. He’d had a weird dream about hellfire and serpents. Jason had been there. But surely it hadn’t been real. “Maybe. Kind of. I was sick?”
It should have been an incredible relief. A way to bundle all his fears and darkest secrets into a lock box in the back of his mind, turn the key and wash his hands of them. None of it counted, because he was sick. But it had run deeper than that. It had been spiritual. No antibiotics drip-drip-dripping into the cannula in his hand could cure him.
“Yeah, you were sick.” Jason’s smile was thin and unhappy. He lifted his leg down off the chair and shifted closer to Nate’s bed.
Nate stared at the back of his hand. He remembered learning in school when he was about eight or nine that you could kill someone by injecting an air bubble into their drip. Or maybe he’d seen it on TV. The knowledge had terrified him. He’d run and asked his dad if it was true, and his dad had said yes. Nate had burned with betrayal. What kind of God would make him so flawed, so ridiculously frail that one tiny misplaced bubble of air could kill him? Then he’d wondered, if people were made in God’s image, if it was just as simple to kill God. Pop. Burst Him like a bubble.
Jason reached out and took his hand. His palms were warm. Nate’s were cold. Jason turned his hand over and looked at his wrist. Under the lights, his scar was faint but unmistakable. “This is new.”
“No.” Nate’s voice was faint. “That’s four years old.”
Jason’s face seemed to crumble. He leaned forward, still holding Nate’s hand, and pressed his forehead to Nate’s fingers. His shoulders shook.
“Hey.” Nate sat up. He put his free hand on the back of Jason’s head. The tube from the drip snaked across the blue hospital blanket. Jason’s hair was longer than he remembered. Still short, but grown out enough that there was the beginning of a curl to it. Nate combed his fingers through it, sighing. “What I did, that’s on me. Not you.”
The attempt had been real, but he’d made a mess of it. He’d cut across, not down. And it had hurt so much that he’d cried out and his dad had come running. He hadn’t been in any real danger. He hadn’t even lost enough blood to pass out.
Afterward, although he never told anyone, it had seemed fitting that he carried a scar. Some
thing to remind him of his sins at a glance.
“I ruined your life.” Jason’s voice was muffled by the blanket.
“You didn’t.” Nate rubbed his thumb against the hair at his nape. Long enough that the curls made a little duck’s tail. “All the dominoes were already lined up ready to fall.”
“And I pushed,” Jason said, lifting his head. His eyes were red.
“I jumped.” Nate pressed his cold palm to the side of Jason’s face. The blood roared in his skull. His heart raced.
“You could have ruined me,” Jason whispered. “But you didn’t.”
Nate’s hand shook against Jason’s cheek. He was seized by a recklessness he hadn’t felt in years. “What if there was no tomorrow?”
“What?”
“No tomorrow. What if anything could happen and it didn’t matter? If there was nobody to disappoint?”
Jason shook his head slightly.
“Come here,” Nate said. He shifted his hand, curling his fingers behind Jason’s neck. “Come up here, please.”
Jason stood, then he was leaning with his good knee braced against the side of the bed, bending over him. “Bad idea. Really bad idea.”
“I want you.” Nate fought to keep his eyes open as Jason leaned closer. He didn’t want to miss a second. “God help me. I just… I want you.”
Jason’s lips crushed against his, and it was better than he remembered. Better than he’d ever known. Sparks flared inside him, popping like bubbles. Like a thousand gods blinking out of existence. He was dizzy with arousal. He opened his mouth, let Jason’s tongue inside, and the shock of it touching his own reverberated through him. He moaned, twisting his hands in Jason’s hair. Pulling him closer.
Not letting him go. Not tonight.
Maybe he had died up at the lookout. Maybe he’d shed his skin. Maybe he was a new version of himself. He’d thought that before, hadn’t he? Last time.
This time was different.
They were both different, even as they tumbled into the same traps all over again.
