by Ella James
"Uh, who are you?"
I'm worried she'll be offended by my tone, which is more tired than anything, but instead she gives me a cat-like grin and steps closer, her arm outstretched. "Anna Alamyth. I'm a writer. For Netflix."
I screw up my face, lifting an eyebrow to show her my skepticism, and she gives a tinkling laugh that's gotta be practiced. Nothing about it sounds natural at all. "Uh, well hi there." I shake her hand briefly, conscious of the dust and sweat on mine.
"You're as charming as they say." She says it like she's teasing. Like we know each other. Also, as if I'm not actually charming. Which is fine with me, I guess.
"Yeah. I'm sure that's what you've heard the most. Charming." I wanna roll my eyes. She just stands there, looking expectant. "So...what can I do for you?" I ask.
She steps slightly closer. "I want to do a Netflix special."
"What?"
She nods, widening her green eyes. "Not on just you. On your relationship. With Pastor McDowell. Luke," she says, in case I might have forgotten his name.
"Right."
She makes a funny, “get excited” sort of face, and I realize she's young. Maybe just out of college.
"How old are you?" I ask.
Her face falls. "I know. I look about nineteen. But I'm not." She brightens up. “I'm twenty-six."
"Ah. Got it." I wipe my hands on my pants. "Well, thanks for the offer. I'm not really the one that you should talk to, though."
"I figured."
She did?
"Pastor McDowell, right? He’s the one I need to talk to."
I can't help smirking for a second. "Yep. Pastor McDowell." Maybe I should try that in bed. Doesn't really sound right, though, and I’d worry being called “pastor” in that context might be sort of...triggering for Luke? Which fucking sucks.
"Do you think he'd go for it?" Her lips shift, so she looks slightly crestfallen. I can't decide if she's playing me or if she really does have the most expressive face ever.
"Um, hmm." I step back toward my marble. "I don't know."
"Would you go for it?"
"Me?" I say.
She laughs. "You're the only person in here."
"Right. Well...I'm not sure. Honestly. What would it entail?"
"I know this might sound intense, but trust me, it wouldn't really be. I want it to be like, documentary. Starting ideally yesterday, and going through...maybe the first six, nine months, or one year of your time...his time as an out, gay pastor here."
What makes her think he'll remain pastor here for nine more months? I'm not stupid enough to say that out loud.
"The focus," she continues, "would be on the two of you. How it impacts his experience as pastor."
"So like, gay pastor exposé."
"Well, no. I'm not exposing anything. You did that." She wiggles her brows, and my stomach does a quick flip. "Oh no.” She laughs softly. “You're like me. Your face." She gives me a knowing look, which, for some reason, pisses me off.
I move back behind the marble, patting it as I do. "I’m not made out of marble."
"No, you're not."
What the fuck does that mean?
"Could you talk to him about it?” she asks. “I'm staff with Netflix. I work for another show at this time. But I had this idea about the two of you. I couldn't quit thinking about it. About the two of you, and your love story. This could transform churches, you know. I'm from South Carolina, and there's churches everywhere down there. Everyone listens to the pastors. To have one as influential as Luke McDowell come out in a big way for gay rights is...game-changing. It could change a lot of lives. I want to see it. I want everyone to see what goes on behind the scenes. How it impacts you. And him. And everyone around you."
Okay, so this person is a lunatic.
"I mean, yeah. That's what I want.” I shrug. “Sharing my life with the world, even more so than we do already when he gets up there on Sundays. Right." I almost roll my eyes.
"You don't like what he does."
"No. I did not say that." I step back around the marble. "I didn’t say that. Do you understand?"
"Yeah." She takes a small step back, looking contrite, and I realize she's wearing small pearl earrings. Studs, I think they're called. That makes her seem even younger.
"I regret approaching you,” she tells me, frowning. “I shouldn't have come here. I'm sorry. I didn't think of it as an invasion of your privacy, because you're here..." She waves around the atrium. "But this is your turf. A place that must feel comfortable, or hopefully will one day." She sighs. Then she looks me in the eye, and I can see her swallow. "I'm going to tell you something, okay?"
I nod slowly, stuck on mute by something in her eyes.
"I'm...trans. I’m a trans man."
Maybe I frown—I don't know—but I must do something with my face, because hers loses some of its color. "I know I don't look it." Her jaw hardens. "But I am. And I like this. I like that there's...people like this...in charge of a church. Because one day, my family will probably know—about me. And they care what a pastor like your Luke says. I get why you wouldn't want to do it, though."
Tears gleam in her eyes before she quickly wipes them. "I just wanted you to understand," she whispers. I see her swallow. "I've never told…anyone."
I stare at her, trying to imagine this pretty girl as a pretty boy and trying not to let that show on my face. "You can trust me," I say.
She—well, he—jerks his chin downward. "Thank you. I don't normally blurt things out. Especially not this."
"I understand.” It’s me. People just…tell me things. “But it's okay. You know that, right? There's nothing wrong with that. Or bad about it.”
"I can see why he likes you," he whispers, and his voice sounds raspy.
I give him what I hope is a sympathetic face. Then I retreat back behind the marble, feeling like I've got the coldest, hardest partner at some kind of weird ballroom dance. "What's the terms like?” I ask. “Do you know? What if Luke wants his Evermore network to show it first or something?"
"They could probably do a preview. Or an early screening."
"Who would be in charge of it? You know, like the showrunner or whatever."
"Me."
I look at him. "You, a boy who likes boys?"
He grins, so big that it makes my chest feel like something inside is swelling. "Yes."
"So...what's that called? There’s a name for it. Own voice?"
He beams. "Yes. Well, sort of. I could do it sensitively. That’s the point I’m making."
I clasp my hands, steepling the fingers, giving him an arched-brows look. "Why don't I take a card. Luke and I can talk about it."
"Really?"
"Maybe." I give him a small smile. "I'll see what I can do."
"You're both household names now, anyway. I felt like this could maybe bring more understanding. And give Luke a chance to shape the narrative he wants. Something I bet he needs right now more than ever."
4
Vance
“If they told you that they wanted us to keep it quiet and not get married, all that good shit, you can tell me. You know that, right?” I ask Sky.
He shifts, nuzzling his head against my lap. We’re lying on the bed inside the hull of the boat that’s docked at his aunt’s house. We came here after grabbing takeout—my idea, because I felt like he needed an escape.
“Yeah.” It’s a quiet murmur.
I run my hand through his hair.
This was what I was worried would happen. He’s been so damn nervous about going back to work—and other people clearly shared my fear that it would be tough, because when Pearl brought lunch down to me, she said his mom had called shortly before to see how things were going.
“We’re going to get married, V.” He shifts so he’s looking up at me. His eyes are sleepy and his smile is small, but he looks okay. “You’re getting on the good insurance and you’re getting on the deeds.”
“The what?” I laugh.
<
br /> “The deeds to our houses.”
“Our houses.” I snort, and he walks his fingers up my arm. “Yes,” he says. “Our houses. You can pick one if you want to. It can just be yours.”
I can’t help another laugh, because it’s so insane. “Why would I want a house without you in it?”
“I can visit with you.”
I swallow, trying to keep my voice steady. “Why, though, Sky? Why would I need my own place?” I cup his face with my hand, which is sore from working with the grinder all day. When he doesn’t answer, I force a smile despite my tight throat.
“It’s insurance, isn’t it?” I say. “You’re offering me insurance. And why would you do that? When do people need insurance?” His eyes hold mine, and I see the sadness in them. “In case it doesn’t work out,” I say. “That’s the reason you need insurance.”
Tell me that we’re gonna work out. Please, Sky.
He sits up and wraps both arms around me, guiding my forehead to his shoulder. “We’re gonna work out, Rayne babe. You’ll be lucky if you get by without me making you Mr. McDowell.”
I can’t help a grin as I lean back to look up at him. “You want me to take your name?”
He cups the back of my head. “I want you to take my everything, Rayne. And the house is not insurance.” Something flickers through his features, and when he speaks again, his voice has dropped an octave. “It’s if something happens to me.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
He bites on the inside of his cheek, pressing his lips together. He doesn’t have to say it out loud. After blowing out a long breath, though, he does.
“When my dad died, Mom had some trouble getting to their money. Because it was all in his name. Even when she went to sell stuff, it was hard because a lot of it was in his name."
Now it's my turn to reassure him. I frame his face with my hands, and I bring his cheek against mine, closing my eyes to the ray of sunshine seeping through the boat’s small, round window. "You're not gonna die, Sky. If you did, though? The last thing I fucking want is a house. At least one that's not in the clouds."
When he draws away so he can look at my face, I'm surprised to see his eyes welling. "It's messed up," he laughs, "how that makes me a little happy."
"Sadist," I tease, smoothing back his soft hair.
"I guess I didn't really think you would get to be mine." He sounds hoarse; I’m surprised when a single tear spills down his cheek. Then he hugs me hard against him. "Do you remember that time after you got out of the hospital, and I said you might end up a widower or something like that?"
"How could I forget?" I brush my lips over his stubbly jaw. "I remember I said hell yeah, preacher. I would love to be your widower. And I still would. You know that, yeah McD? I would want to be your husband even if the world was ending next week."
His head comes down to my shoulder. I can feel him breathing deeply, and it makes my chest ache for him. "I want to be married.” It’s a whisper. “I want to be wearing my ring,” he says.
He sounds so torn up about it. I give his nape a light squeeze. "I know you do."
"I'm not gonna keep this in the closet, Vance, I swear I'm not."
My hand rubs his back—an automatic motion—and I feel him relax against me. "I know you're not, Luke. I’m not worried." Liar.
"I'm still afraid that you won't want this. When you...see what it's like." He sucks back a big breath.
"You know how much I care if someone calls me the f-word or any other bigot shit?"
He kisses my jaw, and I cup his face with my palm. "Zero. I care fucking zero. Actually that's not true. I care for you. I don't want you to hear that. I'm from Brooklyn, Sky babe. I don't give a shit what anybody says."
"If this turns out to be the wrong thing—"
I cut in, because I know exactly where he’s going. "If it's the wrong thing for us, we'll decide when we know. But I don't think it's gonna be. I think all this stuff with the church is going to be just fine. It'll take some time to settle out, that's all."
He nods, and I can tell there's more he wants to tell me.
"C'mon, dude." I squeeze his shoulder, and then shift so I can pull him into my arms. "Spill the tea. Gimme the goods. What went down? What was your day like? You know I can't stand the too-close-to-your-vest shit. Let me share the burden, buddy."
He laughs softly. "I still love it when you call me that."
"Yeah?" I rub his arm and pull him closer.
"I thought it was kind of weird at first. But it's so Vance. I fucking love it."
"Maybe I should switch to hubby."
"Can you change to that now?" His red-rimmed eyes look so damn happy.
I kiss his lips. "Of course I can."
"Would you wear your ring tomorrow?" he asks.
"Sure will. Only if you're positive you’re ready, though."
"I’ll wear mine, too. It won't make the news yet, not till we go by the courthouse. But I can't go in there another day without it. It feels...wrong. Dishonest.” His eyes widen. “Let's go to the courthouse tomorrow.”
"I'm not in a hurry, McD. I've got for-fucking-ever. Also, you never did answer my question. About your day."
He shuts his eyes. "I know."
He tucks up against me, and I hold him while I wait for him to unwind. Finally, when he's resting heavy against me and I'm stroking his back, he says, "It was kind of awful."
My heart squeezes.
"Five phone calls. Mostly from people I'm on close terms with. You know, ones that have my cell phone number."
"Shit," I murmur.
"It was all sorts of stuff. People saying we should wait till later to be more 'out.' Saying we should take it slow and not go out to dinner and get photographed. Someone saying I should preach more on it first, so people can get used to it...so they'll go along. Like it's some P.R. stunt or something that I'm selling. And the worst thing is...” He exhales loudly. “They're right. Some of my job is P.R. Part of what I do is take this long, old, not always accessible text and break it down and make it feel immediate. And relevant. To other people. It's not a lie, and it's not staged, but there's some presentation involved."
I love how impassioned he looks when he talks about his work. Even when he feels like shit, he likes to talk about his work, and that's the way I know how much it matters—that this works out. It's not the same for him as it is for me. I can work anywhere as long as I've got my materials. But he needs this place—this institution, I guess it is—and he needs the people in the audience. He needs all of this to stay the same, or as close to the same as it can be, for him to still be fulfilled. For him to not feel like he’s losing something. Even though he's not about showbiz or fame, I think to lose a lot of audience would feel like failure, like regression; he's said so, in different words.
"I know there is,” I reply. “How do you feel about that...about what they said?"
He sucks in a breath, then lets it slowly out. "I don't know. It's all about perception, and I hate that, Rayne. I hate that I think they're sort of right. If people think I've changed a bunch...if they think I've turned so ‘liberal’ or I’m ‘going crazy with the rainbow flags' or really anything that scares them, makes them doubt that they know who I really am...then it's almost like a relationship breakdown. Where someone loses trust. So what I need to do is help them see that they still know me. I do need to do some sermons on it. Like this Sunday...some. Not the whole thing, but a little chunk of it, at least a reference or two to this issue. And the next Sunday. Honestly I have one idea...but it's—" He sighs. "It's scary to think about."
"What is it?" I ask. “The idea.”
"I've been wondering if I should do a...kind of like an open Q&A. Just get up there like on a Sunday—but it could never be a Sunday—" He shakes his head.
I know why, at this point. It's because the Sundays are more sacred. They have more of an agenda, and that agenda is set based on the Bible.
"But I don't know, like maybe a
Tuesday or a Wednesday evening. I could curate questions. We do that sometimes, to some degree. Not always. I try to be sure it's organic, like I told you before. But sometimes if it's something dicey, we'll curate a little bit, and have a couple people raising hands that I can call on if things are going sideways...just to stop sideways momentum on air."
I nod.
"So maybe we could have a lot of curated questions waiting. But I could take some real ones, too. Or...I don't know...maybe—” He shakes his head. “These details are boring. I'm sorry."
"It's not boring. I like knowing how you do what you do. This is interesting to me. I'm an outsider. 'Unchurched.'"
He smiles, almost slyly.
"I've been reading there's some people who won't do this,” I say.
"Do what?" He's still sort of smirking.
"You know...jump into bed with a heathen like me."
I watch his careful face, absolutely loving how much thought he puts into this sort of thing. It's care and kindness. Conscientiousness. He can be stubborn at times, and he’s damned skittish, but he's a good guy with a good heart.
"Everybody has their own idea...in terms of how...rigid they are,” he offers. “About things like that."
I ignore the obvious crack about how rigid he is and try to stick to the topic. "But you're not just anybody. You’re the king of them all."
He laughs, eyes wide and his head back. "Now that—" He taps me on the jaw. "That's sacrilege, Rayne baby. Can't be saying that stuff."
"Oh, right. Because God and Jesus are the king. Or…king and prince? Am I right?" I wiggle my brows, and he lies back against a pillow on the boat bed, looking truly relaxed for the first time since we left the church.
"That's right, Rayne babe. God and Jesus are the king. Well..." His face twists, and I laugh at how perplexed he looks.
"Dumb it down, McD. Like I’m in kindergarten."
"I'm not the king. That's the dumbed down." He grins, looking amused. "I'm the messenger. At best."
"Because you're flawed, right? Isn't that the way it goes?"
"I don't think you heard that from me." He gives me an o-lipped look.
Now it's my turn to give him a cheeky grin. "You imply that. I've been listening to you even more than I used to back when I was your stalker. On YouTube."
