by Ella James
I swallow hard and try to organize my racing thoughts.
“Now I gave them something they could use to combine with the other data they have on me. They could hate me so well. To the core, Vance. Anyone with basic cable or the internet can hate me so effectively. Because they know me…superficially. They feel they know me well. I let them have all these details, to humanize myself. And the real kicker,” I rasp, “is that no one ever loved me. Till I met you.” I force myself to say it out loud, even though it sounds pathetic. Even though my voice is shaky. “No one ever really loved me, because no one ever knew me.”
My eyes well, and Rayne turns onto a side street that leads to our neighborhood playground. He pulls onto the shoulder, parks under some tall trees, and turns to me, taking my hand between both of his.
“Let me tell you something. You trust me, McD?”
I nod as a tear slips down my cheek. I look down, and Rayne nuzzles my jaw with his cheek. “Look at me, Sky. Please. So it’ll sink in.”
I nod slowly…and then I do. Rayne looks adamant and…sure…about whatever this is.
“If people had known you?” he says. “Good people, who had the heart and open-mindedness and freethinking-ness to see you with clarity?” His eyes widen. “They would have loved you.” He swallows, and I’m pretty sure his eyes are glittering in the morning sunlight. “I know that for fucking sure. You would have been the favorite. Like you were. You would have still been. People would have thought you were a good egg. They would have still thought that.
“If you had had a tribe,” he says, “they would have maybe valued you even more, because we queer dudes are more rare.” His lips twitch. “We have power and perspective other people don’t—not because they’re not as good or some shit—but because that’s not their angle. Clear-eyed people would have seen a smart, kind, incredible, gifted kid who was even better for being gay. Someone who could grow up to be a leader, a stand out. In the best damn ways.”
I’m about to break down, and Rayne pulls me up against him, wrapping an arm around my head so my face is down against his shoulder.
I hate crying. I try not to do it until I can’t stop myself. But Vance’s hand is stroking the back of my hair. His lips are brushing over my temple. His other arm is locked around my back.
“You know what I think is happening right now?” he whispers. “With all the good people that have a big heart?” His hand traces up and down my spine as I shake my head. “People are thinking, ‘Damn, that’s a big secret.’ People who can do the empathy thing feel empathy for you. They want you to be okay. And me, too. All the good guys are rooting for us both, Sky. So now the game is seeing if we can hang in here while the dust settles. Or if it’s too much,” he says in a voice that’s careful.
Tears drip from my chin onto his shoulder.
“And if it’s too much, I know it won’t be what you were hoping. But we’ll redo our happy ending. Set it someplace else.” I feel him take a big breath, and he hugs me tighter. “All I want is to be the one to hold you. I don’t care where we wind up. Where you go, I go.”
Vance
I could tell he was getting emotional when I was talking about learning love from other people. Something about his face changed—his features going too still, as if moving even an eyebrow or his mouth might make him cry.
I haven’t seen Sky break down a lot of times. Mostly when I was in the hospital, or he was. His eyes get red sometimes when he worries about something happening to me. Another hate crime sort of thing. But he doesn’t really lose his grip on himself. For a while, I thought he should—so much so that I almost wanted to prod him to just cry it all out—but now he’s holding onto me so tight it hurts, and there’s a weight in my stomach like I swallowed a rock. I realize I hate this. I can’t stand to see him in pain.
“Thank you,” he says hoarsely.
He presses his forehead into the nook between my neck and shoulder, and I rub a circle on his hard back.
“You know what I think?” He shakes his head, his damp face rocking against my shoulder. “I think everything’s going to bother you a lot for a while. Every new thing that happens with you being out, and with the church. Eventually, though, it’s gonna all die down.” Shit; maybe ‘die’ wasn’t the right word. “Settle down,” I amend, and he’s smiling crooked as he lifts his head off of me.
Fuck, his eyes are red and puffy. I pull him back against me, kissing his hair. I don’t want to let him go, especially not now that he’s hugging me, too.
“I love you, Vance Rayne.” He meets my mouth for a gentle, salty kiss that deepens into something more urgent. When we pull back to catch our breath, he frames my face with his hands. He doesn’t say anything. He just looks so fucking sad and desperate.
I kiss his cheek, and then his jaw. I look into his eyes and try my best to say the best things I can think of.
“This shit is hard, Sky. Hard for anybody. It’s okay that it’s tough.” I kiss his hairline, loving how he smells. That fucking cologne. And him. “Might be rocky for a while, but it’ll end out okay. And I’ll be with you.”
I feel him inhale deeply. Then he murmurs a hoarse word that makes my heart squeeze. “Promise?”
Shit. “Forever. You and me. No matter what, okay?”
He nods, holding me tight for a long moment.
When he sits back in his seat, his eyes are still tugging at mine like he wants something from me. Needs something. I grab his left hand with my right. We twine our fingers together. He leans his head against his head rest, shuts his eyes, and I start driving toward the house.
“I’ve never loved anybody but you. You know that?” I ask. “Never even felt a tenth of what I feel for you for anybody else. Never even knew I could.” I stroke the top of his hand, hating that he seems so spent, so heavy. “You’re it for me, McDowell.”
“You’re it for me,” he says thickly.
Fuck, I want to shelter him from all of this shit. I want to seep inside him, take away his pain, and make him feel so fucking good he never thinks of being sad again. I’m feeling fucked up that I can’t.
C’mon, God. This one’s your star player. Help a brother out, dude. Dudette. I don’t know your gender. Just help us.
We roll by the neighbors’ driveway. I see blue lights through the trees, and my heart tumbles.
What the FUCK?
Luke’s eyes open, and I see his face go slack with shock.
I squeeze his hand. “We got this, McD. Whatever it is.”
The driveway isn’t blocked off. We roll through the gates and my heart starts to beat so hard I feel sick. We’re approaching the first of the police cars, parked to the right of the drive, when I realize we both had our phones on do not disturb last night. I’m frowning at the scene in front of me when Sky murmurs, “Oh.”
“What is it?”
“Look ahead of us,” he whispers thinly.
His hand releases mine. I focus on the driveway, and it jumps out.
Someone drew…flames. And spray painted BURN IN HELL. Followed by a word I don’t like to say inside my own head. So I don’t. I blink at it.
Sky is out of the car before I can say anything. I watch him for a long time, the set of his shoulders as he speaks with the officer, a short man who nods a lot and, later, claps Sky on the shoulder.
When he sinks back into the car, his lips are pressed into a firm line. “The police are going to leave. They were in the house already. No one’s hurt and nothing’s out of order. Steven picked up a stomach bug from his kid, so he didn’t notice someone breech the fence at the side till it was too late.” Sky gestures to our right. “The guys already booked in jail. Happened almost two hours ago. They’re almost done processing the scene. We can have it scrubbed by mid-morning.”
His jaw tightens. I can’t help but notice his eyes never come to mine. I roll into the garage slowly, waiting for…I don’t know what. As soon as the car is parked, Sky is out, scaling the stairs in one giant step and pressi
ng his finger to the print reader beside the door. He holds it open for me, but after that, he’s walking by himself toward the bedroom.
He barely speaks to me as he dresses quickly in a navy suit and pale pink dress shirt. He sits on a stool to pull his socks on, and our eyes catch, but it’s almost an accident. He gives me a strained smile.
“I love you,” I offer.
“Love you too.”
But he barely speaks as we drive to work twenty minutes later. He says he’ll see me at lunch time but doesn’t.
He texts about an hour after, saying I love you. He doesn’t offer a reason for missing lunch.
I flex my hands, which ache from working, and I wonder—does it matter that he loves me? It might matter now, but will it always? We’re not even really married. How do I know he won’t change his mind, that how he feels about himself won’t take a nose-dive when we catch more hate, or that he won’t panic about my safety? When it comes down to it…how do I know that he’ll stick with me? How do I feel…not fucking scared?
5
Vance
I know he loves me. Even if he didn't wear his ring this morning. Even if he ghosted me for lunch. I know his biggest fear is this not working out, and then he'll have to choose. And he'll pick me—I know he will—but at what cost?
I try to lose myself in sculpting. I'm in a different atrium today, which Sky was supposed to realize when he went to my usual place at lunch and found the note I left him. I got another slab of marble delivered on the sly, with help from Pearl, so I’m working on two things at once.
This piece is different, something that I almost find intimidating. It's a religious scene—the table at the Last Supper—but everything is somewhat smaller in proportion to the man himself, whose searching eyes and vulnerable, full-lipped mouth will dominate the perspective.
It's Jesus, obviously, but it's also—in my mind—Sky. The look around the room, the wondering which ones will stand with him and which ones won't. My throat feels tight as I work on shaping the stone. I'm still days—maybe a week, even, if I work more on the other piece—from the scene itself.
I work up a sweat, and then so much so that I need new clothes. I've got some stashed in a nearby bathroom. My throat feels tight again as I walk to it, thinking of the other times, the other bathrooms. How long will things be this way, a little voice asks. I tell that voice to shut the fuck up. I don't give a shit if it's like this. It's okay. I’ve got patience in spades.
I change in a stall and wash my sore hands with cold water. It's a strange reminder that my sculpting days are numbered. My mom and her mother had asthma—like me—but also, both of them had arthritis. Already, my hands ache sometimes. I always wonder when that shit is gonna get worse. How much money can I make before I quit?
I try to tell myself it doesn’t matter.
He’ll take care of you.
I'm toweling my hands, massaging my palms, when I hear footsteps. My heart skips a beat as someone steps in. It's not Sky. My head is pounding as I walk the hall toward the atrium. I should do what Sky told me to do before we came back to work: Go into the cafeteria, talk to people. Make friends. But it feels weird. If he wanted everyone to know me, he'd be taking me around.
He's scared. I get it.
Fuck, I hate it when I'm like this. There's no reason. I just feel like shit. It's like...I need him. My chest aches because I want to see him—not only at dinner time. And isn't that quaint? Like a fucking housewife.
I'm so pissed off, at myself, mostly, that I head toward the courtyard. Maybe I should take up smoking again. I lean against a tree and rub my hands where they're sore. And then a pair of strong arms wrap around my waist.
His chin is on my shoulder—he's behind me—and his arm is crisscrossing my chest, his strong palm cupping my shoulder.
"Hey, Rayne baby." He kisses my temple as his arm wraps me against him. He kisses my cheek, near my ear. "What's with the fast heartbeat, my buddy?"
I shrug, and he comes around in front of me, his arm still wrapped around me. He kisses my forehead, looks into my eyes. "Tell your husband what's the matter. Let me fix it."
I swallow. I'm surprised to find my throat feels tight and achy. "Sorta missed you. That’s all."
Dammit, he can read me like a book now. I can tell because his eyes flare with what I realize must be guilt, and his face bends in understanding. He steps closer to me, eliminating space between us, wrapping his strong arm around my shoulders.
"I'm so sorry. V. Forgive me…please."
His mouth takes mine, and we're kissing. My throat still aches, my eyes throb, and I know that he knows somehow, because he keeps pulling his mouth off mine to whisper, "I'm so sorry, Vanny. I love you."
His kisses are amazing. So damn sensual, consuming. Being kissed by Luke here in our courtyard actually gives me chills. Pretty soon I've stopped holding myself back. My hand is in his soft hair, playing at his shirt collar, sliding in and down his warm nape. I'm taking what's mine.
Finally, I pull away because I want to rub my cheek against his. I want to look at his face and see how his day is going.
"Hey." He smiles down at me, gorgeous as ever.
"Hey there yourself."
He kisses my lips gently as his hand cups the back of my head. "How's it going, my artist?"
Even as he says those words, his eyes are an apology.
"It's going fine." I give him a smile. "How about you, PL?" I say PL with a hint of teasing, since it's not my nickname for him.
He hugs me hard. "I missed you." His cheek is on my head and my hands are tracing the grooves of his muscular back. It feels damp. "You okay?" I stroke up toward his nape. "You had a long day?"
I feel him shrug, and he holds me more tightly. "I want to go home early, but I've got a meeting at 5:30. You wanna go without me, and I'll grab a car?"
"Nah. I'll just keep working till then.”
I feel him inhale against my neck. "You sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure." I rub his back. "You okay?"
He nods. I feel him inhale and stroke my fingers over his back. Tell me, Sky babe.
"Saw one of the membership rosters." He inhales again. He lifts his head, his eyes holding mine, so I can see how fucking sad he is. "But it's okay. This is stuff that happens. There's this...guy I know.” He swallows. “Two guys. They were in this study group I did. Anyway, I uh…had thought that maybe we could get together with them sometime."
He looks into my eyes, and I can see the question in his. But what is it? "Ohh, you're saying they're a couple."
I can see his nostrils flare on a breath before he nods.
"Guys you like?" I ask.
He nods.
I can’t help a big grin. "Yeah, let's do it. They're from the church?"
His face looks uncertain, but he nods again. "Just some people I know from here."
"Anything you want to do, I'm down for. I’d love to meet them."
His lips twitch. "Anything..."
But when he hugs me again, I can feel him take a deep breath. He doesn’t move and doesn’t speak. Like he’s got me locked against him and he’s holding on, as if I’m his life raft.
"What can I do for you, Sky babe? What would feel good?"
"I don't know.” His face is pressed against my neck. “I think I should do the Q&A next Wednesday. In the sanctuary."
"Yeah?" That sounds scary as shit.
He nods, and then lifts his head so I can see his drawn face. "Give them all a chance to...get things out of the way."
"What would they ask you?"
He laughs, even as his face looks somber. "Almost said let's take a walk, but..." He blows a breath out. And I realize what he means.
"Are you afraid to take a walk with me? Around here?”
He swallows, his lips twitching slightly before they tug downward, and I feel so fucking sorry for him.
"We can do it. You said there's a lot more security now, right? There's someone near my room all the time."
/> He smiles a little.
"We'll walk in the grass. Nobody's gonna do that again, Sky. Statistically improbable, remember?"
He shrugs, looking tired and strained.
"Your eyes look so damn tired. Go for a little walk with me.” I capture his hand. “You can tell me what you think people will ask. And what you want to say."
I’m not thinking—it’s just knee-jerk. Me wanting him to feel like we can be ourselves here, just be normal. Right as I’m second-guessing the idea, he nods and squeezes my hand, and then he leads me back into the church. We walk through it, passing a few people. Sky nods and smiles at each one of them. I can tell he's nervous.
"Maybe this is too much," I say when we step outside the front of the building. "Like maybe me being here is just too much right now. I can rent a studio. There's no reason I should be at the church."
He shakes his head once. When he speaks, his voice is soft and urgent. "You're here because I want you here. It's not too much."
He takes my hand again, and we start walking. His palm feels damp.
"I know what they'll ask,” he says softly. “They'll ask if being gay is a sin."
"And…what will you tell them?"
"That I think it isn't."
I stroke his hand. "Why not?" I make sure my tone is gentle.
"Because God loves people. Unconditionally. It's one of the strongest messages in the Bible. If our creator loves us unconditionally, without reservation, we should love ourselves the same way. And we should love each other that way. It's the point of everything. The point is love.”
