The Preacher's Son Read online

  His gaze traced the path from the side yard down to the cabins. Only another day until the new arrivals. Nate was excited and a little anxious. His father always had Nate give a speech the first night of a session, and the newly initiated members of Moving Forward always clapped and seemed genuinely glad to be meeting Nate.

  He turned toward the study door, took a breath, and knocked softly.

  “Come in,” his dad called.

  Nate pushed the door open and peered around it.

  His father sat at the desk, chair wheeled back a bit so he could sit the way he liked—half slumped, his belly bulging under a customary white shirt, spilling over the waistband of his black pants. A folder lay open on his lap, but he wasn’t paying it any mind. He was reading Persuasion, holding the book a couple of inches from his face.

  He looked up and smiled at Nate, and his smile was so kind, so familiar, that Nate forgot his nervousness.

  He’ll help.

  He always does.

  Nate smiled back. “Where are your glasses?”

  His dad laughed and set the book down. Picked up the folder and placed it on the desk too. “I left them somewhere. The kitchen, maybe.”

  “You don’t like wearing them,” Nate said, entering the room. The study was wood paneled, like most of the house, and had large windows along two sides, looking out over the rolling farmland. “You’re vain.”

  “Maybe so.” His father scooted the chair closer to the desk. “How was class?”

  “Fine.” Nate took a few classes a week at the local community college. It was nowhere near a full load, but it was something. It made him feel like he was wasn’t still hiding from the world.

  “I didn’t expect you to be home. You’re usually out with Marissa in the afternoons.”

  “I didn’t feel like going out today.” His father waited, and Nate took another deep breath. “I, uh, I wanted to talk to you. I’m having some problems with…with phantoms.”

  Phantoms. That was what Reverend Tull called the thoughts that still haunted Nate from his former homosexual identity. The longing Nate sometimes felt for other men, the temptation to wear tight clothes, thinking of himself as beautiful instead of handsome—those were all phantoms. The Reverend liked the term because it acknowledged the fear those thoughts could bring with them, but it also acknowledged that those urges weren’t part of Nate’s true self. They were just something Nate’s mind invented, something that could be brushed away, shut outside to howl at the window while Nate was safe and warm in his home.

  It wasn’t disconnecting from his sins, exactly, because Nathan wasn’t sinning. It was acknowledging that the pure parts of himself were more powerful than the parts that sought to do him harm.

  “Oh, Nate.” His dad stood, knees popping, and opened his arms.

  Nate went gratefully, before the lump in his throat got any bigger. His father loved him. Even after what Nate had done to the family, to Moving Forward, to himself, his father still loved him.

  Reverend Tull folded Nate into his embrace. “It’s tough, isn’t it?” Nate nodded against his shoulder. “God tests us in many ways.”

  “I know.” Nate started to say, “I’m sorry,” then remembered he wasn’t supposed to say that anymore.

  “You don’t need to apologize for your thoughts and feelings. You don’t need to apologize for asking for help.”

  Nate squeezed his eyes shut. His father might change his tune about apologies when he found out just what form Nate’s current phantoms had taken.

  He waited until the pressure of the embrace eased, then pulled back and looked his dad in the eye.

  “Do you want to tell me what you’re thinking about?” his dad asked.

  No.

  Never the whole truth, never the details. Because when Nate fantasized about guys, his imagination got specific. He always tried to explain his phantoms to his father in vague terms. “There’s a guy in school I think is cute.” Or “All the stuff in the news about gay rights makes me wonder if it’s really such a bad thing to be gay.”

  And his dad always had a compassionate answer.

  “This cute boy—can you try focusing on his other qualities? Is he smart? Do you like the answers he gives in class? Is he a good leader? All of those are fine qualities to admire in other men.”

  Or:

  “It isn’t ‘bad’ to be gay, Nate. It’s not wrong for the government to offer our gay and lesbian brothers and sisters the same aid and protection it offers all of its citizens. It’s simply that the gay lifestyle is not an acceptable choice for a Christian.”

  Reverend Tull treated all the members of Moving Forward the same way. He never yelled at anyone, never shamed them. Never told them they were weak. He simply guided them toward healthier thoughts, a more positive life.

  Sometimes Nate wished he could tell his dad that it scared him to hear things like “the gay lifestyle is not an acceptable choice,” or “God tests us in many ways.” Because failing God’s tests made Nate feel weak. And he wasn’t so sure he’d ever made a choice. Because if he could have chosen, he’d have picked a righteous life. Who wouldn’t?

  Nate sighed and pulled back further. “You’re not going to like this.”

  His dad shook his head. “Nate. You can tell me anything.”

  Nate looked beyond his father at the framed certificate on the wall.

  Certificate of Excellence Presented to: The Reverend Timothy Tull. For Notable Contributions to the Pinehurst Christian Community.

  Nate spoke to the certificate. “The phantoms are about Jason Banning.”

  There. He’d said it. So it was up to his father to know what to do with that.

  His father didn’t speak for a moment. He finally said, “I see.” There was an edge to his tone now.

  Even the most patient man in Pinehurst had a breaking point.

  Nate blinked. He sure as fuck wasn’t going to cry. “I know…it’s not right. I don’t know why I…”

  Shit, he was going to lose it. He could feel his father staring at him, and he still couldn’t make himself look away from the certificate of excellence.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. Even though he wasn’t supposed to.

  “Nate.” His father’s voice was soft. “You know we need to do something about this.”

  Nate nodded.

  “We have to work together to banish these thoughts.”

  “I’m pretty sure…” Nate swallowed. “I mean, it’s just lust. That’s all. I don’t…think what I used to think about Jason.”

  His own voice echoed in his mind. “I don’t care what you say, Dad. I love him!” That passion flaring up in him, so powerful he’d have pushed God aside, if God was going to stand between him and Jason Banning.

  Then his horror, days later, when he’d seen the video. The unreality of it—that boy on the bed couldn’t possibly be him. What had finally made it real was the apartment. Jason’s photos on the wall. Of Halvandet and Valparaiso, of Calton Hill and Victoria Falls.

  “You really want the light on?” he’d asked that night.

  “I want to see you,” Jason had replied.

  Jason, behind Nate in the clip. His face obscured. At first Nathan had thought it was for anonymity. But Jason had openly admitted, in his expose, that he was the man in the video. The man fucking Nathan Tull.

  Yet it was only Nathan people saw. The contortions of his face. His body twisting in ecstasy. His lips forming words he didn’t remember speaking: “Oh God.” “Yes.” Harder.”

  “Well, lust we can deal with.” His dad smiled again, but it was a weaker smile than he’d given Nate a few minutes earlier. “How often are you having these thoughts?”

  “Just today,” Nate lied. “At the community college, I saw a guy with a…with a shirt that looked like one Jason used to wear. And I guess that got me thinking about him.”

  “Nate. What he did to you...”

  “I know.” Nathan looked down.

  I know he was a liar. />
  I know he used me.

  I know he hurt us.

  But he did…give me something good. Amid all that darkness, there was something… I can’t explain.

  Because he was pathetic. Even if the homosexual lifestyle were an acceptable choice for him, how weak and self-loathing would he have to be to want anything to do with Jason Banning?

  “These phantoms,” his father said, returning to his chair and sitting. “Could they have come because Jason’s coming home now?”

  Nate’s head snapped up. “What?”

  His dad nodded. “He’s been staying with a friend in Portland. He’ll be back in Pinehurst tomorrow.”

  No. No, no, no. Nate’d had no idea. “But I thought…”

  I thought he was still in Germany.

  Recovering. He’d heard about Jason’s injury from Marissa, who’d heard about it from Britney, her hair stylist. His heart had gone still for a second at the news, and he’d prayed, without even thinking about what he was doing, for Jason’s survival.

  “I saw his aunt in town. She told me.”

  I’ll bet that went well.

  Except Reverend Tull was cordial to everyone, so it probably had gone fine. Nate wondered what his father did with the anger he surely felt.

  He thought guiltily that if he’d visited Rose Johnson anytime in the last six months, he might have known Jason was coming home.

  He used to go over a lot and help the old woman with her cleaning, groceries, and other errands. He’d taken on the duties with a grim, adrenaline-fueled determination after Jason had left for Afghanistan.

  Someone in the community needs help. And I don’t care if she’s related to him.

  In the aftermath of Jason’s exposé on Moving Forward, most of the community had sided with the Tulls. There’d been a few people—liberal and anti-Christian already—who’d rallied behind Jason about Reverend Tull’s “hypocrisy.” Who were so furious about Moving Forward’s existence, they didn’t care what had been done to Nate, as long as it called attention to the ineffectuality of gay conversion therapy. But actually, most of the liberal crowd had turned on Jason, claiming it was never okay to violate someone’s privacy like that. Accusing him of a kind of rape, for putting that video out there without Nate’s consent. Nate had been bombarded by various activist groups—gay rights groups, anti-revenge porn groups, gender equality organizations…all of them wanting to interview him, or else help him understand what legal action he could take against Jason.

  Nate hadn’t taken any action.

  Well, except…

  He wasn’t going to think about that right now.

  “I didn’t know.” Nate fidgeted. “So that’s not what caused the phantoms.”

  But shit, it’s gonna cause more.

  “Don’t worry.” His father looked at him with such love, such trust and hope, that Nate couldn’t breathe for a moment. “We’ll figure it out.”

  Nate nodded.

  It didn’t make sense.

  Jason Banning, the man Nate ought to have hated more than anyone in the world, the man Nate should have wanted out of his life forever, was home.

  And some part of Nate wanted to see him again.

  To scream at him, to spit in his face, to…

  No. No, I forgave him. That’s all behind me now.

  I just want to see him. To prove to myself that he can’t hurt me anymore. That he’s only a man, a man with flaws. Just like me.

  But no.

  Jason wasn’t “just like” Nate.

  Because Nate would never have done what Jason did. To anybody. For any reason. It wasn’t a matter of self-righteousness or superiority. It was simply the truth.

  It took a warped soul to do what Jason had done.

  No. You don’t get to judge anyone’s soul.

  Why not? some dark part of him asked. Hadn’t he earned the right to loathe Jason with every cell in his body? To acknowledge that Jason was corrupt, wicked?

  That’s not how forgiveness works. That’s how you stay mired in the ugliness of the past, rather than forging a path to the future.

  He is a man with flaws.

  Not a monster.

  You don’t know his soul.

  Jason set the nail polish remover on the bumper, took out a cigarette, and twisted it until it broke apart and tobacco spilled on the driveway. He placed the mangled paper hull between his lips and blew, sending the remaining flakes fluttering like dollhouse-sized confetti. He’d tried rubbing alcohol, he’d tried screwdrivers and tweezers and even his teeth. And he couldn’t get the fucking decal off his car.

  It was one of those stupid Our Family stickers. A gift from Zac before Jason had gone back to Afghanistan. To remind him that he and Jason and Zoner were a family, and nothing could change that, not even Jason leaving for another year.

  A family.

  Really?

  Jason and Zac had met while Jason was between assignments a year ago. They’d only had a few months to date and fuck before Jason had headed back, although that had been plenty long enough to play at being a real couple: to move in together, to buy the damn dog. They’d seen each other only once since then—though Jason had to admit, they hadn’t been total shit at the long-distance thing. They’d called and emailed and Skyped all the time. And once Jason had been released from the hospital in Germany, he’d called Zac to let him know he was coming home. Zac had been so worried and so solicitous since Jason had been hurt that Jason hadn’t thought to do otherwise. Zac had given him the fucking decal, after all. They were a family.

  Zac had seemed oddly hesitant on that final phone call, but Jason didn’t press him. He flew to Portland. After a stilted three weeks together where it was clear that things weren’t as they’d been before, that Zac was having a hard time with Jason’s condition, Zac had broken up with him.

  And announced that he was keeping Zoner.

  Because: “I’m really sorry, Jase, but he’s used to me. And you’ll have a hard time giving him the exercise he needs, with your…”

  Mangled leg, sure.

  Made perfect sense.

  So the decal was just two male stick figures and a dog.

  And it was apparently going to be on Jason’s car forever.

  Goddamn it.

  Jason was tempted to put a rock through the back window and get rid of the decal that way. Although he wasn’t sure his insurance covered random acts of petulance, and Zac sure as shit wouldn’t appreciate Jason leaving chunks of shattered glass all over his driveway. Still, he wanted the decal gone, or he was pretty sure someone in Pinehurst would smash the window for him if it was still on when he arrived, whether they knew it was his car or not. Two guys and a dog did not count as family in Pinehurst.

  Jason hurt from standing so long. He spat out the cigarette paper and limped over to the folding chair by the car. Sat down, extending his leg. That was the bitch of his injury. It didn’t only hurt when he stood or when he moved. It hurt all the fucking time. And it wasn’t only the leg that hurt. It was the rest of his body, having to learn to move differently.

  So now, thanks to a fucking roadside IED, Jason was back home. Three months early with no boyfriend, no dog, and no prospect of returning to the job he loved. It was time to go back to Pinehurst.

  Fucking Pinehurst.

  Jason had hated it from the day he’d turned up: fifteen years old, and still smarting from his parents’ deaths. They were gypsies, Aunt Rose said. He’d found the idea enchanting, until he got old enough to realize how offensive the word “gypsies” was. And then some part of him had been disgusted with Rose for her ignorance. His parents had been vagabonds, traveling the world with Jason in tow. He’d been with them in Venezuela—hiking Mount Roraima, photographing Angel Falls.

  But he wasn’t in the car when it went off the road. He’d stayed back at the campsite that day. “Suerte,” one of the cops had called him.

  He wished he’d been in the car.

  His father had been an artist, and h
is mother an anthropologist. That traveling lifestyle was the only thing Jason had ever known, until suddenly he was in Pinehurst.

  He’d hated it.

  He’d felt trapped.

  He’d been desperate to escape, to get on the road again. To go to new places and learn new things. To live.

  But the people who’d taught him that way of life, who’d kept him safe through every new adventure, were gone.

  He scowled at the decal.

  And now he was twenty-six, broke, single, and about to head back to Pinehurst with his tail between his legs. He should have been Skyping Aunt Rose from a hotel where the skyline was lit up by missile fire, practicing his Italian pick-up lines on Francesco from Reuters, and living harder than he’d lived before.

  “I see you in Korea next?” Francesco had asked on his last morning in Afghanistan. “Maybe you won’t have a boyfriend then.”

  He was such a flirt.

  Jason had only laughed.

  Now, sitting in the driveway scowling at the decal, he wished he’d fucked Francesco all the way from Kabul to Seoul. To hell with Zac.

  To hell with everything.

  About thirty miles out of Pinehurst, Jason stopped for a coffee at the roadside diner. He limped up and down the parking lot for a few minutes to loosen the ache in his leg, then pushed open the doors and went inside.

  He sat at a booth and read the menu.

  Took his lucky coin out of his pocket and spun it.

  It was an Afghani coin. He’d bought it off a kid in the street, mostly because he admired the kid’s determination.

  “Lucky coin,” the kid had insisted. “One dollar.”

  He’d also admired the kid’s mercenary streak in selling him a five Afghani coin with a hole punched through it for an American dollar.

  And maybe it even worked. He wasn’t dead. Three other guys in the truck he’d been traveling in were dead, but Jason was alive.

  Jason spun the coin by the thin chain he’d bought—from the kid’s uncle, in an astonishingly clever piece of upselling—and watched it catch the light. The Arabic five, shaped like a teardrop, on one side of the coin. The mosque on the other.