The Skeptic, page 6
Betrayal—theirs or mine, I couldn’t tell—sent my head spinning. “Why didn’t you tell me it was so bad?”
“Oh, honey. He’s so much better now. I promise. I know the oxygen takes some getting used to, but he won’t be on it forever, you’ll see.”
I took off my glasses and scrubbed my face. Shame filled the fissures of my soul. I hadn’t rushed home. I’d gone to Beckett’s first and drunk his beers and let him fuck me. I was woozy from the booze, and lube greased my cheeks and inner thighs. Beckett’s smell was in my nose.
“Let’s wake him up. He’ll want to see you right away,” Dad said.
“No,” I breathed out, appalled. “Let him sleep. I’ll… I’ll put away my things.”
Dad pressed his lips together and helped me take my bags up the stairs. I hadn’t thought to ask, I just went to my old room, which I knew had been turned into a guest room at some point.
While most of my embarrassing trophies and participation medals had been boxed away, there were a few pictures of us as a family, including the one of me, Dad, and Pops at the courthouse, holding up the adoption certificate. We looked so happy.
Dad left me to my unpacking. I opened my suitcases and put away my clothes in the dresser that had been empty since I left the house. It was a weird full-circle moment, shoving my underwear into the same drawer I’d emptied so many years ago.
I picked out a change of clothes and took them with me across the hallway into my old bathroom, which had a combination clawfoot tub and shower, with a curtain that did nothing to keep the water from the floor.
I stacked my clothes on the bathroom counter and stood under the steady water pressure. Years ago, when Pops saw how tall I was getting, he’d added a length to the exposed pipe that fed the showerhead. About a foot of copper, now with a pretty green patina, screwed in between whatever the silver metal was, a quirky detail I’d forgotten about long ago.
Tears flowed from my eyes and washed down the drain.
I stepped out into the hallway, barefoot and refreshed, vaguely aware of a faint soreness in my ass, another reminder that I’d had sex before walking into my fathers’ house.
Beckett. He’d been so kind with me. Given the size of Seguin, I doubted there’d be any way I could fully avoid him. The prospect of seeing him again filled me with both anticipation and dread. I just hoped I could play it cool when the time came.
I made my way back downstairs and stepped into the kitchen, grinning at the familiar smell of the English breakfast tea that Dad always drank extra hot.
“Tea for you, son?” Dad held up a tea bag. I nodded, sitting at the table as he grabbed my favorite Cookie Monster mug.
The gentle bubbling sounds of Dad’s ancient electric kettle made me sentimental for the years of early-morning breakfasts. Even the way he poured the boiling water over the bag before setting the drink in front of me made me smile.
Dad was fussy with his tea, insisting that the water should be actively boiling when it hit the tea bags, lest it ruin the entire experience.
I closed my eyes and blew on the hot tea, lost in the moment. A large, warm hand landed on my shoulder, and there was a kiss to the top of my head.
“Welcome home, son,” Pops said, taking his usual seat.
I took a deep breath, relieved that in the light, airy kitchen, some of his coloring had returned. He was much thinner than the last time I saw him, but at least his eyes still had their sparkle.
Relief flooded my chest and made my throat ache from the effort of not crying. God, I wanted to cry. Pops had always been this heroic figure in my life. I’d never seen him this weakened, or even very ill at all.
“Hey,” he said, grabbing my hand. “Hey now. It’s okay.”
His gentle way of seeing me—he could always see me—cracked me right down the middle. A sob burned its way up from my chest, and I lowered my chin.
His grip tightened. “Oh, sweet Holden. My sweet boy. I’m okay. I know this damned oxygen tank looks dire, but it’s all a part of getting better.”
Tears spilled down my cheeks as I stared at his hand holding mine. “But I didn’t know you were so unwell. I didn’t realize you even had something you needed to recover from. Why didn’t you tell me, Pops?”
“Holden,” he said softly. “Look at me, son.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head. I couldn’t.
Dad’s delicate hands landed on my shoulders. “We made a mistake. We should’ve told you Pops was in the hospital, but we had to take him to Guadalupe Regional, and…”
That was the hospital I’d been sent to right before college, when they’d told me I’d need dental implants to replace my teeth and a titanium rod to hold my arm together.
“I’m not that kid anymore.” At least, I didn’t think I was. “Even if it was hard, I would’ve never stayed away.”
“Son. Look at me.”
I sniffled loudly and let my eyes drift up to meet Pops’s gaze, where I was met with such gentleness and warmth.
“I’m so sorry. I know you look up to me, and I… I was vain. I didn’t want you to see me like this. It was your Dad who insisted you’d want to be with me, and he was right. Genuinely, Holden, I’m sorry.”
I sniffed again and wiped my tears. “I don’t mean to be dramatic.”
Dad chuckled and sat on the other side of me. “Are you kidding? I’ll be telling Pops I told you so for the next year.”
I wiped my nose on a napkin, laughing along. “You’re welcome. I think I just… The timing wasn’t super great.”
Dad sipped his tea. “That why you brought your entire closet with you?”
Pops squeezed my hand. “There something you need to tell us?”
Their questions told me they’d picked up on many of the things I hadn’t said.
“Yeah. Um. Jackson decided I wasn’t quite enough for him. So I decided I wasn’t going to stick around while he supplemented our love life with other people.”
Pops growled, squeezing my hand. “What an asshole. You didn’t deserve that.”
I held up my phone with Jackson’s messages on the screen. “You got his new name in one. I’m proud of you.”
That broke the mood. The three of us laughed, and it felt like old times.
“So, does this mean you’re extending your time with us?” Dad asked, looking far too happy.
I sighed. “Yes. Guess I’m back in Seguin. For now, at least.”
“You can work remotely, right?” Pops asked.
I grimaced as another text came in from my boss. “Yeah, but maybe it’s a good time to clean house. Get rid of all the things in my life that aren’t working.”
I sounded more confident than I felt.
CHAPTER 7
beckett
I pulled up to Guadalupe County High School, and a wave of nostalgia overtook me. I hadn’t been back since we graduated more than a decade ago. Hell, I hadn’t even gone to our tenth reunion.
None of the Lost Boys had. Instead, we’d gone to the bar and gotten drunk.
Mr. Paige’s original Lost Boys were coming together today to help him clean out the classroom that had been a safe space for us all those years ago. A not-small part of me was looking forward to seeing Holden again.
It had been a little over two weeks since he’d arrived and we’d had our hot-and-sweaty moment in my apartment. We hadn’t talked in the interim, and the one time I’d seen him at the H-E-B, he’d done an about-face, so he was clearly on board with the one-and-done scenario.
I didn’t take it personally that he’d practically fled my presence. What we’d done had been stress relief, nothing more. He was a sensitive guy and probably needed the distance. It was too bad, though. I knew I could give him what he needed.
Oh yeah? What does Holden need from you, preacher man?
Gentle touches, praise, direction.
And you think you’re the only one who can give him those things?
Honestly, the idea of anyone else touching him made my left eye twitch. Since that was ridiculous, I ignored the sentiment entirely, instead making my way to Mr. Paige’s classroom.
Despite the intervening years, I still knew exactly how to get there.
“Beckett!” Ren exclaimed, greeting me with a big hug as I entered the classroom. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you without the collar.”
I wondered if he knew how naked I felt without it.
Sometimes I wished I were a pious soul, given to follow the rules and light the path to Biblical salvation. That certainly would’ve made things easier with me and my dad. I wasn’t, though, and it made me question myself more than most people would guess.
It was complicated, then, to go without the collar. People always noted it, not unkindly, but I suspected they thought they were getting a glimpse of the real me. True, I was wearing my ratty One Direction T-shirt, which I never could throw away, even with the enchilada-sauce stain on Louis’s right cheek. I suppose there was a level of authenticity in that.
The real me, however, was the guy in the preacher suit: black trousers, simple black button-down, and the collar. I couldn’t explain it. I just knew it to be true.
“No way,” I said, happy for the distraction as I crossed the space to Mr. Paige’s desk. I grabbed the old frame, which I vaguely remembered giving to Mr. Paige as a Christmas gift one year, and was once again overwhelmed with nostalgia. “I’d forgotten about this picture.”
It was a picture of Mr. Paige and his original Lost Boys: me, Ozzie, Sawyer, Major, and Hen.
The photo had been taken on the field right after graduation. Hen was throwing the finger—which Mr. Paige covered with a smiley sticker on top of the glass—Ozzie was posing like a model, and Major’s smile was kind, as usual. I, too, was smiling at the camera, but it was my fake smile, not like the genuine ones that had surrounded me that day.
Staring at the poorly constructed sawdust-covered frame, one of my very first attempts at woodworking, I bit back some unnamed emotion. My father had taken the picture. Before the ceremony, he and I’d had yet another argument about college. I’d capitulated—going to St. Edward’s on scholarship with my father picking up the rest was a better deal than most in my graduating class had gotten.
That argument, more than anything else—even my mother’s death—set me on the path that led me here. Spite and doubt made for a powerful cocktail.
Maybe it was just a young man’s memory, but I’d thought we’d been happy before my mom died. The three of us had been in our own little world. Dad had a doctorate in religious studies, and he loved the Bible. He loved his Catholic upbringing. The art, the pageantry, the saints, the confession—he loved all of it.
He’d gone to seminary with the plan to give himself to the Lord. My mom, similarly dedicated, had plans to become a nun, or perhaps a missionary. But then they’d found each other, and Dad had fallen madly in love. He’d sometimes joke that she’d ruined his life, but then he’d take hold of her hands and look into her eyes, and I’d known she hadn’t ruined anything.
I’d been raised in the church, and Dad had become a deacon when I was a kid. I was taught to love all of the things my parents loved, though Mom was always a bit more progressive than Dad. She’d sanded off his rougher edges, helping him to see a less dogmatic path. Over the years, I’d grown to suspect she’d known I was gay before I had, and she’d done her best to soften up Dad’s rigid beliefs so he’d be able to love and accept me when the time came.
Right before she was diagnosed with ALS, though, I’d had my first dream about a boy in class, and it had terrified me. Mom always taught me God loved everyone, but even as a preteen I’d known that wasn’t true. Boys who had wet dreams about other boys were definitely going to burn in hell, and how could he love me if he was going to torment me for all of eternity?
It had also hard not to believe that me being gay had caused her illness. The way the disease’s progression coincided with my increasing awareness of my queerness only confirmed the awful feeling in my gut that this was somehow all my doing.
Her death was God’s final judgment on me as far as I had been concerned, and that feeling was compounded by the anger radiating off my father back then. It had been easy to believe he was mad at me because it had been my fault. I looked back now and felt sad for that confused young man.
I’d been sad for my father, too, but his sudden coldness in my mother’s absence had solidified my belief that God hated me. Even though my father was still alive, I’d lost him just as surely as I’d lost my mother. For the first time in my life, my faith had wavered.
If God thought life was so precious, how could he take my mother? If he was mad at me, why not take me? Why did he have to break my dad’s heart like that?
It was raining the day we buried her, and it had felt like it rained all the way through high school. My one bright spot was, oddly enough, a class I hadn’t wanted to take. I’d needed one more elective my first year and had dawdled until there was only one option left: basics of woodworking.
Shop had sounded like the most homophobic course in all the land, and I’d dreaded it until I’d seen who the teacher was. Just weeks prior, Robert Paige and his husband had been in my kitchen. They’d wept as they’d described what had been done to Holden, thanking me and my father for helping their son, and we had agreed to talk to the police and testify, if necessary. That was before the county attorney had basically gutted the charges against Chase DeWitt.
Ren had asked that we not tell anyone else about Holden’s injuries, to respect his privacy.
I’d vaguely remembered the two men from when I was younger. I’d thought my parents had once been friends with them, but then they drifted apart. I hadn’t realized that Mr. Paige was the shop teacher.
I’d been nervous about walking into his class, but as I’d pushed open the door, Mr. Paige had sent me a smile. Like he was grateful and happy to see me. “Come on in, Mr. Wainwright,” he’d said in that deep, rich voice of his.
I’d hesitated in the doorway, then looked down and noticed that he was wearing rainbow shoelaces. Even after his son had been beaten for being gay, he wore rainbows. I’d always associated rainbows with being a sissy—the worst thing you could be in a hick town—but in that moment, his laces read as defiance. A fuck you to the guys who’d hurt his son.
I’d wondered then if God knew I needed a Mr. Paige in my life. That was the first time in over a year I’d had any kind of positive association with the notion of God.
I’d had to bite the inside of my cheek as I made my way into the classroom. He’d seemed to pick up on the fact that I was holding on by a thread, so he’d simply smiled again and directed me to go sit next to Ozzie.
It didn’t take me too long to figure out that Ozzie, Mr. Paige, and I had a lot in common. In fact, the ten thirty shop class had an unusual number of guys like us.
I suppose, lacking context, that could sound like the start of an episode of To Catch a Predator. In reality, what his shop class and the resulting friendships ended up being were a series of lifelines, thrown at the exact right time.
Running my thumb along the rough wood of the frame in my hands, I remembered being convinced at graduation that that would be the last time I’d see those guys, that I was about to embark on a life I wanted nothing to do with.
Chuckling, I remembered deciding to pay my father back by fucking my way through college. And boy howdy, did I. In my last, glorious semester of college, I’d proudly taken down my religious studies professor. Turned out, he’d been grieving a terrible breakup and asked me to take care of him, then showed me how. The sex was fantastic, and he taught me things I’d never known about myself, both in the classroom and in bed.
That was also the semester I’d realized I genuinely wanted to help people. While I was mistaken in thinking I could successfully serve within the confines of the Catholic church, I was right about the rest.
I’d probably been in love with that professor, now that I thought about it. He went back to his boyfriend at the end of the term, and that taught me one final lesson about the unreliable, painful nature of love. It was also the last time I’d bothered with exclusivity.
Coming back to the picture in my hand, I felt sorry for the kid with the catastrophic thinking and wished he’d known how to enjoy his high school graduation.
“Look at this group of ne’er-do-wells and troublemakers,” Mr. Paige said, his usually booming voice now soft and rough. “I was so glad to see the back of you.”
I chuckled, not bothering to call him on the lie. He was the one who’d reached out to me during my first months of college and talked me through the homesickness and the anger I’d felt toward my father. We texted on and off through my college years, and I always made time to visit him when I went home for the holidays. “We learned from the best,” I fired back, cocking my brow.
Tapping the glass covering the graduation photo, he asked, “What do you think this kid would think of you now?”
Before I could answer, Holden, who’d clearly started without us, walked into the room carrying a stack of flattened boxes. He looked adorable as hell in his messy work clothes.
Kinda like he did after I’d taken him apart.
“Hey, Pops, I found some boxes—oh. Hi, Beckett,” Holden said, blinking at me.
I reached up and fixed his crooked glasses. “Hey, Holden,” I replied, smiling genuinely, suddenly super aware of my breathing.
Must’ve been all the sawdust.
Mr. Paige tilted his head ever so slightly, and Holden looked as though he’d swallowed a bug. Like he was terrified I was going to announce to his fathers that I’d taken him apart before dropping him off in their driveway.
Before I could signal my non-asshole status, Joel and Tristan came in with coffee for everyone, Ozzie trailing behind them with some familiar breakfast pastries. The conversation quickly nose-dived into comparisons between the two oldest bakeries in town. Sides were taken, lines were drawn, and some people were simply wrong.
After getting our breakfast on, we got busy. Mr. Paige hadn’t thrown away a single thing in all his years as the shop teacher, so Holden and I were too busy for any awkward confrontations.
