Losing My Religion Page 10

  Fisher’s rustling body had broken through then, but that had only furthered my arousal. I’d fantasized that Quinn was there, in bed with me, the two of us breathless as we kissed and touched, knowing, at any moment, my companion could wake up and catch us in the act. I hadn’t lasted long after that, turning my face and burying it in my pillow as I tried not to scream out my pleasure.

  Afterward, I lay awake, grinning up at the ceiling, wondering if Quinn had possibly done the same thing while thinking of me.

  I didn’t realize until that time how much I wanted it to be true. How much I needed him to want me the same way I wanted him.

  The next morning however, the guilt set in. I heard Fisher as he sat up in his bed, his loud yawn filling the room, and I sprang out of bed before he had the chance to turn in my direction. I slammed the door to the bathroom, turning on the shower to drown out any noise I might make. Stripping out of my clothes, I frantically scrubbed at the stain in my garments, at the evidence of what I’d done last night. I couldn’t risk Fisher seeing it when we went to do laundry. He couldn’t know I’d broken my vow.

  After I was satisfied I’d washed away all signs of my indiscretion, I buried my garments deep in the laundry basket, not wanting to risk the chance he might notice they were wet. We were supposed to treat our garments with much more respect than this. They were sacred and holy, a symbol of the promise I’d made to God when I went through the temple. Stuffing them in the laundry like this was almost as bad as what I’d done to them last night. But I’d take my chances with pissing off God before I took a chance on pissing off the church.

  I promised myself it would never happen again. I told myself I’d stop thinking about Quinn and focus all my energy on being the best missionary I could possibly be.

  But, judging by the look Elder Fisher is giving me this morning as we sit in the laundromat, each of us waiting for our final loads to finish drying, I’d say I didn’t do a convincing job of it. Fisher’s lips are pursed into a narrow line as he regards me, and I wonder what sort of look was on my face as I was lost in my thoughts while watching the load of whites spin around and around before me.

  I try giving him a sheepish smile. “Guess I zoned out there for a second.”

  “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?” he snaps.

  He’s been talking? Crap.

  “Sorry, Elder,” I say, my brain churning a hundred miles an hour as I try to come up with a good excuse as to why I wasn’t paying attention. “I was thinking about Andy. And what we should go over with him next time. I think it’s only a matter of time before he accepts the church and makes the decision to be baptized.”

  There. He can’t fault me for being lost in thought over our most promising investigator. After all, that’s what we’re here for, right? What kind of missionary would I be if my every thought wasn’t consumed by the people we were here to help?

  Yeah, let’s go with that. He’ll totally buy that, Jafar scoffs in my head.

  And, from the furrow that deepens in Fisher’s brows, I’d wager he’s right. Elder Fisher doesn’t believe a word I just said.

  “Bullsh—stuff,” he corrects.

  I can’t help the smile that breaks out across my face at his almost slipup. Could Elder Fisher possibly be human after all? I was starting to think he was a robot built by the church, sent to put the rest of us missionaries to shame with his sheer perfection.

  He doesn’t let it stop him though. “You weren’t thinking about Andy at all. If you were, you would’ve heard me. Because that’s exactly whom I was talking about.”

  He looks angry. And disappointed.

  And, even though I cannot stand the guy ninety-nine percent of the time, I at least have the decency to feel bad. This might not be the experience I was expecting, but that works both ways. He came out here, expecting to find someone like him. Someone who was just as dedicated to the calling as he was. And, instead, he got me.

  Unfortunately for the both of us, we’re stuck with each other for at least another three weeks before one of us gets transferred. And that’s if we’re lucky. It might be closer to six if we’re not. Transfers can sometimes get delayed.

  I rub my hands on my khaki shorts. Today is our P Day—preparation day—and the one day a week we get to wear normal, comfortable clothes. After we finish up here, we have a full day of grocery shopping, errand-running, a quick trip to the library for our weekly email check, and maybe even a little sightseeing before it’s back to the apartment to plan out the next week. It’s the only day each week I actually look forward to. I can’t tell you how good it feels to not have to wear a tie.

  But, with Fisher’s scrutinizing gaze bearing down on me, I still feel like my collar is too tight. I pull at the material, hoping the added room will make it easier to breathe.

  “I’m sorry, man. I’ve just had a lot on my mind. I promise to be more focused from now on.”

  Another promise I don’t know I’ll be able to keep. I seem to be making a lot of those lately.

  Fisher’s face softens a tiny fraction. “What’s with you, man? You think I haven’t noticed how off you’ve been the past few days? You haven’t exactly been Mr. Go-Getter since you got here, but the past two days have been even worse than usual. What gives?”

  The concern in his voice almost makes me believe he cares about me. Like he’s genuinely worried about what might be bothering me. But I know, if I told him the truth, the concern would evaporate, and disgust would fill its place. He made that abundantly clear the night we saw Quinn and that other man out on the street.

  “I just miss home,” I say instead. That isn’t exactly a lie. I do miss home. More than I ever thought I would.

  I miss my dad and Jenny. I miss my friends. Heck, I even miss my mom and her delicious cooking even though I’m not so sure she misses me. This is my third P Day since I’ve been out, and on each of the others, an email from Dad has always been waiting for me. At the end, he always writes, Mom sends her love. But never once has she taken the time to write me a message of her own. I won’t lie. Each week that goes by without hearing from her hurts a little more.

  My face falls when I realize I’ll probably only be met with disappointment again this afternoon when we stop at the library. The sad look on my face is what it takes for Elder Fisher’s anger to vanish. He reaches a hand over and pats me on the shoulder.

  “I know, Elder. I’ve been out a few months longer than you, but that doesn’t mean it gets any easier, being away from your loved ones. My little brother emails me every week, telling me all about his little league team and his friends. I used to coach those kids during the summer. I miss it like crazy.”

  It’s the first time he’s ever really spoken about his family with me. I knew he had a little brother and that his parents were still married. But he never really gets into any personal details. I straighten in my chair, giving him an encouraging smile.

  “My sister, Jenny, played coach-pitch last year. She was terrible. The whole team was terrible. There was one kid who got so bored, he threw his glove down on the ground and sat on it, searching for ants in the outfield instead of paying attention to the game. When another kid actually hit the ball in his direction, the coach yelled at him to get up and go get it.

  “He looked over his shoulder at where the ball had landed before turning back to the coach. ‘Why? They’re getting it!’ he yelled, pointing his finger at the throng of small kids all stampeding toward where the ball lay in the grass.

  “It was the funniest thing I’d ever seen. I never missed a game after that. They were never good games, but heck if they weren’t entertaining.”

  “Kids say the craziest things,” Fisher adds, his words coming in breathy spurts between laughs.

  We spend the rest of the time in the laundromat laughing and telling stories of our families. He’s the oldest, which explains so much. He’s exactly how I envision Taylor must have been on his mission. Oldest children always think they need to be perf
ect.

  Our errands pass quickly, and for the first time since I got here, I have a good time with my companion. I still don’t think we’re going to be best buddies and write to each other after we go home. But I feel like I’m actually starting to get to know the guy. After we leave the library, I’m so excited to tell him the funny story Jenny sent me that it doesn’t even bother me that another week has gone by without hearing from my mom. Much.

  Again, I fool myself into thinking that maybe I can do this. If Fisher and I can learn to like each other, then there just might be hope for me after all. Maybe the reason it’s been so hard thus far is because I haven’t really opened myself up to enjoying the experience. Fisher and I are polar opposites, so I instinctively shut myself down. I told myself I would never be as good as him, so this would never work out. But maybe I don’t need to be. We can be different yet still work together. This afternoon has proven it.

  I splurged at the grocery store today, blowing ten bucks on a frozen lasagna. But, as the two of us mop up the remaining sauce on our plates with garlic bread, all I can think about is how much it was worth it. Fisher even offers to do the dishes, something he hasn’t done in the three weeks I’ve been here. Normally, we eat dinner at other members’ houses, all of them very eager to help feed the missionaries. But, on P Days, we’re left to our own devices. Usually, we make a couple of sandwiches, and Elder Fisher leaves his dirty plate and knife sitting in the sink. I haven’t complained about it because it’s only been a few occasions. But it still feels like a nice gesture for him to offer to clean up.

  I take a sip of water as I lean back in my chair. I feel good. I feel really, really good about today. Maybe I’ll even offer to give the prayer tonight before we go to bed. Fisher has done it every night so far. But I’m feeling something special tonight. Could I finally be feeling the spirit?

  Laughter rings from the street as I contemplate my feelings. A group of people, from the sounds of it. I move to the window, wanting to see the source of the noise.

  As soon as I see Quinn, I know everything I felt today was a mask. A temporary veil I could hide behind while I told myself that everything was going to be okay. That nobody could see the real me. But, the second I see that familiar smile, I know I was kidding myself.

  I can never be like Fisher. Sure, we can laugh and joke and possibly even get along. But the butterflies that fill my stomach as I see Quinn with his friends are impossible to deny.

  I watch with excitement and a little bit of apprehension as he gives each of the men a quick hug. I recognize one of them as the same man whom he was with a few nights ago. I wait to see if Quinn is going to kiss him, both dreading the thought of his lips on another man’s but also wanting to see him in action. There’s an unmistakable force behind Quinn, something I’m unable to break free from. Even though I didn’t like seeing him kissing that man the other night, instead wishing it were my own lips he was tasting, I still wasn’t able to look away. Because Quinn is a magnet. An indisputable power who pulls in whoever happens to be within his hypnotic field and never lets go. And I’m just a piece of scrap metal, powerless to stop it. Even if I wanted to.

  A sharp breath escapes me as I watch Quinn break from the other men, giving them a final wave as he moves toward the door. He’s going in alone. Warmth spreads through me as I wonder if it might have anything to do with me.

  I lean against the window frame, my forehead pressed against the glass as I watch Quinn walk toward the entrance. Just before he reaches it, he stops, looking back over at his friends as they laugh and stumble down the street. Smiling, he turns back toward the building but not before throwing a look up at my window. He grins when he sees me watching, lifting his hand in a small wave. I press my own against the glass, my lips curling up at the corners as I stare down at him on the street.

  We watch each other for a moment, neither of us willing to make a move to break the trance that has us in its spell. My hand is still pressed against the cool glass, and my fingers twitch, as if in anticipation of his touch. I can see Quinn’s own fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, and I wonder if he’s feeling the same thing.

  Fisher chooses that moment to enter the room. “What do you say we go over Andy’s lesson for tomorrow one more time?”

  My heart leaps into my chest, but I manage not to jump at his intrusion. Instead, I give him a quick glance over my shoulder, telling him I’ll be right there before turning back to Quinn. As if he knows Fisher has just entered the room, he gives me a small shrug.

  Good night, he mouths, giving me one last smile before entering the building.

  I walk over and join my companion at the table, knowing all the progress we made this afternoon has flown right out the window. I can’t focus on lesson-planning. I can’t listen to what he’s telling me. There’s no room in my brain for any of the information he’s dumping on me.

  There’s only Quinn.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  * * *

  Quinn

  “And that is God’s plan for us. He sacrificed his only begotten son, so we could one day return to Him and rule as kings alongside Him.”

  I raise an eyebrow at Fisher as he finishes his speech. What kind of delusional crap did they teach these boys? God is God. If He exists, he sure as shit doesn’t want a bunch of other assholes up there, trying to knock him out of power. And there’s no way in hell He’s going to give this dumb shit sitting in front of me that kind of influence. Fishy here would try to take over.

  I’m about to open my mouth and tell him he sounds even crazier than those radical Muslims with their thousand-virgins shtick when Barker clears his throat. My eyes shift immediately to his, and I remember why I even agreed to listen to this bullshit to begin with.

  That man right there.

  Aside from those few moments we had last week, I haven’t been able to get him alone again. I tried knocking on their door. I even went so far as to wait in my bathroom until I heard water running below me, hoping I’d get lucky and catch Fisher in the shower, so that I could charge downstairs and pound on the door with my fingers, toes, and everything else capable crossed in anticipation that Barker would be the one opening their door. No such luck.

  I swear, Fisher has some sort of Quinn radar. He seems to know whenever I’m in a fifty-foot radius of Barker.

  Last week on the street, when Barker and I were able to share a glance, I read so much in his dark eyes in those few brief moments. There was so much depth behind them, so much sadness and despair. But, deep down, there was a faint glimmer of light. A light I knew that, given the chance, could burn brighter than the sun. I knew I needed more. But, before I could even consider making a move, Fisher was right there, obliterating the blistering chemistry passing between us.

  And therein lies my biggest problem. I was initially worried I wouldn’t be able to catch Barker’s interest, that maybe I misread him and that the looks we shared were something else entirely. But, if the last few days are any indication, I’d say that ship has sailed. Barker seems to be just as intrigued by me as I am by him.

  No, my problem is getting him away from his guard dog for longer than two seconds.

  So, here I sit, at my second lesson with the missionaries, and I must say, if I have to endure too many more, I might end up jamming that iron rod Fisher likes to go on about in my eye.

  Hold tight to the iron rod, he likes to say. Don’t let the evils of the world lead you astray.

  He even gave me a little keychain with a tiny silver bar, meant to act as a reminder when I’m out in said world. If Fisher only knew the places my thoughts went as soon as he handed me that dinky thing. I can just imagine my friends catching sight of it.

  Hey, Q, is that an iron rod in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

  I wonder if it’s ever occurred to his church just how dirty that supposed symbol of strength could come across. I could go on all night.

  Just like my iron rod. Ba-dum-bum!

  Bark
er doesn’t talk much during our lessons, which is both a good and a bad thing. Good, because it makes me think he might not be quite as crazy as Fisher, not quite as ready to buy into the crap that comes out of Fishy’s mouth. And bad, because the whole reason I wanted them here in the first place is so I could talk to Barker and get to know him. To try to figure out just why in the fuck I’m so attracted to this fresh-faced Mormon missionary who couldn’t be further from my usual type.

  I have no idea what it is, but the past few days have only solidified the fact that I am completely head over heels smitten with this dude. Like, if this were a 1930s black-and-white flick, I’d get the vapors and need to lie down whenever he was near. I can’t stop thinking about him. I can’t stop talking about him. Fuck, I can’t even sleep, lying awake all night as I wonder if he might be down there, thinking about me, too.

  It’s that fucking bad.

  I will say, it has helped tremendously on the past two auditions I’ve been on—both of which were for parts of unrequited lovers. Even Judy K, when I was running lines with her in preparation, remarked about how convincing I was.

  “You’ve really got that lovesick puppy-dog look down, son. Whatever you’re doing, it’s working. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were ready to run off and marry me right now,” she joked the morning before my last audition.

  I laughed and told her she shouldn’t be so sure that I wasn’t, but really, I’d been imagining Barker standing before me. And, while I wasn’t ready to run away and live happily ever after with the guy, I sure as shit would be willing to run away from Fisher if it meant we could have a few minutes of privacy. So, I’d pictured that. I’d envisioned propositioning him, telling him to leave behind this crazy cult he called a religion and come with me. I’d told him I’d help him see the world for what it really was—help him see himself for who he truly was. And, in my mind, it had been glorious.