Losing My Religion Page 14

  QUINN OWENS

  323-555-9485

  I stashed the slip of paper in my pillowcase, still unsure if I’d ever have the guts to use it. When my plan hatched the other night while at dinner with the Murphys, I was both excited and terrified at the prospect.

  Even now, hours after I managed to pull it off, I still can’t believe I’ve gotten away with purchasing the phone.

  Fisher’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “You seemed like you had fun out there today,” he says as he navigates the busy Los Angeles roads.

  I nod. “I did. Thanks for that.”

  He smiles, lifting his chin in my direction. “No problem. I’m happy you had fun. I woke up this morning, thinking we never do anything you like to do. It was about time we took a day off and just enjoyed ourselves.”

  In the short time I’ve been here, we’ve managed to do a bit of sightseeing during our downtime on P Days, but he’s right; this is the first time we’ve done something that was completely left up to me. Usually, he has an itinerary all set up before I’m even out of the shower.

  “Thanks, man. It was a good day. Just what I needed.”

  “I’m glad,” he says. His face grows a little more serious. “You’ve been so distracted these past few weeks. I know you’re homesick. But it seems to go deeper than that. Hopefully, this little break will get your head right.”

  And, just like that, Fisher has turned our pleasant afternoon into something sour. I should’ve known he had ulterior motives. He never does anything just to be nice. It’s always about missionary work with him.

  He spends the rest of the drive to the library lecturing me on how important the work we’re doing is and how I need to open myself to the Lord. I sink down in my seat, staring straight ahead, as he speaks. I hear what he says. I know I’ve been a terrible companion, no matter how many times I vow to change that. I keep falling back into my old patterns, thinking of Quinn and questioning things I shouldn’t be questioning. But the way Fisher speaks to me, the tone of his voice and the words he chooses to use, does little by way of making me feel remorse. He’s treating me like I’m a misbehaving toddler, and he’s my babysitter.

  I guess, given the situation, it isn’t too far off. Quinn was right when he referred to him as my babysitter. That’s all I am to Fisher. Someone he needs to look after and keep out of trouble in order to reap the payout.

  I nod at all the right times so that he thinks I’m listening and agreeing with what he’s saying, but inside, I’m seething. When we get to the library, I go straight to a corner computer, making sure there are no open spots on either side of me. I’ve had enough of this jerk for the day.

  I check my email, again finding only quick messages from my father and sister. It only takes a few minutes to reply, and then I find myself with nothing to do but a half hour of free time.

  I’m tempted to log on to Facebook even though it’s expressly forbidden. I want to search for Quinn. I want to see his profile picture. I want to see if any of his status updates are public. I want to be a full-on creeper.

  But Elder Fisher is sitting at a computer to my back, and at any moment, he could turn around and see what I’m up to. If he sees me on Facebook, there’s no doubt he’d sing like a canary to the mission president. He wouldn’t be able to prove what I was doing. But just being on the website in the first place is enough to get me in trouble.

  No, better to stay on safe websites. That basically consists of my email, which is empty.

  I think for a moment, wondering whom I could email to take up some time. If Fisher sees me just sitting here, he’ll be sure to cut our time short. And I’m not ready to be back in that car with him yet. If I had it my way, I’d never get back in that car with him ever again.

  An idea occurs to me, and a devilish smile appears on my face.

  Do it, Jafar whispers when I start to doubt myself. Nobody will know.

  Jiminy reminds me that the church has access to my emails, and it certainly wouldn’t look good if they found something like this.

  So, you create a new one. It takes two minutes on Gmail.

  My grin widens. Jafar wins again.

  I open Gmail, quickly setting up a new account under the name Seymour Butts. Hey, it was the first thing I could think of. Blame it on Bart Simpson.

  To: ElderSeymourButts123@gmail.com

  From: ElderSeymourButts123@gmail.com

  Dear Elder,

  THE CHURCH IS A BUNCH OF BULLSHIT, AND I HATE THIS FUCKING MISSION! BUT I CAN’T GO HOME BECAUSE I’M FALLING FOR THE MAN WHO LIVES UPSTAIRS.

  P.S. MY COMPANION IS A COMPLETE AND UTTER DOUCHE CANOE!

  I click Send, feeling a weird sense of peace and accomplishment. It feels good to get that off my chest.

  It feels damn good.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  * * *

  Quinn

  I press my forehead against the smooth surface of my front door and let out a ragged breath. When I moved into this place, I never thought I’d see the day when I was glad to be home. But here it is. Today was the day from hell. And I want nothing more than to go inside and collapse for about twelve hours.

  I am exhausted. No, exhausted doesn’t even begin to describe the level of weariness I feel. My arms are tired, and my legs are tired. Fuck, even my hair is tired. I can almost hear the little guys up there on my head, crying and throwing a fit like a cranky toddler. We all need a nap.

  It’s almost three a.m., and I’ve been at work since nine this morning. After a full shift at the bistro, I was scheduled at the club. I was supposed to work the early shift and get off around ten. But, when one of our other bartenders didn’t show up, I got roped into pulling a double. While the extra tips were welcome, working a eighteen-hour day was not at the top of my bucket list. Add to it that I was working with Rick during the latter half of my shift, and it feels like I ran the New York City Marathon.

  Twice.

  I let myself into my dark apartment, staggering like a zombie toward my bed. I flop onto it face-first, not bothering to brush my teeth or even change my clothes even though they smell like the club—whiskey, perfume, and a hint of cigarette smoke. Normally, I bury my work clothes in the bottom of the laundry basket as soon as I get home, the stench of the evening preventing me from getting any sort of sleep. But, tonight, I’m too exhausted to care. Let the stink of lies, infidelity, and broken dreams invade my senses. It can’t be any worse than what I endured tonight.

  As expected, Rick’s behavior a few weeks ago came back to bite him in the ass. When I arrived at Ascent, I was greeted by a small group of protestors. The man Rick had kicked out that night had finally gone public with his story, posting it on Facebook in a local group. A reporter had picked up on it, and this morning, an article had been published about Rick’s indiscretion. Frankly, I’m surprised it took this long. I wasn’t exactly shocked when I saw the people with their signs outside our front door.

  What was surprising was Rick’s reaction. He came out of his office, informed us all of the situation, and told us to continue on with business as usual before returning back behind his closed door. No yelling. No cursing. No sign of anger whatsoever.

  In other words, completely inexplicable behavior when it comes to Rick.

  A few hours later, when he returned and joined me behind the bar, he was his normal jovial self, laughing and joking with the customers, flirting with the women, and ribbing me and Chuck whenever he had a chance. He still made his normal inappropriate jokes and offensive comments. But I thought we might get off easy tonight, considering what was going on outside.

  I should’ve known better though. Just before midnight, a crash of glass sounded behind me, the ghastly sound bringing the sort of peaceful chaos we’d been experiencing to a screeching halt. Turning around, I found Rick, his hands clenched at his sides, as he stood over the pile of broken glass, the veins in his neck bulging as he sneered at something across the bar.

  Snapping my head around, my eyes scann
ed the crowd in front of me, trying to seek out whatever it was that had so obviously set Rick off. But there was nothing. All I saw was a group of people laughing, dancing, and having a good time. Nothing that would warrant Rick throwing a glass to the floor and looking like he was seconds away from hulking out.

  I was just about to turn back to him, my plan to take him to the back for a few minutes to cool him down and find out what his deal was. Despite his veiled threats the other day, Rick and I seemed to be cool now. I knew, if I could just get him away from everyone, I could get him to chill the fuck out.

  But, before I could move, Rick was up and over the bar, storming through the crowd, shoving people out of his way, as he tried like hell to make it to whatever it was that had pissed him off.

  When I saw two men standing in line for the restroom, their fingers intertwined, I realized what was about to happen. I leaped over the bar, chasing after Rick in an attempt to stop him. But I was too late.

  As soon as he reached them, Rick’s fist connected with the chin of the man closest to him.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve, showing your face in here. You think you can stand outside my business, my livelihood, slandering my name all night long, and then just stroll on in here like nothing will happen?” he screamed at the men, the one on the floor holding his jaw as his partner leaned over him and tried to help him.

  I didn’t recognize the men from when I entered this evening, but they could’ve shown up later. Or maybe Rick just thought that, because they were gay, they must’ve been involved in the protest outside. I don’t know why a gay couple would’ve chosen to patronize his establishment, not with it what was going on out on the street being abundantly obvious. But I’ve also learned to never generalize or assume. Those men might’ve honestly just been here for a good time, not wanting any trouble whatsoever. But, because they were holding hands, Rick saw what he wanted to see.

  The men left, and when Rick realized he’d drawn an audience yet again, he shouted that drinks were on the house for the next ten minutes before he returned to his office. And Chuck and I spent the next three hours trying to talk down the situation. We poured drinks, deftly changing the subject whenever a customer had brought up the fight.

  I snuck away for a minute, sliding around the side of the building to see what was happening out front. The small protest that had been there earlier had exploded. What had been maybe ten people had snowballed into what looked like a hundred, their angry voices echoing down the entire street. I just hoped the music inside was loud enough to drown them out. If Rick knew it’d gotten this bad, there was no telling what he would do.

  Luckily, the rest of the evening seemed to pass without incident. The crowd outside dispersed with the throng of people exiting the club. By the time Chuck and I closed up the bar, everyone was gone. Everyone but Rick, that was. Just as I was about to lock the back door behind me, I noticed a sliver of light peeking out from under his door. Stepping back inside, I approached slowly, listening for any indication he might be in there. Maybe he just forgot to turn off the light.

  Hearing nothing, I knocked lightly. “Rick?”

  No response.

  Trying the handle, I was met with resistance. Locked. He was definitely in there.

  “Rick? You okay, man?” I asked, the words almost burning on my tongue.

  The person I should have been asking that question to was the man Rick had punched.

  I jiggled the handle again. “C’mon, Rick. I know you’re in there.”

  A loud sigh sounded from behind the door. “Just go away, Quinn. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I tried pushing. “You need to go home and get some rest, man.”

  “I said, go!” he roared, his angry tone setting my teeth on edge.

  How dare he be pissed at me when he was the one who had caused all the drama. Not only tonight, but also with his ridiculous reaction a few weeks ago.

  So, I left, dragging my ass home and finding myself flat on my face on top of my tiny bed.

  I bury my nose into the pillow, glad that yesterday was laundry day. The crisp scent of the detergent does wonders for drowning out the stink of the night. I can barely breathe, but I’m too tired to care. Maybe I’ll get lucky and pass out, and tomorrow, it’ll seem like this entire night was just a bad dream. A really, really bad dream.

  I need to quit that fucking job. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep pretending that Rick’s actions don’t tear me apart on the inside. I can’t keep walking past the people he’s hurt, watching the hatred and resentment fill their eyes as they realize I work for the offending bastard.

  But how in the hell am I going to do that? If I give up this job, there’s no telling when I’ll be able to find another. Not one that pays enough for me to make the rent.

  My phone chimes in my pocket, and I groan into the pillow. Who the fuck is texting me in the goddamn middle of the night?

  I swear to God, if this is Rick, I will kill him. I’ll drive my happy ass right back to that bar and beat him over the head with his own bat, the one he keeps in his office in case of emergencies.

  I’m tempted to ignore the message until morning, my arms too tired to move. But, when it sounds again, I flop over onto my back and pull it out with a sigh.

  Unknown Number: Hey, it’s Jaden.

  Unknown Number: Barker.

  I jackknife up into a sitting position, all the weariness I was feeling gone in an instant.

  Barker got a phone?

  An intense fullness fills my chest, my breath catching, as I read the words over and over. It takes me a second to realize what it is, especially after the night I’ve had.

  Happiness.

  Jaden actually went out and got a phone. He broke the rules. He risked getting caught.

  All so he could talk to me.

  I jump up off my bed, flailing around like a ten-year-old girl at a Justin Bieber concert.

  Not my manliest of moments.

  But, sometimes, you’ve just got to let out your inner fangirl. Or boy.

  That’s what I am. I’m totally a Jaden Barker fanboy. And he’s texting me.

  Good God. It’s like I’m back in high school.

  Taking a deep breath, I sit down on the edge of the bed, my fingers shaking as I type out my reply.

  Me: Hey. You did it!

  He sends back an emoji. A smiling puppy.

  Cute.

  Me: How does it feel to walk on the wild side?

  Unknown Number: Honestly? A little liberating.

  I save his number into my phone, smiling as I type out his name. I still can’t believe he actually did it.

  Me: You little rebel, you. I see I’m rubbing off on you already.

  A few minutes go by with no response. I wonder if I said something wrong. I know he’s read the message, the read receipt below it giving him away. He’s not asleep. Did he read too much into what I said? It was supposed to be a joke, but maybe it was too soon.

  I start to type out a reply to let him know I was kidding when I see those familiar three dots pop up on the screen. Deleting my message, I wait as the dots appear and disappear over and over.

  Two full minutes later, a message finally comes through.

  Jaden: I hope so.

  I smile. Three simple words, but after watching him type and delete, type and delete, I know how hard they were for him to say.

  Another text comes through before I can respond.

  Jaden: Can I ask you a question? Feel free to say no.

  Me: Ask me anything.

  Jaden: What was it like, coming out to your family?

  My eyebrows furrow. I wasn’t expecting that. I start to think about how to answer it when he texts again.

  Jaden: If I’ve overstepped, I apologize. Please tell me to buzz off.

  I laugh. I don’t think I’ve heard someone say buzz off since the second grade since we hadn’t yet discovered the magic of the word fuck.

  I type out a quick response, so he does
n’t think I’m ignoring him.

  Me: You could never overstep. I meant what I said. You can ask me anything. I’m just trying to find the best way to answer that. Can I get back to you?

  Jaden: Of course.

  Me: What’s your partner in crime up to?

  I ask it in an attempt to lighten the mood. I might not be sure how to answer his question, but I’m not ready for this conversation to be over.

  My family was…challenging. After the initial shock wore off, they were accepting. For the most part. My mother took the news the best, telling me she couldn’t care less about my sexuality as long as I was happy. My father on the other hand? I know he loves me. But I’d be lying if I said our relationship didn’t change a little after the fact. We used to be close. He and my mom split when I was little, and I lived with her. But he was always a part of my life, forever diligent about seeing me every other weekend and on holidays and those glorious two weeks we’d spend fishing and camping each summer. Now, we only talk a few times a year, if I’m lucky.

  I don’t want to make Jaden nervous though.

  It was tough for a while, letting it all sink in for everyone else. I’d known my whole life I was gay. But, until that summer between my junior and senior year of high school, nobody else in my family had any idea.

  Even still, I don’t regret doing it. Things might be tense with my dad, and it might make certain things more difficult than they would be if I were straight—working for a man like Rick, for instance—but there’s nothing like the feeling of finally being yourself. Not hiding behind a mask, hoping to skirt by on false acceptance and hidden feelings. Being able to be open about who I am is absolutely the best decision I ever made.

  That is another reason I need to quit my job. I can’t keep allowing Rick to make me feel inferior just because he happens to disagree with the way I live my life.

  I have more decency in my little finger than that asshole has in his entire body.

  And Jaden? Rick doesn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as someone this good. Yet he instinctively thinks he’s better just because we happen to be a little different.