Losing My Religion Read online

  I also learn that, in his free time back home, he likes to build computers. Yeah, not just play games on them. Actually build the dang things. Some of the words he uses make my head spin, and I realize Elder Daniels is way smarter than I’ll ever be.

  Strike two.

  And, when he’s not reading the scriptures or creating ultimate gaming machines out of spare parts, he spends his time at an animal shelter where he bathes, feeds, and walks all the animals nobody wants.

  So, basically, this guy is everything I’m not.

  Strike three.

  I tell him a little about myself, but it feels like nothing in comparison to his extracurricular activities. I play a little basketball with friends sometimes. I was on the debate team but was never any good. I’m pretty sure they only let me on the team to fill a spot. And, when the weather is nice on the weekends, I like to spend as much time as I can up in the mountains—camping, fishing, four-wheeling. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing just as long as I’m outside.

  Elder Scott returns while Elder Daniels is telling me about the one time he went camping and ended up with poison oak all over his body. He smiles when he sees the two of us laughing together, Elder Daniels reenacting the way he itched for days after his run-in with the plant.

  “Glad to see you boys are starting to bond. That’s good; that’s good. Your companion in the field will be your closest confidant. It’s great to start preparing for that now.”

  It’s unlikely that Elder Daniels and I will ever be companions in Los Angeles, but it’s not impossible. He’s been here a week, which means he’ll probably be leaving in just a few short days. English-speaking missionaries only spend about two weeks at the MTC, not needing the added time other missions require when there’s a second language involved. Even then, those missionaries are only here about eight or nine weeks, just long enough to learn the essentials of the language needed to be able to communicate with the residents of whatever country they’re being sent to.

  It’s a crash course on religion, teaching, and proselytizing, and the next two weeks of my life are going to be intense. I realize the fun is over when Elder Daniels gets to his feet, and he and Elder Scott indicate that I should follow them out of the room.

  Within five minutes, I’m settled behind a desk, my combination Bible, The Book of Mormon, and The Doctrine and Covenants open in front of me. I glance around the room at my fellow missionaries. Their heads are bent over their scriptures as they listen to the Elder at the front of the room, their hands furiously underlining and highlighting along with what he says.

  I lower my head to my own scriptures, my eyes scanning the page until I find the verse he’s reading from. Popping the lid off my pen, I begin to underline, making notes in the margins when he says something that strikes me as important to remember.

  And, just like that, I’ve become a Mormon missionary.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  * * *

  Quinn

  A fucking mouse just ran across my kitchen floor.

  I set the box I’m carrying on the counter before taking a few tentative steps toward the stove where the little bastard disappeared. I pull my phone out of my pocket, turning on the flashlight app and shining it in the darkness between the cabinet and stove.

  Nothing.

  But I know I saw something.

  Getting to my knees, I smack my hand against the oven door, hoping to startle the little shit out of its hiding place.

  Still nothing.

  I bang harder, grabbing onto the handle and trying to jostle the appliance around a little.

  Not a peep.

  I must be losing my mind.

  I climb back to my feet with a shrug, my knees popping from kneeling on the hard linoleum floor. It’s yellowed with age, the dingy material appearing to have once been white with little blue flowers. Now, it just looks like Uncle Joe’s tobacco teeth, dark stains marring the yellow surface from years of abuse and wear and tear.

  I grab the box again before walking to what is supposed to be the bedroom. In reality, it’s a glorified closet. A tiny twin bed, which came with the apartment, fills the entire room, leaving only about a foot of space on each side. I set the box on the bed, pulling a can of disinfectant spray out of the various cleaning supplies inside.

  I’m going to need about ten more of these suckers before I can even consider lying on that bed.

  After I’m sure all the creepy-crawlies have been thoroughly doused, I head back out to the living room and grab the few bags I packed when I left Alec’s place. Pretty much everything in that apartment was his. My clothes and a few other belongings fit in a small suitcase and a duffel with room to spare. All the kitchen shit was his, and if I’m honest, in the two years I was there, I didn’t use those pots, pans, and whatever the fuck else once. Alec was a great cook, and I was always willing to test out his creations. I sure as hell am going to miss that. My cooking expertise extends to toasting bread and boiling water. And, ninety percent of the time, I can’t even accomplish those simple tasks.

  I grin to myself as I unpack, pulling the expensive-ass coffeemaker from the bag in front of me. This was Alec’s, too. But I’d be damned if I let him have Gertie. We have a connection. She understands me in ways I don’t even know myself. It is some next-level shit. Our bond is downright spiritual. So, Alec can fuck off. Gertie is mine.

  I gently walk her into the kitchen, cradling her against my chest, as I show her through our new digs. She doesn’t look impressed. Can’t say I blame her. It’s got to be hard, going from marble to Formica. Gertie deserves better, damn it.

  I’ve just plugged her in, caressing her face as she beams up at me, when I hear a throat clear behind me. Turning at the sound, I find myself staring at two smiling faces. The two men look to be a few years my junior, and they must be new in town, their fresh faces not yet showing the ravages this city can bring. I return their smiles, wiping my hand on my jeans as I cross the room to greet them.

  I take in their appearance as I approach. The one closest to me is slightly taller, his dark hair buzzed down to his scalp. His friend might be shorter, but he’s got at least fifty pounds on the first guy. I wouldn’t say he’s fat. Pudgy maybe. Like he still has a little bit of baby fat he just can’t quite get rid of. This guy’s hair is also cut short, though the red curls are a lot harder to tame. Between the hair and his cherub face, he looks like he belongs on a bottle of sunscreen, a scraggly dog pulling his underwear and showing his bare ass.

  The taller one extends his hand to me before I have the chance. “Hey there. I’m Elder Fisher, and this is my companion, Elder Sullivan. We heard someone might be moving in up here today. Thought we’d come and see if we could lend a hand.”

  His words catch me off guard. Elder and Elder?

  Unless their parents hate them, I’m guessing those aren’t their actual first names. That means I’ve just moved into some sort of weird religious cult, and they’re going to try to get me to change my name to Elder, get a stupid haircut, and wear horrendous basketball shorts and baggy T-shirts.

  No, thanks.

  Don’t drink the punch, Quinn. No matter how tasty it looks. Just don’t drink it.

  I snicker to myself, the smile on my face widening at the thought of these two dressed in ceremonial robes, chanting and praying to the god of the brainwashed as they sip their Kool-Aid.

  Too bad, too, because the tall one is sort of cute. If circumstances were different, I might be interested in seeing which team he played for.

  The one called Fisher must mistake my grin for cordiality because he drops my hand and takes a step inside my new place. His partner follows closely behind him.

  “I think I’m all set, boys. Thanks for the offer though. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  Fisher’s hands rest on his hips as he takes in my living room. “You know, this is the same setup as our apartment when we first got here. Didn’t work out too well for us since there wasn’t room for two beds in the bedroom.
So, we reconfigured things. Made it a bit more comfortable. The living room is now the bedroom, which sounds kind of odd, I guess. But let me tell you; it works out so much better that way. It doesn’t feel like you’re about to be crushed by four walls. We could help you move things around if you want.”

  My ears perk up at the two-beds-in-the-bedroom comment. Why in the hell would these boys want to share a room? Unless I misjudged them. Maybe this isn’t some freaky religious thing. Maybe it’s a fetish thing. They’re the Elders, and they want me to be their little altar boy. Or whatever the fuck floats their boat.

  While that is slightly more appealing than the former option, it’s still not something I’m into.

  But the thought of not having to sleep in that tiny excuse for a bedroom has piqued my interest, so instead of kicking their sadomasochistic asses to the curb, I find myself nodding and saying, “That would be great.”

  There isn’t much to the apartment, but trying to do this on my own would have been difficult. Between the three of us, it only takes about a half hour to move the bed out to the living room and the dilapidated sofa into the bedroom. The guys even run downstairs to their own place, returning five minutes later with an old dresser.

  “We’ve got two down there, but really, all our stuff fits in one. And it’ll free up some extra space if we get rid of it. I’ll just let Elder Hansen know we lent it out. It’s yours until they need it elsewhere.”

  I thank them for their generosity, the dresser proving to make my life easier for the time being. Or at least more organized. I won’t have to live out of a suitcase for the foreseeable future. Still, I make a mental note to take a trip to IKEA as soon as I have some cash saved up. I don’t like the idea of owing these guys anything.

  Once everything is in place, the three of us stand around the bed, taking in our work. An awkward air fills the room, and I suddenly want them out of my place before they get any weird ideas. Reaching into my back pocket, I take out my wallet, ruffling through the last few dollars I have tucked inside.

  When Fisher sees what I’m doing, he immediately puts his hands up, waving me off. “No, no. We can’t accept that. We were just being neighborly. It was our pleasure, really.”

  Grateful I won’t have to give these two my last ten bucks, therefore being able to feed myself tonight, I fold my wallet and tuck it back into my jeans. I clap Fisher on the shoulder, nodding to Sullivan in the process. He’s barely said two words the whole time they’ve been here, making it clear that Fisher is the leader of the two.

  “Well, thank you so much for your help. I appreciate it more than you know. Just knowing I won’t have to sleep in that coffin disguised as a bedroom already has me breathing easier.”

  Fisher laughs, shrugging out of my grasp and taking a step back. Interesting. Maybe they’re not looking to be my Christian Greys after all.

  Fisher extends his hand out to me again. “It was great to meet you, uh…” He trails off, as if just now realizing I never introduced myself earlier.

  “Quinn,” I supply, not offering him my last name.

  I still don’t know what this guy’s story is, and if there’s one thing LA has taught me, it’s not to give too much information to people you don’t know. That’s how you end up buried in the walls of a creepy house and on the front page of the LA Times.

  “Quinn,” Fisher repeats. “It was nice meeting you, Quinn.”

  Sullivan finally finds his voice, taking a step forward and offering me his hand. “It was nice to meet you, Quinn,” he parrots.

  “Yeah, you, too,” I say, giving his hand a quick shake before dropping it. “I’m sure I’ll see you boys around.”

  I make a move toward the door, trying to indicate that I’d like them to leave now without actually saying the words. Sullivan seems to get the hint, backing up until he reaches the door, his hand resting on the knob as he waits for Fisher to join him.

  Fisher, on the other hand, appears to have missed my subtle prod, the big grin I saw when he first appeared in my doorway plastered on his face once more.

  “Actually, Quinn, is there a time this week you’d be available to talk with us? You see, we’re missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, and we’d love to share the Lord’s message of salvation with you.”

  Oh, fuck me.

  “Uh, actually, my week is pretty busy. Two jobs and all that,” I explain, my eyes dropping to the floor in my discomfort.

  “Understandable,” Fisher says. “You let us know if anything opens up. I think you’d really like to hear what we have to say.”

  Yeah, okay. I’ll be sure to do that. Maybe I can get a root canal while I’m at it.

  “Will do. Thanks again, guys.”

  This time, they leave without a fuss. As soon as the door closes behind them, I throw the dead bolt and slide the chain into place, effectively locking out anyone else who might be lurking. That’ll teach me to leave my front door open even if it is only for a few minutes.

  I grab my phone off my bed and walk into the kitchen. Gertie is right where I left her, and I lean my elbows on the cheap countertop next to her, unlocking the screen on my phone and pulling up the internet browser. Once it’s loaded—the service in this dump sucks ass —I type in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. The words struck a chord in my brain when Fisher said them, but I can’t seem to place where I’ve heard them before.

  As soon as the page loads, I groan.

  Mormons.

  I live upstairs from goddamn Mormon missionaries.

  The idea of crazy fetish freaks suddenly doesn’t seem so bad.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  * * *

  Jaden

  My hands tremble as I grab my suitcase from the overhead bin of the plane. The past two weeks of my life are a blur, each day coming and going in a whirlwind of activity and training. And prayer. I don’t think I’ve ever prayed so much in my entire life. First thing in the morning, at the beginning and end of every lesson, at every meal, before and after every gathering, at the end of every night. I’ve never been closer to God than I am right now.

  Except that’s the problem, isn’t it? No matter how often you prayed, you still haven’t found the answer to the one thing you need to know.

  Am I doing the right thing?

  I attempt to shove down the thought as I get in line to deboard the plane, but it’s finally starting to hit me that this is real. I’m actually on my mission. For the next two years, I’ll be spending my days sharing the gospel of the church. A gospel I’m still not sure I believe in anymore.

  I shouldn’t be here. Nothing about this feels right. I was hoping I’d have my moment at the MTC. The moment where everything snapped into place, and I was overwhelmed with my undying faith and testimony.

  Only it never came.

  Being around thousands of other missionaries in training only seemed to further solidify that I wasn’t like them. That I would never be like them.

  And, now, here I am, seconds away from stepping off an airplane and into the next part of my journey.

  Here goes nothing, I think as I step off the plane and into the jetway.

  It’s easy to spot my mission president in the throng of people waiting at the end. There are dozens of men in suits around, but only one has that vibe most members of the church seem to carry around with them everywhere.

  Even growing up in Utah, surrounded by thousands and thousands of Mormons, I could always tell at first sight if someone was a member. And ninety-nine percent of the time, I was right. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. There’s just a certain air people of the LDS faith possess. When I mentioned this observation to my mother several years ago, she told me it was the spirit. Now that I’m older, I’m not sure I believe that. But there’s definitely something…different about them.

  And, if that isn’t enough of an indication, the fact that the man wears a mission badge on his left breast is a dead giveaway to who he is. It perfectly matches the one
on my own chest, except for the last name. As such, the second I step out into the terminal, the man steps forward, greeting me with that familiar missionary handshake.

  “Elder Barker. It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Elder Shaw, and this is my wife, Sister Shaw,” he introduces, his arm stretching out behind him.

  It isn’t until that moment when I notice the woman standing there. Dressed in a long skirt and fitted blazer, she’s every inch the female version of her husband. Their postures, their demeanors, even their mannerisms are all the same as the woman steps forward to take my hand.

  “We’re so pleased to have you, Elder Barker. I hope this mission brings you as much joy as it has to us. We’ve been here for about eighteen months now, and it’s just been wonderful. So many blessings have been bestowed upon us.”

  I smile at the woman. She and her husband both look to be in their sixties, which is pretty typical of mission presidents and their wives. People who serve missions later in life are usually retired, all their kids grown with families of their own. It’s always made more sense to me for these people to be the ones spreading the word of God. They have years and years of experience and testimonies made of steel. Yet they aren’t the ones out proselytizing. They only meet with investigators once they start attending church services, leaving all the teaching to us—the scared eighteen- to twenty-one-year-old boys who have no idea what life holds.

  Or maybe that’s just me.

  Elder Shaw and his wife quickly lead me out to the car. As we make our way to the city, they tell me all about the area and my fellow missionaries. Everything about this area is different from what I’m used to. I stare in wonder at all the people on the streets—the well-dressed businessmen making their way between meetings, the elegant women strolling down the sidewalk in their six-inch stilettos with tiny children trailing behind them. Even the kids seem glamorous here. No hand-me-down clothes and chocolate-smeared faces. These kids are stylish, their outfits probably costing more than everything I have packed in this suitcase combined. In fact, that kid over there appears to have highlights in his blond hair. I’m not entirely sure he’s out of diapers yet.