She hesitates, then says, “I like church.”
“Okay,” I murmur. “Tell me about it.”
“It’s religious, though.”
“I know, baby. Keep talking to me.”
I pace in my room, because I want to hear her. I don’t want her to hang up. She doesn’t want to have sex, fine. She wants what we can’t give each other because of faith and family. Also fine. Just her voice. A distraction. I need it at this moment before she takes the one thing that’s been getting me by.
And she does talk. For hours I listen. We tell stories, share our favorite foods, places, things that make us smile.
She laughs that beautiful way she does. “And Tommy walked out with paint as hair gel?”
“Uh huh. The whole crew always keeps me on my toes.”
“That must be tiring.”
“It is,” I say. “But it’s worth it most days. Just wish it was easier and I could hire more people.”
“I can give you money. It’ll help,” she says carefully, as if she is walking through a minefield. “I’m not trying to emasculate you, but I want to help you, Jack.”
It guts because I do need help. I should accept it for the crew, but it feels fucking wrong now. Like I slithered into a holy place and stole a golden chalice.
I ignore her offer, and in haste, a secret spills from my lips.
“I dated Claire a year ago. I brought her to the center. She visited now and then, but always got overwhelmed. It’s why we ended things.”
“Oh? I’m sorry.”
There’s a sadness in her voice. I am unsure why, but the other half of that secret bursts free from a dark place I rarely go.
“Sometimes, when I slow down, I worry I won’t meet a woman who can handle my life. Even with just Tommy, what girl would want a guy with a special needs brother who’ll never move out?”
“Oh, Jack,” she soothes, her voice cracking with pity I didn’t need. I just wanted to tell someone. Anyone.
She says what I expected: “That isn’t true.”
Resigned and tired, I give her what she wants in return.
“Yeah, you’re right.”
A lie.
There’s a painfully long pause. It’s too unbearably quiet, like she’s Claire and drowning in the waters of my ugly truth.
I break and pivot fast.
“What’s your fear? The one you don’t tell people?”
She replies quick, eager to flee from the secret I just dropped.
“I’m scared if I do everything right, I still won’t be happy.”
I hoped she’d say she doubted God was real. Instead, she said something sweet. I admire her for it.
“You’ll be happy, Morgan.”
“How can you be so sure?”
