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“Please, come!” Eric shouted, tugging on Adam’s arm.
“No.”
“Please, Adam!”
“Pull on my arm again, Trombona. I dare you.” Adam worked to keep his face neutral but inside he was viciously recoiling from the idea of having to accompany Eric’s family to Sunday morning service. “I said no.”
“Do I have to sic Tiny on you?” Eric threatened, his signature smile in place. “Is that what you want? Because I’ll do it.”
Adam saw Eric’s youngest sister, Tiny, in his mind’s eye. With her small, dark face and cherubic cheeks. The thought of disappointing her made his jaw tick.
“How many times do I have to say ‘no’ before it sticks in your slippery head? I’m not going to fucking church with you.” They were in the commons’ room at Moordale and his agitated tone drew the attention of a few girls nearby.
Eric’s smile faltered. “Adam, it’s alright. I wasn’t being serious. You don’t have to go, obviously—”
Adam lifted himself out of the recliner he was sitting on and made to leave. “If you’re not serious then I wish you’d quit bangin’ on about it.”
“Adam,” Eric called after him.
He didn’t stop.
*
They’d been dating for six weeks and Adam was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Eventually, Trombona would realize there wasn’t much more to him than what he’d already seen. Sooner or later (and Adam couldn’t decide whether he wanted it to be sooner or later), he would grasp Adam’s fundamental misunderstanding of good and bad—of right and wrong—and make the advised decision to cut him out of his life. He was too smart not to.
For Adam, being good had always been a choice. He’d witnessed others operate as though caught beneath an invisible thumb—some great force pushing them to do right, to be kind, to take responsibility even when the consequences were dire—and had written the phenomenon off immediately as a weakness he was lucky not to possess. He felt no pressure to be good or nice. He felt no great pull in any direction, really, and was content to be tossed around by life like a loose paper bag.
Until Eric, that is.
If life was a strong wind, then Eric was the flame that refused to go out. And if Adam was a paper bag, then he was ready to be burnt. Eager, even. He already felt like nothing. Eric, in his own unique way, brought warmth to the nothingness.
The two sat across from each other in the cafeteria. Adam watched as Eric laughed in response to something on Otis’ phone. His boyfriend tipped his head back and spread his lips. Underneath the skin on his neck, his throat muscles worked hard. His teeth shone like square pearls. So fucking bright, Adam thought to himself. Just then, Eric glanced up and caught Adam staring (which was a regular occurrence). This time, though, his smile turned weak and watery.
It’d been like this since Adam’s impromptu walk-out. He wasn’t sure how to fix it, so he just pretended like he was too thick to notice.
*
“Why don’t you want to come?” Eric asked. It was Friday afternoon. He laid on his stomach on Adam’s bed, the orange pen he’d once lent to Adam stuck between his teeth.
Adam, who sat on the floor playing drums with the chemistry book in his lap, sighed. “This again?”
“I’m not trying to convince you. You made yourself abundantly clear the other day.” Eric shrugged. “I just want to know why.”
Adam made his lips into a frown. “Don’t have a reason… Just don’t want to go.”
“But why?” Eric pushed.
“’Cause, Trombona. Now, drop it.”
Eric peered at him like a scientist peers through a microscope at an infinitesimally small creature laid out in explicit detail. He knew just how to unsettle Adam. “What are you afraid of?”
Adam rose up onto his knees and, placing his hands on his thighs, said: “Listen to me. Are you listening? You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Eric put the cap back on his pen and started gathering his stuff.
Adam breathed out through his nose. “Where the fuck are you going?”
“I think I’ll be the one to leave first this time, Adam.” Eric was rarely harsh with him, but his clipped tone left little room for misunderstanding.
Adam felt his hands curl into fists. “Fine, Trombona. I’ll go to your shitty church.”
Eric didn’t acknowledge him. He merely kept packing his books into his book bag. Adam wanted to rip the bag out of his calm hands and dump the books on the floor. Instead: “Did you hear me? I said I’ll go, since it’s so important to you.”
Eric shouldered his book bag. “Don’t do me any favors, Adam. I just wanted to talk, but—you don’t know how. It’s fine. Whatever.”
He attempted to sidestep Adam, but the kneeling boy gripped onto his pant leg. “That’s bullshit. Just… Tell me what you want and I’ll do it.” They were going into half-term. If Eric left angry now, Adam didn’t know when he’d see him again.
Eric stared pointedly at his hand. “Let go.”
Adam obeyed, exhaling sharply. Then, he was alone.
*
Eric sat down to breakfast Sunday morning wearing his best green sweater and a lilac cravat. He could barely hear his own thoughts over his sisters’ bickering, but that was probably a good thing. All he could think about was how angry he was at Adam.
“Pass the butter,” he said, spreading a napkin over his pleated teal pants.
“Get it yourself,” Marreese replied, before returning to her fight with Ambrose.
Eric scoffed, but ultimately retrieved the butter himself. He was always doing things himself. The task of unearthing Adam’s true feelings had always been one-hundred percent on him. The other boy made it seem like he was pulling teeth, when all he really wanted was a modicum of vulnerability. How were they ever going to progress if Adam couldn’t share anything?
“You look like nice, Eric.” His mother sat down to the table holding a steaming cup of tea. “Very nice. Does this mean Adam is coming to church with us?”
“I dress for myself, Mum, thank you. And no.” Eric lowered his head. “Turns out Adam couldn’t make it.” He’d told them all days ago that Adam was going to be there “for sure.”
“Why not!?” Tiny yelled, abandoning her muffin. “You said Adam was coming!”
“I don’t know why, Tiny. Now finish your muffin.”
Tiny looked on the outside how Eric felt on the inside—sad and no longer hungry.
*
“Eric, we’re leaving!”
Eric slipped on his shoes and rushed downstairs. Everyone was crowded behind his father, who stood at the open door, not moving.
“Eric,” his father said. “It’s for you.” His hulking form moved out of the way to reveal a slender one, clad in a suit and tie.
His sisters ooo’d and aww’d.
Eric’s mouth dropped open. “Adam?”
“You came!” Tiny yelled, already partially out of the house. She launched herself at him and Adam stooped to pick her up.
“Hope it’s still alright,” he said, locking eyes with his boyfriend.
Eric caught the apologetic gleam therein and smiled. “You’re late,” he said.
The edges of Adam’s lips tilted up. “This fucking—” He yanked at his poorly knotted tie. “Nearly strangled myself trying to get it right.”
Eric, positively beaming, replied: “I’ll re-tie it for you on the way.”
*
Adam’s parents had left on Friday for their week-long holiday in Kent with hard-ironed instructions. No parties. Take care of Madam. No smoking in the house. Take care of Madam. Clean up after himself. Take care of Madam. No friends over. Take care of Madam. Etcetera, etcetera. He didn’t have any friends, so that was a moot point. When Sunday rolled around, his options were to either lie on his back and contemplate how much he was disappointing Trombona, or… Go to church.
There hadn’t been much of a choice in the matter.
The choir finished singing and from the corner of his eye, Adam saw Mr. Effiong, covered in sweat, crying. His bald head glistened and his cheeks were wet with tear tracks. To see a man like him brought to such emotion by a song… Adam wished he’d actually been listening.
Adam stood in stark contrast to the all-black congregation, but his skin wasn’t the reason he felt so out of place. It was their smiles—genuine and welcoming—that set him on edge. It was their easy laughter when the preacher told a joke. The way they’d turn to the next person and look knowingly into their eyes whenever the preacher said something meaningful. The way they swayed smoothly from foot to foot, while Adam couldn’t help feeling just slightly off balance. The more he noticed his own inability to blend in, the angrier he grew.
“Now, I wanna speak to you personally. Each and every one of you.” The preacher enunciated his words heavily. He cast his eyes out over the congregation like they were arrows capable of piercing mortal souls. Those eyes fell on Adam and the young man shifted in discomfort until they left. “I know what you’ve been thinking. I hear you in the spirit. Hear your soul crying out!”
Adam resisted the urge to grit his teeth.
“I hear you saying, “I was not made to be loved!””
Instead, his jaw went slack.
“Believe you me—I hear you. I hear you saying, “Love is not for me! No, no. It makes me itch! It burns me! I’m not built for it. I’m no good! Jesus has got no business loving me and I got no business loving anybody!” But you’re wrong!”
Preacher swept his hand out over the podium and his long, purple sleeve caressed the dark wood. Adam felt struck.
“Love is for you! Yes, yes! It makes you strong! It’s sweet! You’re built for it. You’re made good and whole by it! It’s Jesus’ business to love you and it’s your business to love everybody!”
The congregation cheered. People shouted, stomped, beat the air with their fists. Adam couldn’t move a muscle even if he wanted to. He could only watch and listen.
“You don’t need to let down the gates, because Jesus is knocking down your walls today. I’m here to bring news—good news—that a siege is underway. I’m here to tell you, it’s okay to surrender.”
A steady pressure was rising inside his body. He heard his father’s voice calling him a disappointment. Saw his father’s face turning away, over and over again, because he couldn’t bear to look at him. He heard Aimee saying she couldn’t be with him anymore because he was too embarrassing. Adam’s hands curled into fists so tight the fingernails bit into the skin of his palm.
“You think nobody wants you? You think you’re in this world alone, forsaken, cast out, worthless, unappreciated, unloved? Nothing could be further from the truth! Because Jesus, is one, with you! Yes, he is!”
Adam felt the pressure reach a point of no return. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do next. Unspeakable anger had swelled to fury in his chest. Black tar, thick and painful… He was a terrible person who didn’t even deserve to breathe, let alone be loved. He could feel that—the truth of it—choking the life out of him…
When someone took hold of his hand. Adam glanced down expecting it to be Eric, but it wasn’t. It was the elderly woman on the other side of him. She came to about the middle of his chest and had to crane her neck to look at him. Adam saw that she had bluish-white cataracts blotting out both eyes, but even so—he felt her gaze as though she could see. She squeezed his hand harder than she should’ve been able to and, after several seconds passed, lifted up onto her tiptoes to kiss him on the face.
Adam blinked and water came out.
The molten anger residing in his chest had turned cold as fear. He kept blinking and water kept coming out. What was happening to him? Seriously. What the fuck was happening to him?
“Adam?”
Eric had just glanced over to find the strangest scene. Ms. Beck, the oldest crone in a church full of old crones—with her shock of white hair and her rubbery skin—was kissing Adam on the cheek. And Adam was crying.
Eric reached out a hand to squeeze his boyfriend’s arm. “Adam, are you alright?”
Adam turned—keeping a tight grip on Ms. Beck, meanwhile—and Eric gazed in wonder at his new face. This was an Adam he had never seen. An Adam he had never dreamed, or even imagined, existed.
An Adam who wasn’t the least bit angry.
Eric wound his arms around him and Adam buried his face into his neck. Massive, wrenching sobs worked their way out of his body, but they blended right in with the sounds of the congregation. People nearby leaned in close and laid their hands on Adam’s back, including Mr. and Mrs. Effiong. They prayed over him and spoke in tongues.
They blessed him.
*
Eric’s family went to lunch afterwards and no one mentioned Adam’s breakdown. Even so, he felt raw—exposed—and kept a tight grip on Eric’s hand the entire time.
“Do you want to stay over at mine tonight?” Adam peeked over at Eric. They were peeing in the restaurant bathroom. It was the first time they’d been alone together all morning.
Eric gave him a cheeky smile and zipped up his pants. “Like a sleepover?”
Adam coughed (to avoid smiling). “You’re so gay.”
Eric barked out a laugh and went to wash his hands. “What would you call it then?”
Adam stuffed himself back into his pants and flushed. “Don’t need to call it anything.” He came up behind Eric, wrapped his arms around him, and proceeded to wash his hands underneath his.
Eric leaned into him and hummed. “Fine. I’ll ask my parents if I can sleepover at Otis’s.”
Adam kissed Eric on the neck and flicked water onto his face.
“ADAM!”
Then he fucked off—laughing hysterically—before Eric could get him back.
*
Eric arrived at Adam’s house at a quarter past seven. The sun was setting and cast a warm orange glow on the front door. He knocked tentatively. Before he could even remove his hand, the door swung open. Adam grabbed him and pulled him inside the dark interior.
They stood nose to nose in the tiny foyer, staring at one another.
“Trombona,” Adam greeted.
“Adam.” The staring continued. Eric felt like molten fish were swimming upstream in his gut. He sniffed at the air. “What’s that smell?”
Adam smiled mischievously. “Dinner.”
Eric’s neck jutted forward and his eyes went wide. “You cooked? You?”
Adam flicked him on the forehead, then departed. Eric followed behind, too amazed to notice the slight sting Adam’s hand had left behind.
When he entered the dining room, Madam ran up to his feet, barked excitedly.
“’ello Madam,” Eric said, bending down and holding out his hand. Madam placed her paw in his and he shook it.
Adam emerged from the kitchen holding a steaming dish. “Now you’ll have to wash your hands. Hurry up. Dinner’s almost ready.”
Eric had to resist the urge to laugh.
*
It was becoming increasingly clear to Eric that Adam had put quite a bit of thought into the evening.
The two clinked glasses of red wine (which Adam admitted to stealing from a locked cabinet in his parent’s room) over a feast of lamb stew, boiled green beans, and mash. Adam fixed Eric’s plate. He sat next to him, instead of across, and leaned his leg into his underneath the table. Their arms brushed every now and again as one reached for their glass or the other added more mash to their plate. It was tantalizing. Eric was so consumed, he barely tasted the food. And they didn’t speak. Not at all. They ate and drank and looked at each other and said nothing.
From there, Eric watched as Adam set up a pallet of blankets and pillows on the floor of the living room.
“Are you cold?” Adam asked, laying down the final quilt.
“Uh—” The true answer was Not really, but Eric was interested to see what Adam would do next. “A bit, yeah.”
Adam opened a large chest beside the fireplace and began stacking blocks of wood in the hearth. Eric almost came in his pants. As it was, he felt light headed and allowed himself to sink off the couch onto the pallet.
Ten minutes later and Adam had abandoned a sizeable fire to lie beside Eric on the floor.
“Adam, this is—” Eric shook his head. He was at a loss for words. He’d never guessed his boyfriend had this in him.
Adam regarded him from underneath heavily hooded eyes, contemplating. Then, he swallowed. “I love you.”
Eric sat up. Had he heard that right?
Adam was watching him, not wary per say, but not completely unguarded either. Therefore, Eric took a page from his boyfriend’s playbook and swung his leg over Adam’s body, knocking the larger boy onto his back.
“Say it again.”
Adam rolled his eyes, but his hands came up to grip Eric’s thighs. “No. Not until you do.”
“Adam.” Eric leaned down until their noses were almost touching. “I love you, too.”
Adam wrapped Eric in a vice-like grip and flipped them until he was on top. His face was open now. Eric thought he could imagine what Adam must have looked like as a boy—young and free and happy.
“You know what the pastor was saying earlier? About not being worthy and stuff?” Adam ran his hands along his boyfriend’s neck and felt hunger blossom deep in the pit of his stomach.
Eric nodded. He was slowly but surely melting into putty in his boyfriend’s hands, but still—he tried with all his might to pay attention to Adam’s words.
“I want to be worthy of your love, Trombona.” Adam leaned his forehead against Eric’s. “I want to try, anyway.”
Eric pecked Adam on the lips and grabbed his face with both hands. “You’re already worthy, Adam. You don’t have to try. You’re perfect. You’re loved.” Then he kissed him. Deeply.