The devil inside, p.13
The Devil Inside, page 13
“He’s right over there.”
I pushed away from the table and stood. “Gerry. You came for the bazaar?”
“Oh, sweetie, give me sugar.” She squeezed me with all her might.
I embraced her back, catching Micah’s eye over her shoulder as he shuffled through the crowd to catch up with his runaway mother. “Micah’s home and he brought you. That’s really great.”
“I can’t miss the bazaar. I come every year, even though this place has issues. Let me tell you.”
“Not now, Ma.” Micah glanced around, a nervous tension seeping from his pores.
I released Geraldine and shook his hand, seeing him for the first time since I’d learned his secret. No wonder he was tense. Geraldine hadn’t been part of the church for a long time, but when she caught wind of events, there was no stopping her. Maybe she forgot why she’d quit coming in the first place. I was more and more certain that reason was the man in front of me.
“My boy is home from his big wedding day. Did you know—”
“Ma! Not. Here.” Micah emphasized, kissing her cheek and glancing around the room again, eyes wary.
“Oh. Ohhhhh.” Geraldine covered her mouth. “It’s a secret,” she whispered. “Goddamn Republicans.”
Micah and I both flinched and looked at her with confusion before we shared a laugh. She was so far in left field neither of us had a clue where her mind had strayed.
I leaned in and whispered into Geraldine’s ear. “I already know about the wedding. You showed me the pictures, remember?”
Her eyes grew wide, and she nodded. Something dawned on her, and she turned to Micah. “My Jimmy took me dancing.”
Micah grinned, eyeing me. “You told me all about it, Ma. How he spun you around and dipped you like a real gentleman.”
My cheeks heated, and I glanced back at my parents and Candy who were seated at the table, watching. “Yeah, well, you know…”
“She hasn’t stopped talking about it,” Micah said. “You’re her knight in shining armor. Thank you. She thinks she was there, and that makes me happy. I wanted to bring her, but the doctor didn’t think it was a good idea with her health.”
“Yeah. No problem.”
A silence fell between us and grew awkward. I couldn’t meet Micah’s eyes. The way he shuffled, I thought he felt the same. It wasn’t the time or place to discuss these things.
“Come on, Ma. Let’s go get in line for food, then we can look at all the booths and buy jam for your scones.”
“Oh, yes. It’s a wonderful shopping day. I hope Mildred made her marmalade. You take care, Jimmy.”
“You too, Gerry. We’ll see you again.”
I gave a small wave and watched Micah guide her away toward the line. The gold wedding band on his finger caught the light and drew my attention. He was married. To a man. And he was smiling and happy, and Geraldine didn’t give a shit. She was proud of her son.
The whole thing knotted up my insides in a way I couldn’t decipher or understand.
Micah seemed carefree, unconcerned as he walked into the house of God after committing, what my parents might consider, a cardinal sin. It was the other parishioners he worried about most. Their judgment, not His. And there I was hiring hookers off the street and lying to everyone just to give the impression I was normal and happy.
Who was more wrong? Micah or me? I knew who was happier.
When a stab of jealousy hit me, I pressed my fingers against the cuts hiding under my pants. Pain shot up my leg, and I gritted my teeth through it, knowing I’d probably made it bleed again. I wasn’t supposed to feel jealous. I didn’t want Micah’s life. I wanted to be cleansed of this evil. I wanted to be freed from the binds keeping me prisoner.
I was so tired of all of it.
Oakland’s face flashed across my mind. His eyes. Their intensity. His lips. The explosion of his flavor on my tongue when he’d kissed me. His hard body pinning me against my truck. The delicious scratch of his scruff on my face.
I pinched my eyes closed and dug harder into the wound on my leg, inflicting as much pain as possible. Punishing and washing away the rising pleasure the memory caused.
I needed to get out of there.
ELEVEN
Oakland
I traced my thumb over his name on the label. Fifteen years of choosing this particular brand of whiskey all because his name called to something hidden away inside me. I’d buried it, but not deeply enough. His reappearance stole my ability to keep my unwanted emotions at bay. They’d overtaken me, flooded my system until they—he—was the only thing I could think about.
I peered over my shoulder, past the balcony door, and into the house. Amanda was somewhere inside, leaving me alone because I’d asked her to. She was worried about me. I’d been a train wreck lately, even worse than usual.
She didn’t deserve this.
I uncapped the bottle and took another generous pull. Staring across the city, I watched the busy nightlife below, wondering what direction to take. Two paths were laid out in front of me, and it was time to decide.
It had been three days since I’d kissed Jameson outside our group meeting. Three days since I’d come home, looked at my wife, and wondered, Can I do this forever? Can I pretend? Will I ever be able to fumble my way through to the other side of this nightmare and be the husband she needs?
Who was I? Who did I want to be?
Was there even a choice?
If the sickness wouldn’t go away, maybe it was because I wasn’t truly sick. Dr. Jennings had said as much. But if I wasn’t sick, then there was only one other answer. And I didn’t know if I was ready to admit it out loud.
Deep in a closed-off part of my brain, I’d known the answer since grade school. Since the first time I had set eyes on Jameson Davis all those years ago.
I drank more and lit a smoke. For the hundredth time, I stared at the concrete ground sixteen stories below. It would be the easier way out. It would eliminate my need to examine this further. The pull was ever-present, drawing me to the edge, whispering in my ear.
I drank more and finished my smoke. Instead of toying with the idea of jumping, I shoved away from the railing and went inside. I washed down two oxy with another swig of whiskey and left the bottle on the counter.
It was now or never.
Amanda was in our bedroom, propped against the headboard with her Kindle on her lap and a cup of tea on the bedside table. Green tea, her favorite. She was deeply engrossed in her book and didn’t notice me hovering in the doorway. I watched her, noting how her soft curls tumbled over her shoulders, how she nibbled the corner of her nail because whatever she was reading had her anxious. She was innocent in all this, an unfortunate victim.
The oxy hadn’t kicked in, but a haze surrounded me from the alcohol and the few pills I’d taken earlier. I shifted, and the movement caught her attention.
She glanced up and smiled, but it was weak and full of concern. “Hey, baby. Is everything okay?”
I rubbed the back of my neck and sucked in a breath of courage. “Can we talk?”
“Yeah.” She set her Kindle aside, a worry line appearing across her forehead. “Come sit.”
I aimed for the bed, my thoughts racing. They were disconnected and falling on top of one another. I needed to sort through them and get them out.
I sat beside her and took her hands. They were warm and soft. The scent of her rose petal body wash drifted in the air. Inhaling, I closed my eyes, seeking strength. How was I supposed to begin?
“I love you. You know that, right?”
“I know. Just talk to me, Oak. It’s okay, whatever it is. I’m here for you.”
I ducked my chin and swallowed a lump, grappling for an edge to hold onto because I was tumbling into the abyss. “How’s your book? Are you still reading that mystery series?”
“Oak.” She tipped my chin and leaned forward, kissing my lips and lingering close. “Talk to me.”
“I don’t know where to start.”
“Doesn’t matter.” She stroked my cheek. “Start wherever you want.”
“Okay. Um …” I blew out a breath and closed my eyes, seeking stability. Everything spun. I opened my eyes and met her baby blues, so gentle and caring. “A couple weeks back, I shared something with my doctor that I haven’t told anyone before. I … I think it’s time you know too.”
“Okay.” Her worry deepened.
“I want to tell you because it’s the root of everything that’s wrong with me. The depression. The pills. The thoughts of killing myself. The … stuff that isn’t working between us … in the bedroom.”
She stayed silent, but her eyes grew shiny, and I could only imagine what she was thinking.
“When I was seventeen, my parents sent me away to this place. A facility of sorts. Not around here. It was up north. Far away. They told me it was because I was sick, and this place would make me better. It was a bad place, Amanda. I was physically and mentally tortured every day, and I’m not going to get into details because it isn’t something I want to relive, and I don’t think you’d want to hear it. Just believe me when I say it was bad.”
I squeezed her hands, mine as cold as ice, like my life’s blood had drained from my body and I was nothing more than a corpse. That was what they’d done to me. They’d taken away everything that made me who I was and sent me back into the world a shell of a man.
“When I got out of there, I thought I was better. Healed. But I wasn’t. What they tried to … cure … wasn’t cured. I was scared because I didn’t want to go back, so I’ve been battling with it for fifteen years, suppressing it, fighting it. Avoiding and denying it. I’ve been pushing it away as much as I possibly can.”
“Are you sick, Oak?”
I shook my head and looked down at our joined hands. Mine trembled. “That’s just it. I … don’t think I was ever sick. They were trying to fix something that can’t be fixed. Something that wasn’t broken.”
“I don’t understand.”
My throat tightened and choked off my words. I had to take a minute to find my voice again. I met Amanda’s eyes and pushed her hair behind her ear as I studied the finer points of her beauty. Her freckles, the tiny mole beside her eye, the way her lashes fanned out with each blink, and the way her lower lip naturally pouted when she was sad. Like now.
“Oak?”
“I think … No.” I shook my head adamantly. “I don’t think it. I know it.”
“Know what?”
“I’m gay, Amanda. I’m gay, and they tried to make me not gay, and it didn’t work because you can’t change a person like that.”
“You’re gay? But …” Her lower lip quivered, and tears filled her eyes. “B-but that can’t be right. Are you sure?”
I nodded and wiped her tears with my thumb, hating myself for causing her pain. “Think about it. It explains a lot, doesn’t it?”
Her gaze turned inward, and she knew. She saw it too. “But …” She couldn’t finish her sentence and broke down in tears.
I tucked her against me and let her cry. What more could I do? I essentially just told her our marriage was a sham, and it was all my fault because I’d refused to face the truth for fifteen years.
Long into the night, I convinced her to lie down beside me. The opiates had given me a nice cushion, dampening the blow. I kissed her head and stroked her back as she slept in my arms. I wondered if this would be the last time I would hold her like this. Despite everything, it stung. She’d been a big part of my life for a long time.
I’d been aching and fighting to feel more for her for years. The hollowness inside frightened me. More than anything, I had wanted to make love to her without wondering if my body would work, and I had wanted to feel those things I was supposed to feel—those things I’d felt once a long time ago, for another person, a boy, a man who I’d discovered was more lost than me.
Letting Amanda go hurt more than I thought. I didn’t hate her or resent her or blame her for anything. This was all on me. I loved her the only way I knew how, but it would never be enough. There would always be something missing.
It was after three in the morning when sleep finally dragged me under. Amanda spoke, jarring me awake once again. “Oak?”
“Yeah, sweetheart.”
“What was the place they sent you to?”
“It was a facility where they performed a sort of conversion therapy. I’m not sure it’s legal, but I was a kid, and I didn’t know any better. It was cruel, baby.”
She lifted her head, her face lit by the light of the moon coming in the window. “And they hurt you there?”
“They did things to try and change the way I felt toward men. Change the way I thought and the way my body responded. They made me believe I was sick.”
“Why did your parents send you there? How did they know?”
I wet my lips and ducked my chin, familiar shame still holding me tight. “They caught me with a guy from school. Our parents had strong beliefs about homosexuality. His were religious. Mine were just bigots. I don’t know who discovered the facility, but our parents were friends, and we were both sent there.”
“Caught you doing what?”
“Amanda, I’m not—”
“Did you sleep with him?”
I chewed on her words, unable to meet her eyes. Shame flooded my system. A reaction to the treatment I’d endured. “This isn’t a comfortable conversation for me.”
“I’m curious. I just want to know if you’ve ever been with a guy. I want to know for sure that you’re gay.”
“I’ve been with a guy, and I know for sure, okay?”
“Okay.” She rested her head on my chest once again.
“Are you mad?”
“Surprised, but … not. Oak, I knew something was really wrong. We’ve had problems in the bedroom for years. Your depression has gotten worse. The drinking and the pills … I … thought maybe you’d been abused as a kid. You know, sexually or something. I worried maybe you’d suppressed it and didn’t know it, but it was turning into this thing inside you. Eating you up. I read about stuff like that.”
“That’s not it, baby.”
“I’m glad.” She paused. “And sad too. They never should have sent you there.”
“I know. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
“Do … you feel nothing for me?”
“Oh, baby, I do. I love you. That’s not a lie. I just … It’s not how it should be, you know? You deserve more. I—”
“I think I get it. You can’t love me like that.”
“I’m still sorting it all out. Bear with me.”
“Are you leaving?”
I sighed and stroked her cheek. “I think so. Eventually. I can’t keep pretending. There’s someone out there who can love you properly. Someone who doesn’t have to take pills just to get hard so they can make love to you.”
A tear ran down her cheek, and she sniffled and wiped it away.
“Don’t you disappear from my life, Oakland Corbitt.”
I chuckled, but it was heavy and sad. “I won’t.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.” I lifted her head and kissed her. It was soft and simple.
It was goodbye.
I didn’t know how to function without drugs and alcohol in my system, so when I decided to go cold turkey Monday morning—because I was determined to move forward with my life and fix everything at once—things didn’t go over well. At least I showed up to my job on time.
I was working at a call center—a job I’d had for a record of eight weeks and counting—and it helped that I had a little cubicle where I could hide away from everyone because, by ten o’clock, I was sweating and shaking like I had the flu. Every thought in my head blended together, and I couldn’t focus.
At ten thirty, I escaped the building for a smoke. Giving in to the pull, I found my pills in the glove compartment and washed them down with a few swigs from the flask of whiskey I had stashed away as well.
I leaned back in the front seat, closing my eyes and waiting for them to take effect as I smoked through two cigarettes. My thoughts drifted to the previous night and my conversation with Amanda. She’d been quieter than usual this morning, and guilt consumed me. We’d moved around each other in the kitchen and said our goodbyes like we did every day, but she’d gone off to work without that customary kiss at the door before leaving the house.
Part of me hated it. Part of me felt relieved. The pressure to act a certain way, to force something unnatural on my system was gone. Overnight, the weight in my chest was less crushing. But, at the same time, it was like I’d been cast out into the ocean, and I didn’t know how to swim or which way would take me to shore.
Jameson’s face appeared in my mind. He’d lit a spark inside me the day he’d walked in the door at the group meeting, and every day since, it burned brighter and hotter. Kissing him had answered all my questions. The pieces I’d been trying to force together for years suddenly clicked. The answer wasn’t the one I’d been looking for, but there it was, clear as day.
But if I thought my life was a mess, Jameson’s was a thousand times worse.
The boy I’d known, the boy I’d grown up with had died a long time ago. The man who had taken over was full of rage. He hated the world and the people in it, but most of all, Jameson hated himself. He was struggling, the same as me. He was lost, the same as me. But, unlike me, he was tangled in the roots of denial. I recognized it because I’d lived strangled by them for fifteen years. It was only within the past week or so that I saw the way out.
Part of me thought we’d been reunited for a reason. The universe was saying, “Hey, things got off track the first time. Let’s try this again.”
But Jameson wasn’t there yet. He might never be. We were different people. His family had always been important to him, and if they wouldn’t accept him for who he was—and I knew for a fact they wouldn’t—he would spend his whole life fighting against the current. Eventually, he would drown.
I wasn’t going to let him disappear from my life again. Even if he never accepted who he was, even if he never accepted who I was, I would do all I could to keep his head above water.
