Inclination (21 page)

I push myself
from the bed, still gawking at David. But no matter how hard I look, I can’t see
him clearly. It’s like there’s a thick fog surrounding him.

“Talk to me,
Tony. Everything’s
gonna
be fine, ‘
kay
?” He’s rambling. “We need to talk to God, tell him how
we feel. To pray for patience and guidance and lay this at his feet and—”

Come to me, and
lay your problems at my feet, Anthony. I will give you rest.

“Oh my God!” The
words shoot from my lips, but in my mind they seem to bleed directly out of my
heart. Because the reality of this situation has hit me so hard.

I just tried to
seduce David Gandy.

I’m fairly
certain I’m going to be sick.

“Calm down, Tony.
We aren’t criminals.” David slides over to the edge of the bed to be closer to
me. He tries to put his hand on my arm,
but I step out of his reach. “It’s totally normal for us to feel this way. And
to want this sort of thing.”

I have nothing
further to say at this point except, “I’m outta here.” I spin around and walk
quickly across the room. As I open his bedroom door, I think of another
important thing I need to say. “Don’t think we’re boyfriends ‘cause we’re
not—we’re not
anything
anymore.”

I will ignore
this situation. And it will go away.

My bedroom feels
damp and sticky and claustrophobic like the basement storage closet it truly
is. It’s hard to escape from my thoughts in this confined and secluded
space—there’s nowhere to run. And there’s no TV, hanging on the wall over my
desk. Why don’t I have a TV in my bedroom, so I can watch 80’s sitcoms till I
crash? Everybody else in town has a TV in their bedroom. And it’s what I need
because there’s no way in heck I’m going to be able to fall asleep tonight.

My phone rings
and I know it’s David again, calling to check on me. I pick my phone up from
beside me and turn it off, and then let it drop to the floor.

I glance at the
floor beside my bed and I see the word lists I printed to prep for the SATs. I
grab the papers, curl up around them, and proceed to run vocabulary words
through my brain, forcing out the other thoughts, until I fall asleep.

I’ve always
considered myself a fairly lucky person, in the way of good fortune coming my
way at precisely the perfect moment to save my skin. And it seems that Father
Joseph went to the Our Way meeting on Monday night after our disaster of a
tennis match and reiterated the call for compassion that is required of
Catholics in regard to one’s homosexual brothers and sisters. He also informed
the group that he was going to be taking over leadership of Our Way for the time being, and that Mrs.
Martine would be his very able assistant.

I know these
details of what happened in Monday’s Our Way meeting because I sit at my former
BFFs lunch table on Wednesday. Yes, the awe-scoff table.

On Wednesday at
lunch period, where I fully expect to sit alone in a corner, seeing as I’m not
about to acknowledge David Gandy’s sexually enticing existence, I’m whisked
away by Elizabeth O’Donnell to my former lunch table, in the way of the
prodigal son returning to his home. I find myself sitting with the newly
compassionate Our Way group at the now open-minded awe-scoff table. So, no, I’m
not alone—I’m in good company. Maybe the best, most devout company of all—or
maybe I’m with fallible human beings, just like me. But surrounded by holy
Elizabeth, my champion
Rinaldo
, and a baffled looking
Lazarus, I make my best attempt to choke down a portion of my salami and
provolone sandwich. And I struggle to stay awake, since I’d studied vocabulary
terms almost all night long.

But Anthony
Duck-Young Del
Vecchio
is still a fraud and he knows
it, even if the recognition of that fact is currently stashed somewhere in the
far back corner of his mind. I am a sexually sinful spiritual fraud—yes, the
very worst kind of imposter—who got caught up in a moment of heated passion
that I not only forgot “The Problem”, but I also threw all caution and chastity
to the wind. I went for the real deal—as in,
the whole sexual package
—with David last night by trying to engage
in an intimacy that has no place in my life outside of a Christ-centered
marriage. But being the exceptional avoider of distasteful situations that I
am, I push it all out of my mind—“it all” being defined as David Gandy and what
went down in his bedroom last night. I simply refuse to remember it.

I don’t look over
at David’s lunch table even once. That table—those particular diners—doesn’t
exist in my world. My mind, exquisitely skilled at pushing back pain and
confusion from years of experience, kicks into automatic. For all intents and
purposes, last night never happened.

And I don’t much
care if David and my new friends seated at
that
other table,
are experiencing hurt feelings on account of my sudden
ruthless rejection. Instead of worrying about them, I languish in the imperfect
safety of the people who have recently condemned me. I smile. I laugh. I chat
about potential summer jobs and upcoming SAT’s and possible college choices. I
force-feed myself Mom’s tasty salami sandwich.

In this way, I
survive the remainder of the week at school.

And at home, I
sit on the corner of the couch in the cold, lonely downstairs living room, and
watch retro television shows, to the tune of more episodes of
The Andy Griffith Show
than should be
legal for a single human being to mentally absorb in a single week. But somehow
these lighthearted episodes prove to be a less than satisfying distraction.

I only allow
myself to pray to God once, and that is when I thank Him that the next week is
April vacation, which will relieve me of my need to perpetuate the charade that
I’m still in one piece—intact and unbroken—as a result of my own rash and
destructive actions.

I shoot up in bed
in the middle of the night on Saturday.

“I need to go to
confession so I can be wiped clean of my sexual sin! But…but I’m not a true
Catholic anymore—I can’t be forgiven by a priest. Now I have to live with this
burden!” I speak out loud with a shrill voice and without any hesitation at
all; no one will hear me way down here in the basement. I don’t even care if
they do.

What’s happening to me?
I
think I might be cracking.

And then I pick
up my phone and I text a lie to my mother. I tell her that I’ve been vomiting
all night—“please don’t wake me up for worship.” My family has planned a return
visit to Journeys Worship Center, because we’re seriously considering joining,
and I know for a fact that I can’t go with them. David will be there and I have
absolutely no interest in seeing his face.

The stomach virus
story comes in handy. Feigning illness, I stay in my room until Tuesday. But by
Wednesday morning I’m desperate for food, beyond the tea and toast Mom has been
serving me. And so, miraculously, I suddenly become healthy again.

I emerge from my
basement cave for the first time in days, and literally have to squint my eyes
at the bright sunshine that streams through the kitchen window. The girls are
all sitting at their usual places at the table eating Mom’s amazing French
toast, and when I stumble in they look at me like they’ve never before seen a
South Korean dude badly in need of a shower and a hairbrush, and struggling
like a vampire to survive the light of day. Literally drooling at the smell of
real food, I slide into my seat, and fork a few slices from the serving platter
onto my waiting plate.

“
Hiya
, Anthony,”
Frannie
ventures.
“Feeling any better?”

I stuff a
mouthful of French toast into my mouth with my fingers, but don’t answer.

“Table manners,
bro,” Mary chastises me with a wink. I glare at her and shove in another bite.

“Anthony, honey,
I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.” Mom ignores my less than polite
interaction with my sisters, sips her coffee, and sends me a bright smile. But
I know
that
she knows
that I’m far from being myself this morning. “You
understand that you can discuss any topic that’s on your mind with me, don’t
you, dear?” She offers that reminder casually, as if it is an afterthought.

“Want us to take
a hike so Anthony can spill his guts?” Mary asks.

Shaking my head,
I shove another forkful of French toast into my mouth in an effort to avoid the
need to reply.

“Why don’t you
invite your friend David over? He asked about you at the worship service on
Sunday, and seemed very concerned when we told him about how sick you were.”
Mom just won’t give up.

I cough twice and
then shove another huge forkful of breakfast food into my waiting pie hole.

Look, Mom—no
possible way to open my mouth to speak now.

“I’m going to
take the girls to the mall today. We are going to shop for summer clothes. Want
to join us, Anthony? You could use a pair of khaki shorts.”

I chew and swallow,
which takes a while considering the enormity of my last bite of food, and then
shake my head. Time for another lie. “Um…I am going to make plans with…uh,
Elizabeth. We’ve been wanting to check out this Christian bookstore in Winston
for ages. So, um…thanks for the invite, but….”

We both know it’s
a complete fabrication. But doesn’t the word
fabrication
make the concept of a lie sound much prettier? In any case, I
haven’t fooled my mother—but what can she say?

“Have fun at the
mall, girls!” Licking my fingers, I make a hasty retreat.

Later in the
afternoon, I admit that I’m starting to find it close to impossible to continue
the bury-my-head-deep-in-the-sand routine. I mean, I congratulate myself on
having ignored the wretched state of my life for a full week, but for some
reason I’m not too sure of, I’ve started to pull my head out of the sandy hole
and gasp for breath every now and then. Maybe downing all that French toast
fueled up my heart and my conscience—who knows? In other words, since the guilt and shock and horror of what I did last
Tuesday night has dulled with the passage of time and the ingestion of carbs, I
can no longer ignore the fact that I miss David.

And I miss him a
lot.

I miss other
things, too, like the early stages of self-acceptance of Anthony Duck-Young Del
Vecchio
as a gay Christian, and my carefree
friendships with Sarah, Beth, Lenny, and Cam. I miss the comfort of joining
into a new, but also
real,
house of
worship—I was honestly inspired by the prayer and the music and the sense of
acceptance I experienced at the Journeys Worship Center.

But beyond
anything else, I miss Jesus in my life. I haven’t allowed myself to think of
Him very often at all since I betrayed Him by reaching into the skinny jeans of
an unsuspecting David Gandy. But Jesus won’t stay away. He creeps into the
windows and wall cracks and back doors to my heart, constantly reminding me
that I’m His.

And by evening, I
realize there’s nothing else I can do but take the suggestion that Christ
offered me in my dream several weeks back, when it seemed he’d spoken directly
to me.

Come to me, and
lay your problems at my feet, Anthony. I will give you rest.

I slide off my
bed and get onto my knees, and I pray for the first time in way too freaking
long.

Father,

Please forgive me
for a bunch of things. First of all, I took the gift of sexual intimacy that
You gave us and totally abused it by trying to take advantage of David. And
that was a huge mistake, because I respect him and I love You, but the thing
is, it was far from my only mistake. Here’s an even bigger one: somewhere along
the way, I came to believe that sexual intimacy is a gift You gave to all
devoted couples, not just opposite sex couples, but I refused to be honest with
myself, with David, and even with You about how I’d changed my mind. I clung to
my confusion even when I was no longer confused.

Yes, I’ve made
mistakes, and I’ve compounded them by being cruel to my new friends, especially
David, who I care for so much. I need to apologize.

But apologizing
to You for my distance comes first. Please forgive me for my mistakes—I think I
understand where I went wrong.

Jesus, now I’m
going to lay down my mistakes, my problems, my worries, and my regret at Your
feet and I pray that You’ll give my soul some rest.

Amen.

I have several
seriously difficult tasks to get done now, but I’ve finally owned my sexuality
and accepted my status as a gay Christian, so I think I’m ready to try. I’m plain
old tired of living a life of constant reacting—it’s time I act in the way I
know is right.

And with God’s
help, I think I can set things straight.

First I need to
apologize to David. I’ve delayed doing this for over a week, which has been a
week too long. I figure I’ll take a ride
over to his house.

A surprise attack might be more effective
than a planned one.

But when I get
there, nobody’s home. I knock on the door a bunch of times, and peer into the
windows. For a minute, I wonder if the Gandy’s have gone on vacation, but lots
of lights are on inside the house and there are a few packages that have
recently been delivered sitting on the front steps. They’ve clearly just stepped
out for a while.

I know what my
next step has to be. Since the surprise attack is not a possibility, I need to
call David and figure out if he’s willing to see me. I dial, and I did so with
shaking fingers because I’m honestly freaking out.

“David? It’s
Anthony.”

“Yeah, I know. I
have caller ID.”

“Where are you?”

“What’s it to
ya
?”

“I want to know
if I can see you today.”

There’s a long
silence. The very silence I both dreaded and deserve. “I’m busy today.”

“Then how about I
treat you to breakfast tomorrow morning?”

Another seemingly
unending silence and then, “Look, Del
Vecchio
, I
forgive you already. It’s not in my heart to hold a grudge. You can rest easy
now and go back to whatever rock you crawled out from under.”

I reply quickly,
before he has a chance to end the call. “I need to see you, David. I need to
apologize to your face.”

“Dude—I accept
your apology. It’s a done deal. I’m at the worship center prepping boxes of
food and shit for the homeless now and it’s real busy here. I
gotta
go.” He ends the call without a goodbye.

His response—his
forgiveness—is not good enough, though. I’m not ready to call it quits with David
without a fight. Plus, I know what God wants me to do. And I know God will help
me do it. So I don’t say goodbye to him either—because it’s not a
goodbye—instead I start the car, my destination in mind.

Once I step
inside the Journeys Worship Center, I listen for voices. I saw David’s truck
outside in the parking lot among about six other vehicles, which lets me know
he has to be around here somewhere. Hearing no voices, I make my way to the
room in the back of the church where my family was ushered the Sunday before
last to meet church members before the service.

And then I hear
his voice—it sounds super
emo
and I get chills. He’s
talking about what toiletries need to be added to each donation box in a voice
that sounds kind of sad and hollow, but maybe that’s just my imagination
working overtime.

I step into the
room. About ten teenagers, over half of whom I don’t recognize, are filling a
long line of boxes with food and toiletries and cleaning supplies. There are
donations everywhere—the place is a mess. When David looks up and sees me, his
shoulders stiffen, as if he’s automatically steeling himself to prevent me from
hurting him any further. Sarah, Cam, and Beth are also there. When they see me,
all three take a protective step toward David, and Sarah places her hand on his
shoulder.

“Hi. I…um…I came
here to see David.” In that brief statement, my voice cracks twice. I swallow
with an audible gulp. And I’m afraid to meet his eyes, but still I try. David,
however, is studying the floor.

“Well, here he
is.
See him?
Now you can leave.” I’ve
never heard Cam speak to anyone in such a harsh manner. I deserve it, though.
And then some.

“Please, David. Come
and sit in the church with me for a minute and let me explain a few things.
Please
….”

When David’s bright
eyes meet mine, they’re shining with emotion—intense and piercing and even sort
of puffy around the rims. “Okay. You guys, I’m
gonna
go take a quick break.”

No one says a
word to stop him, and for that I’m thankful. But Cam and Sarah shake their
heads as they watch him get up and walk over to my side. David follows me into
the big hall where the Sunday service was conducted. We sit beside each other
in the pew in the very front row.

I start with an
apology—it is the only thing I can think of. “I need you to know that I’m
sorry.” I want to take his hand in mine, but I don’t think he’ll let me. He
just stares up at the wooden cross above the altar. “David, I was wrong in more
ways than one.”

He tilts his head
to the side and sighs.

I continue. “I
treated your body and my body and the gift God gave us of, you know, of
intimate relations with total disrespect. I know very well being close like
that is intended to be shared only with my lifelong partner. And I’m incredibly
sorry.”

David nods once
so I know he hears me, but he keeps on staring. Finally, he says very softly in
his sad, empty voice, “That’s not the reason I’m pissed off.”

I know exactly
what he means. “I know, and I want to apologize for being cruel. For saying we
weren’t boyfriends, and for ignoring you and for pulling a disappearing act. I
regret all of that—I was wrong!” Tears fill my eyes and I make no effort to
stop them from flowing. A few trickle down my cheeks and I refuse to wipe them
away. David has the right to see them.

“You said that we
weren’t
anything
to each other…before
you took off.” He’s still studying the simple wooden cross and not my regretful
face.

In an effort to
connect, I rest my palm on his thigh, and then wait for him to brush it off.
But he doesn’t. “That could never be true—you mean way too much to me to be
nothing in my life.”

I can tell that
he wants to look at me, to see if the expression in my eyes matches the passion
in my words, but he resists. “Why did you say those things? Why did you take
off and not come back?”

David Gandy—the cool
and suave—sounds like a vulnerable child. And I love him more for it.

I love him.

“I was living a
life of nothing but reacting… to my feelings and my fears and…. I knew, immediately
after the tennis match, how much I loved you and that I almost lost you. I
grabbed onto you with everything I had, including my sexuality. I was so afraid
of losing you, and at the same time, so afraid of loving you.” I blurt it all
out and hope he understands.

Finally, David
closes his eyes. “You
love
me?” I
wonder if he’s telling me that, or asking me. “But you hurt me. A whole lot,
Tony.”

I grasp his
shoulders, and when he opens his eyes, he finally looks at me. The fire in his
blue eyes is gone; his expression is one of complete surrender. So I plead.
“Please forgive me. Let me into your heart again. I’m not afraid anymore,
though I know that
you
are now. I’ll
show you… let me show you how I feel.”

And again, a
long, torturous moment of silence ensues, one that it is my obligation to
endure. And during it, David studies my face with his lack-luster eyes. Finally
he nods. “God calls me to forgive you, and so I do, but he doesn’t call me to
take you back in a romantic relationship.”

“I love you,
David. So much.” It isn’t even hard to say.

David nods, and rubs his nose in that nervous
way he has. And then he says something I don’t expect. “But the thing is, I
think I believe what you’re saying.” He rolls his eyes at himself and then
shrugs.

I wish his eyes
would glow with their usual intensity, but I know that might take time. I
squeeze his thigh with my trembling hand. “Thank you… thank you.”

“And I love you,
too, Anthony.”

At his words,
chills cover my chest and arms. I start to shiver—a lot. Memories of everything
David has done to help me accept myself as a gay Christian come flooding back
to my mind. Memories of how we became so close. “Can we continue our Bible
studies together?”

“Course we can,
dude.”

There’s still no
fire in his eyes, but the term
dude
never sounded better to my ears, because I know it’s a term of endearment when
coming from him. “And can I hold your hand in the hallways at school?”

“Every once in a
while I might let
ya
.” He winks at me and I see a
touch of coyness in his demeanor, which comes as yet another small relief.

“And will you let
me take you out to lunch today, along with Sarah, Beth, Cam and Lenny, because
I wasn’t very kind to them either, and I’d like to say sorry?”

“I can’t speak
for them, but I’m starving.” He cracks a tiny sideways smile, and I fight the
urge to kiss him.

“And can I help
you finish packing boxes after lunch? Because, as a new youth member of
Journeys Worship Center, I think it’s time I start participating in volunteer
activities.”

At that news, he
smiles wider. “You’re
gonna
to have to officially
join the youth group, too. I’ll tell you all about how to join up over lunch.”
And with that, a flicker of the lively spark returns to his eyes.

The sense of
relief I experience is actually quite intense, but it’s nothing compared to the
friendship and love and appreciation I feel for this guy who has shepherded me
through my life’s darkest time. Before
we leave my new church, I bow my head and take a minute to properly thank God
for sending David my way and keeping him here, even when I don’t deserve him.