Chapter 5 #2
"Don't." He scrubbed at his face roughly. "Don't give me the missionary speech about how the Lord works in mysterious ways and everything happens for a reason. I can't—I can't do that right now."
"I wasn't going to." I paused. "My father barely speaks to me unless it's about baptism numbers."
Vance went still.
"Every email, every phone call on Christmas and Mother's Day—it's the same questions.
How many discussions did you teach this week?
How many investigators are progressing? When's your next baptism?
Like I'm a…" I struggled for the word. "Like I'm a regional sales manager reporting quarterly earnings. "
"But you're good at it," Vance said quietly. "The golden boy, remember? Kempton practically canonized you in district meeting."
"I'm terrified every single day that I'm not good enough. I’m scared of…”
The confession escaped before I could stop it. I'd never said it out loud before. Had barely allowed myself to think it during personal prayer, when I was supposed to be pouring out my heart to God.
Vance rolled over. In the dim light, his eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, his face blotchy. But he was looking at me now, really looking, and I felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the darkness or the late hour.
"Of what?" he asked.
"Everything." The word came out barely above a whisper. "Of failing my mission. Of disappointing my parents. Of proving that I'm not who they think I am."
The words hung in the air between us. I should have stopped there. Should have pulled back, retreated into the safe platitudes about magnifying my calling and trusting in the Lord.
But the darkness made me reckless. Or maybe it was Vance's own raw honesty, the way he'd stripped himself bare with his confession about his father.
Maybe it was just exhaustion—two years of carrying this weight alone, of perfect performance and desperate prayer and the constant, grinding fear that I was fundamentally, irredeemably wrong.
"Of being..." I tried to form the words.
Tried to give voice to the thing I couldn't even name in my most private prayers, the sick certainty that had been growing in my chest since I was fourteen years old and realized that other boys didn't feel the way I did when Elder Brother Kimball walked past in the hallway at church.
My throat closed.
Say it. Just say it. He already knows. You can see it in his eyes—he knows.
But I couldn't. Because saying it out loud would make it real.
Would make it something I'd have to confront rather than something I could keep burying under scripture study and obedience and the desperate hope that if I just served faithfully enough, loved God hard enough, sacrificed everything at the altar of righteousness, He would fix me.
"Of not being..." My voice cracked.
The handbook said it so clearly. Same-sex attraction is not a sin, but acting on it is. As if the attraction itself wasn't a daily crucifixion. As if every time I looked at a companion and felt that flutter of something unwanted in my chest, I wasn't already drowning in shame.
President Kempton had talked about it once, in a zone conference.
Used clinical language, scriptural warnings.
Talked about the importance of bringing these feelings to priesthood leaders, of not being alone with them, of recognizing them as a test of faith.
The Lord will never give you a trial you cannot overcome through obedience and faith.
But what if obedience wasn't enough? What if nineteen years of perfect church attendance and scripture reading and white-knuckled righteousness hadn't changed anything? What if I'd begged God every single night to take these feelings away, and He'd just... stayed silent?
What if the only thing my mission was proving was that I couldn't be fixed?
I couldn't say it. Couldn't put words to the fear that maybe the golden boy was just gold plating over rot. That maybe President Dalton and Kempton and my father had placed all their faith in a missionary who was fundamentally unworthy of the priesthood he bore.
"Of not being who they need me to be," I finished weakly.
Vance was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was careful. Gentle in a way I'd never heard from him before.
"Price... are you—" He stopped. Started again. "Is there something you're trying to tell me?"
My heart hammered against my ribs. Yes. No. I don't know. Please don't make me say it.
"I just want to be good enough," I whispered. "I want to be worthy. I want to feel what I'm supposed to feel and not feel what I..."
I couldn't finish.
But something in Vance's expression shifted. Softened. A recognition flickered in his eyes—not judgment, not pity. Something else. Something that looked almost like understanding.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I know."
And somehow, I believed he did.
The relief was almost painful. I hadn't said it—hadn't confessed the thing that was supposed to stay locked away until I could take it to my bishop or stake president, until I could approach it through proper priesthood channels with fasting and prayer and the spiritual guidance of someone worthier than me.
But Vance knew anyway.
And he was still laying there, looking at me like I wasn't broken. Like I wasn't a disappointment. Like I was just... tired.
"It doesn't make you bad," Vance said softly. "Whatever you're afraid of. Whatever you think you are or aren't. It doesn't make you bad."
I wanted to believe him. Wanted it with a desperation that felt like its own kind of sin.
But I'd spent too many years in seminary classes and testimony meetings, absorbing the doctrine about eternal families and the plan of salvation and the absolute necessity of temple marriage.
Had heard too many general conference talks about the sanctity of marriage between man and woman.
Had sat through too many lessons about resisting temptation and keeping yourself pure for the person you'd marry in the temple.
How could it not make me bad when everything I'd been taught said this feeling was a test? A trial to overcome? A weakness to be purged through faith?
"The church—" I started.
"I know what the church says," Vance interrupted gently. "I also know it's bullshit."
The casual profanity should have shocked me. Should have prompted a correction about language befitting a missionary.
Instead, I just felt exhausted.
"You don't believe that," Vance continued. "Deep down, you don't actually believe there's something wrong with you. You've just been told there is for so long that you can't tell the difference anymore."
"You don't know what I believe."
"Maybe not." He shrugged. "But I know what it looks like when someone's trying to twist themselves into a shape that doesn't fit. I know what it looks like when someone's drowning."
And just like that, the wall between us cracked.
We sat there in the darkness, the silence stretching between us, and for the first time since he'd arrived, it didn't feel hostile. Just… sad. Tired. Two people carrying burdens too heavy to bear alone.
"My mom—" Vance's voice cracked. He swallowed hard, tried again.
"My mom begged me to go on a mission. She'd just come back to the church, all this desperate, manic energy like if she could just be faithful enough, righteous enough, maybe my dad would stay.
Maybe our family wouldn't implode. And I—I couldn't say no.
Couldn't tell her that I didn't believe, that I'd already wrestled with the church's history and doctrines and found them wanting.
Because she needed this. Needed to believe I was one of the good ones. "
"You are good," I said.
"No." He shook his head. "I'm just really good at pretending."
I thought about the Maria discussion. The way Vance had agreed with her criticisms of the church's conditional love. The way he'd offered her an out, a chance to walk away without pressure.
The way I'd been furious with him for it.
"I lied for you," I said. "To Kempton. About the sketching."
"I know." Vance looked at me. "Why?"
I didn't have a good answer. Didn't know how to explain that watching Kempton berate him had sparked something protective in my chest, some instinct I didn't recognize and didn't want to examine too closely.
"You're my companion," I said finally. "We're supposed to look out for each other."
"Pretty sure the handbook says we're supposed to report each other's transgressions."
"Yeah, well." I managed a weak smile. "Maybe I'm not as golden as everyone thinks."
Vance huffed—not quite a laugh, but close. "Don't let it get around. You'll ruin your reputation."
The moment hung between us, fragile and strange. I should have stood up. Gone back to my own bed. Reestablished the boundaries that were already dangerously blurred.
Instead, I stayed.
"Do you want to talk about it?" I asked. "Your dad?"
"No." But then, after a pause: "He's been cheating on her for months.
That's what the email said. Some woman from his work.
My mom found out because the woman's husband showed up at our house.
" He laughed again, that same broken sound.
"Very Latter-day Saint of him, right? I'm sure the Brethren would be so proud. "
"That's not your fault."
"I know that." But he didn't sound convinced. "It's just—she's all alone now. And I'm here, wearing this stupid name tag, pretending to have answers I don't have, pushing a gospel I'm not sure I believe in. What's the point? What am I even doing here?"
The question lodged in my chest like a knife.
What am I even doing here?
I'd asked myself that question a hundred times. A thousand. Every time someone slammed a door in my face. Every time I bore testimony of principles I was terrified I'd never live up to. Every time I looked at another elder and felt something the handbook said I shouldn't feel.
"I don't know," I admitted. "But you're not alone."
Vance's eyes met mine in the darkness. "Neither are you."
And just like that, the wall between us cracked.
Not shattered. Not yet. But cracked. Enough to let in light. Enough to let in air. Enough that when I finally stood to return to my bed, the space between us felt different.
Less like a battleground.
More like a truce.