Chapter 6
ELIAS
Zone Conference was held in a rented community hall near Placa Espanya that smelled like industrial cleaner and institutional desperation.
Three dozen missionaries packed into folding chairs arranged in neat rows, name tags gleaming under fluorescent lights.
President Dalton stood at a makeshift podium flanked by Zone Leaders, his smile warm and fatherly in that way that always made my skin crawl.
Samuel sat beside me, spine straight, notebook already open to a fresh page. He'd been different since P-Day night. Not exactly warm, but less rigid. The granite wall between us had developed hairline fractures, thin enough to let something through. Not friendship, exactly. More like recognition.
Two people drowning in the same ocean, close enough now to see each other's heads above water.
"Before we begin," President Dalton said, clasping his hands together, "I want to thank each of you for your faithful service. The work you're doing here in Barcelona is changing lives. Changing eternities."
I resisted the urge to sketch the scene. The rows of identical dark suits and ties. The elders fighting yawns after another week of rejection and memorized scripts. The sisters in the front row, sitting ramrod straight like good girls, notebooks ready.
"We'll start with testimonies," Dalton continued. "Who would like to share how they've seen the Lord's hand in their work this week?"
Hands shot up immediately. The competitive ones, the true believers, the ones desperate for approval. Samuel's hand stayed in his lap, though I caught the slight twitch of his fingers. Muscle memory. The golden boy conditioned to perform.
I kept my hands folded, eyes forward.
Zone Leader Hutchins called on Sister Morrison, who stood and delivered a polished testimony about a woman who'd cried while reading the Book of Mormon. The usual beats: spiritual prompting, perfect timing, undeniable truth. She sat down to approving nods.
Elder Moss raised his hand.
"Elder Moss," Hutchins said, unable to hide his surprise.
Moss stood, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops like some wannabe cowboy. Brown snickered beside him.
"Yeah, so, uh." Moss grinned. "I just wanted to share this really powerful experience we had this week.
We were teaching this investigator—Rosa, super solid, really feeling the Spirit—and we ended up spending, like, hours in her apartment.
" He paused, the grin widening. "I mean, we were really deep inside, you know? Just going hard on the discussions."
Brown lost it, coughing violently to cover his laughter.
"Elder Moss and I were very thorough," Brown managed, voice strangled. "Really committed to the process. In and out, in and out, multiple times."
"Multiple sessions," Moss agreed solemnly, though his eyes gleamed. "We just kept knocking until she opened up for us."
A few missionaries in the back snorted. The sisters in front exchanged confused glances. President Dalton's smile had frozen in place, though whether he'd caught the innuendo or was just baffled by their stupidity was unclear.
I bit the inside of my cheek, hard.
Samuel sat beside me like a statue, his face cycling through several expressions. Confusion first, then dawning comprehension, then absolute horror.
"That's—" President Dalton cleared his throat. "That's wonderful, elders. Persistence is a virtue. Though perhaps we should discuss appropriate boundaries during our next district meeting."
Moss sat down, looking pleased with himself. Brown was still coughing.
I didn't dare look at Samuel. Couldn't. If I made eye contact, I'd lose it completely, and laughing during Zone Conference testimony meeting would probably earn me a one-way ticket back to Madrid. Or Nevada. Or the outer darkness, depending on who you asked.
But I felt it. The tremor running through Samuel beside me, the way his breathing had gone shallow and careful. The rigid set of his shoulders that screamed this is not happening, I am not hearing this, these are not my fellow missionaries.
Someone cleared their throat. I glanced sideways.
Samuel's eyes cut toward me for half a second—just long enough for me to see the absolute disbelief there, the appalled can you believe these idiots that he couldn't voice aloud.
I raised my eyebrows fractionally. Yep. That just happened.
His jaw twitched. He looked away quickly, but not before I caught the tiniest quirk at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. More like his body's involuntary response to the sheer absurdity.
It shouldn't have felt like a victory.
It did anyway.
President Dalton launched into his prepared talk about increasing baptismal goals and the importance of extending baptismal invitations on the first visit.
I'd heard variations of this speech in Madrid.
The metrics mattered more than the people.
Numbers on a report meant success. Souls saved looked good in newsletters.
I pulled out my planning book—the one concession they'd let me keep—and flipped to a blank page in the back. My pencil moved without conscious thought. Quick lines. Dalton's profile, that manufactured warmth. The Zone Leaders flanking him like bodyguards protecting the brand.
Samuel shifted beside me. I felt his gaze, brief and sharp, but he didn't say anything.
The pencil kept moving. Moss and Brown in the back corner, still barely containing themselves. The sister missionaries in front, notes precise and colour-coded. The other elders, faces ranging from bored to devout to dead inside.
My pencil found Samuel.
The line of his jaw. The way he held his shoulders. The careful blankness he'd learned to wear like armour. I'd been drawing him, stealing moments during companion study or scripture time. Had a whole collection of sketches shoved between pages of Preach My Gospel like contraband.
This one was different, though. Softer. The hint of that almost-smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth, the crack in his golden-boy facade.
"...and remember," Dalton was saying, "every soul is precious. Every investigator is a child of God, waiting to hear the truth that will bring them home."
Unless they're gay, I thought. Then they can fuck right off to outer darkness.
The bitterness surprised me. I'd thought I was past that, thought I'd made peace with the church's conditional love.
But sitting here in this rented hall, surrounded by two dozen kids playing dress-up as soldiers of Christ, pushing a gospel that would damn half of them if they were honest about who they really were—
Maria's voice echoed in my head. What about families like mine?
Samuel's response. The gospel is for everyone.
The sketch darkened. My pencil pressed harder, adding shadows that didn't exist.
"Elder Vance."
I looked up. President Dalton was watching me, expression patient but pointed.
"Yes, President?"
"I asked what you've learned this week."
Every eye in the room turned toward me. Samuel had gone very still beside me.
I closed the planning book carefully. Stood.
"I learned that people are more complicated than our discussions allow for," I said. "That sometimes the questions they ask don't have easy answers. And that maybe that's okay."
Dalton's smile didn't waver, but something shifted behind his eyes. "The gospel provides all the answers we need, Elder. We just have to have faith."
"Right." I sat down.
The moment stretched. Uncomfortable. I'd violated some unspoken rule, failed to perform gratitude and certainty.
"Thank you, Elder Vance." Dalton's tone suggested the opposite. "Let's remember that while questions are natural, the adversary uses doubt to lead us astray. Our testimonies must be firm. Unwavering."
More heads nodded. The sisters in front wrote that down, underlining it.
Samuel's hand moved fractionally closer to mine on the shared armrest between our chairs. Not touching. Just… there. A presence. Acknowledgment.
I didn't look at him.
During the break, missionaries clustered in small groups near tables laden with store-brand biscuits and weak lemonade.
The social hierarchy was visible in the formations.
Zone Leaders at the centre, surrounded by the ambitious and devout.
Moss and Brown off to one side with the other slackers, trading stories.
The sisters in their own tight circle, separate and untouchable.
Samuel headed toward the refreshments like a man with a mission. I followed, keeping the regulation distance.
"Unbelievable," he muttered as we reached the table.
"The talk or the testimony meeting?"
"Both." He grabbed a paper cup, filled it with lemonade. "Moss and Brown are going to get themselves sent home."
"Nah. They're harmless." I took a biscuit, examined it. Stale. "Dalton knows they're lazy, not wicked. There's a difference."
"Lazy is still breaking the rules."
"But it's the right kind of rule-breaking." I bit into the biscuit. Definitely stale. "They're not committing serious transgressions. Just wasting time. Chasing girls. Fudging their numbers. All very normal, very forgivable missionary behaviour."
Samuel's jaw worked. "It's still wrong."
"Is it, though?" I kept my voice low, conversational. "Moss and Brown flirt with every woman under thirty. They're lazy, sure. But they're also practicing for what comes next. BYU. Dating. Temple marriage. The whole celestial breeding program."
His eyes cut toward me, sharp and startled.
I shrugged. "The church doesn't really care if they're perfect missionaries, Samuel.
They care that they're straight missionaries.
That they'll go home and make lots of perfect Mormon babies with nice returned-missionary wives.
Their salvation isn't in question. Their orientation is already approved. "
"That's not—" He stopped, throat working.
"Not what?" I leaned in fractionally. "Not true?
Come on. You know the hierarchy. You've lived it your whole life.
Moss can spend his entire mission half-assing the work and chasing skirts, and he'll still get a handshake from the bishop when he gets home.
Because he's supposed to be interested in women.
The church is counting on it. Banking on it. "
Samuel's knuckles had gone white around his paper cup.
"But if either of us—" I bit down on the words, hard. Redirected. "If someone had the wrong kind of thoughts? The wrong kind of feelings? That's not just breaking mission rules. That's threatening the entire eternal plan. That's outer darkness material."
"Vance." His voice came out strangled. "Don't."
"Why not? It's true." The bitterness leaked through despite my best efforts. "The church wants us celibate for two years, then immediately ready to perform our biological duty. Abstinence before marriage, then babies. Lots of babies. An eternal family. That's the deal. That's always been the deal."
I watched his profile. The rigid line of his jaw. The way his breathing had gone shallow and controlled.
"Moss and Brown are rehearsing," I said quietly. "Practicing being the kind of men the church needs them to be. Red-blooded, woman-chasing, future fathers of Zion. Their attractions are just temporarily inconvenient. Once the mission's over, those attractions become a virtue. A commandment, even."
Samuel's eyes stayed fixed straight ahead. "And if someone... can't? Can't want what they're supposed to want?"
The question hung between us, fragile and dangerous.
"Then they pray harder," I said. "Get married anyway. Have the babies anyway. Die a little more inside every day until they're so far gone they believe their own performance."
His hand trembled against the armrest.
"Or," I continued, voice barely above a whisper, "they accept they're damned and stop pretending."
"That's not—" His voice cracked. "There has to be another option."
"You find one, let me know."
Silence stretched. Around us, missionaries laughed and chatted, completely oblivious. Moss was demonstrating something with his hands that made Brown double over. The sisters compared notes, colour-coded and perfect.
"It's not fair," Samuel said finally, so quiet I almost missed it.
"No," I agreed. "It's really not."
"Elder Price! Elder Vance!"
We turned. Zone Leader Hutchins approached, flanked by his companion, Elder Webb. Both wore smiles that didn't reach their eyes.
"President Dalton wanted me to check in," Hutchins said. "See how the companionship is working out."
Translation: We've heard you're struggling, and we're here to fix you.
"It's going well," Samuel said smoothly. "We have several investigators progressing. The Moreno family is on track for baptism."
"That's great to hear." Hutchins's gaze slid to me. "And you, Elder Vance? Are you finding Barcelona more… suitable than Madrid?"
The subtext hung heavy. Are you behaving yourself this time?
"It's beautiful," I said flatly. "The architecture is incredible."
"Elder Vance is an artist," Samuel interjected. Not defensive, not exactly, at least. Just stating fact. "He has an eye for detail."
Hutchins's smile tightened. "That's wonderful. As long as it doesn't distract from the work."
"It doesn't," Samuel said.
I blinked at him. He didn't look at me, just kept his focus on Hutchins, shoulders square and certain. Defending me. Actually defending me to a Zone Leader.
"Good." Hutchins clapped Samuel on the shoulder. "Keep up the excellent work, Elder Price. Your father must be very proud."
And there it was. The reminder of who Samuel was, who he was supposed to be. The golden boy from the golden family, following the golden path.
Samuel's expression didn't change. "Thank you, Elder."
Hutchins and Webb moved on to their next target. Samuel exhaled slowly.
"You didn't have to do that," I said.
"Do what?"
"Defend me. The art thing."
"It's true, isn't it?" He finally looked at me. "You do have an eye for detail."
Something warm and dangerous unfurled in my chest.
"Yeah," I said. "I guess I do."
The loudspeaker crackled. "Elders and sisters, please return to your seats. We'll be starting the second session."
The crowd shifted, flowing back toward the folding chairs. Samuel and I moved with them, maintaining the proper distance, two missionaries among dozens.
But when we sat down, his hand settled on the armrest between us again. Close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
Not touching.
But close.