Chapter 21
Twenty-One
SEBA
The cursor blinks impatiently in the blank short-answer box.
I’ve been working on this scholarship application all morning and have barely gotten halfway through.
My brain is stuck in the back of my truck under a blanket of stars, Andrea’s plush lips moving against mine in effortless synchrony.
Soft curves gliding under my palms as I slowly explored, imagining the feel of her skin under her clothes.
Not that I’d push for more, no matter how badly I want her.
But if she asked…
I shake my head, attempting to scatter the rogue fantasies from derailing me any further.
A thud.
“Shitfucktits.”
My head snaps up from my laptop to see Cade struggling to juggle a cup of paint brushes, a handful of other supplies and a four-foot by four-foot canvas.
He tucks the paint tubes under his armpit and shoves the cup between his teeth, one paintbrush stabbing his cheek while another almost takes his eye out.
“Need a hand?”
He squints at me.
A tube of paint slips and hits the floor.
His nose wrinkles. A frustrated huff.
I shut my computer, rising from the couch to cross the room and take the canvas from him. It’s heavier than it looks. He ducks to grab the fallen paint tube while I stand there like a luggage assistant at a hotel.
“I don’t have enough space in my room,” he says once the cup is out of his mouth.
I realize I’ve never seen his art. I know he paints— he’s always got blue under his nails or smeared on his clothes— but he only creates in his room or in the art studio at school.
He pushes the coffee table against the entertainment center and lays down a stained sheet before arranging his supplies. The cup, which is actually multiple stacked cups, paint and brushes are all placed with intention.
“You can set it here,” he gestures, his back to me.
Right. I’m still holding his canvas.
I shuffle forward, placing it on the coffee table so it leans against the entertainment center.
“Thanks.”
I’m stunned by his politeness. He immediately snatches a fat brush and a tube of blue, squeezing paint directly onto the canvas. He’s acting bizarrely reserved and hyper-focused.
It’s suspicious.
And very un-Cade-like.
After hovering awkwardly for way too fucking long, I return to the couch and open my laptop. Except I’m definitely not working on my application now. My attention is completely stolen by the organized chaos unfolding in front of me.
Bristles drag blue and black swatches across white nothingness, the brush an extension of his arm in a dance to music I can’t hear. Some strokes are aggressive and short— others languid, flowing from one into the next. Ignoring me, he falls into a trance, mapping out an unseen world.
I could watch him paint for an eternity.
It’s terrifying.
How can he both repel me and fascinate me?
The ceaseless tide of guilt rises again.
“I took Andrea out on a date last night.”
It comes out like a rushed confession.
Cade’s brush pauses.
“Oh? How’d that go?”
His tone is impossible to read.
My finger taps incessantly on the keyboard. “Really good, actually.”
Why am I bringing this up? We don’t talk about this shit. We don’t talk, period. We bicker, argue, bump heads— all of the above. The scratch of bristles on canvas fills the awkward silence, but rather than soothe me, it hikes up the anxiety.
Then the idiot starts humming a fucking gospel hymn.
Frustration is a familiar lifeline. I grasp onto it with both hands, preparing to rip into him.
Suddenly, he steps back and tilts his head at the canvas.
“I read your favorite book recently.”
“My favorite… book?”
“Yeah, the Bible.”
I silently weigh the pros and cons of chucking my laptop at his painting. Pro: he’d go apeshit. Con: My laptop would probably break and I don’t have the money to replace it.
Oblivious to my simmering rage— or purposefully rousing it— he continues, “I’m not gonna lie, the plot surprised me.
It was way more entertaining than I thought.
I mean, who knew the entire New Testament was basically an account of a gay cult leader running around getting the degenerates and rejects of society riled up against the corrupt government?
And I loved one of the Marys— Magdalene, I think.
So progressive of Jesus to have a known slut as a bestie.
But don’t get me started on his mom. That Mary is as much a virgin as my ass. ”
For some reason, I'm hung up on the last bit. A flare of irrational fury burns in my chest. It shouldn’t surprise me that he’s not a virgin, but the thought of someone else having him—
What the hell is wrong with me? I should be appalled. At the very least, I shouldn’t give a shit who he fucks. Or let’s fuck him…
I bite hard on the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to look at the computer screen.
The short-answer box is filled with sixes.
Because that’s not ominous at all. I rush to backspace, trying to collect myself when another intrusive thought barges in.
Remy likes guys. What if Cade is actually seeing Andrea’s best friend?
Unwanted images of Remy behind Cade while he arches and makes those erotic sounds…
I’m gonna chuck my computer through the fucking window.
“Regardless, it’s wild to me,” Cade rambles on.
“With Jesus being such an inclusive guy and all, I’m surprised the church changed the wording, because it changes the context too.
Did you know ‘homosexual' wasn't even in the bible until 1946? Earlier editions were referring to exploitation, like old men with kids, which, to be fair, is fucking sick. But queerness wasn’t an issue until the ones in power needed a way to specify gender roles and maintain control over the population.”
All other thoughts halt because, no, I did not know that.
“You know, for an atheist, you're kinda obsessed with religion.”
He shrugs. “Religion… occult practices… same thing.”
I roll my eyes. But a black hole of doubt opens up in my brain. Cade is a lot of things, but he's not a liar. If he's right about this, it would call into question everything I've been taught.
Cade retreats from the canvas to examine his work from the center of the living room, allowing me a glimpse of the full image.
Emerging from the haphazard blur of blue, black and grey is the shadowy form of a boy clawing at his throat. Underwater.
Drowning.