42. Faction Fallout #3
One bottom corner slightly uneven because I insisted on helping him sand it.
Matthew was still new enough then that I didn't know what to do with a man who kept asking me to do things with him without getting irritated when I said no.
Eventually, I helped.
Got a splinter for my trouble.
Mom kissed my finger and told me Jesus had been a carpenter too, which at sixteen I accepted with considerably more skepticism than I probably would have at five.
From here, I can see the little rough place near the bottom.
The place I sanded badly because I was sixteen and didn't particularly want to spend a Saturday afternoon in a church garage with my mother's boyfriend.
He didn't correct it.
I remember noticing that afterward.
Matthew was meticulous about things like that.
He could have fixed it in five minutes.
He left it.
Years later, after I started calling him Dad without realizing I'd made the decision, I asked him why.
He told me because I'd helped make it.
I've spent most of my adult life separating faith from religion.
Not rejecting everything.
Just refusing certainty I don't have.
I think there's something beyond us.
God, maybe.
Something close enough that Christianity is still the language my brain reaches for when I try to picture it.
Jesus.
Grace.
Forgiveness.
The stories embedded too deep to remove without taking pieces of myself with them.
I know the Bible.
I know the parables.
The Proverbs.
The warnings.
The promises.
I also know people wrote rules around all of it until sometimes I can't tell where God is supposed to end and human fear begins.
I don't trust churches anymore.
I don't trust anyone who claims they know exactly what eternity looks like.
I don't think doubt is a moral failure.
Dad follows my gaze to the cross.
Then looks back at me.
“Do you understand what you're asking your mother to believe?”
I say nothing.
His voice softens. “That she'll spend eternity without her only son?”
Mom makes a broken sound beside him.
Fuck.
That actually hurts.
Not because I believe him.
Because she does.
My mother is sitting ten feet away from me, grieving my death while I'm still alive.
I swallow. “I think there's something after this.”
Dad looks surprised.
Mom lifts her head.
“I don't know what it is. I know I picture it through Christianity because that's how you raised me. Those stories are part of me.”
Mom stares.
“But I don't believe whatever made me expects me to spend this life alone or miserable to earn the next one.”
Tears slide down her cheeks.
“I don't believe loving men or more than one person separates me from God.”
Dad's mouth opens.
I raise one hand. “I'm not asking you to agree.”
He stops.
“I need you to understand that I'm not walking away from anything holy.”
My chest hurts.
“I'm walking toward people I love.”
Nobody speaks for a long time.
Eventually Dad stands.
The conversation is over.
I know because I've known him long enough.
He doesn't storm away.
He doesn't tell me to get out.
He simply reaches the point where his decision is made and everything after it becomes unnecessary.
Mom stands too.
I do the same.
My legs feel normal.
That seems offensive.
Mom walks me to the entryway.
Dad follows.
There are no hugs.
I notice that before anything else.
Mom always hugs me goodbye.
Even if I'm only leaving after stopping by to fix something.
Even if I'm coming back tomorrow.
Her hands stay clasped in front of her stomach.
The cross hangs six inches from my shoulder.
The one Dad and I made together before I knew he was going to become Dad.
He reaches for the door but stops.
His eyes are red.
“Micah.”
I look at him.
His mouth works once before the words come. “You're always my son.”
Fuck.
That almost does it.
Almost makes me cross the space between us.
Because my first father left.
Because this one didn't.
Because Matthew chose that word long before I understood how much it mattered to hear it.
My throat tightens. “Dad—”
“But we can't pretend this is okay,” Mom says.
The words cut between us.
I look at her.
Her face collapses again, but she keeps going.
“When you're ready to leave this lifestyle behind and come back to God, you can come home.”
There it is.
Not anger.
Not hate.
Not even rejection, in her mind.
An open door—with a lock on my side of it.
Dad closes his eyes.
He doesn't contradict her.
That's its own answer.
I look at him once more.
He looks wrecked.
He also stays beside her.
“Then I guess I don't know when I'll be back or see you again.”
Mom covers her mouth.
Dad looks like I hit him.
I step outside.
The door closes behind me.
I don't turn around.
My phone buzzes before I leave the neighborhood.
I ignore it.
It buzzes again at the next light.
Then twice more.
By the time I reach the highway, the cup holder flashes every few seconds.
I know what happened.
Mom called Aunt Rachel.
Or Dad called Uncle Stephen.
Or someone called or texted someone.
Maybe they told one person.
That's all it takes in my family.
One person becomes four.
Four becomes everyone.
At the next light, I glance down.
There’s a notification from Aunt Rachel.
I don't open it.
Another notification appears over hers from the Family Chat.
Another from Uncle Stephen.
My chest tightens.
I put the phone facedown.
Drive.
Exit.
Merge.
Signal.
The road markings blur slightly.
I blink.
They're still blurry.
Fuck.
I take the next shoulder wide enough to get completely off the road and put the car in park.
Both hands stay on the steering wheel.
For several seconds, nothing happens.
Then water drops onto the back of my hand.
I stare at it.
Another follows.
I swipe my face with one palm.
More come.
Silent.
Steady.
My chest shakes once.
I press my forehead against the wheel.
I knew.
That's the stupid fucking part.
I knew.
I've known for years.
Long before Dex kissed me.
Long before Cami moved in.
Long before Ronan ever looked at me like maybe there was something between us worth naming.
I knew what my parents believed.
I knew what Aunt Rachel believed.
I knew exactly how quickly my family could close ranks around what they believe is a religious rule.
I also knew what it was like to lose a father once.
Apparently, that doesn't make you any better at preparing to lose one again.
It doesn't change the fact that the man who chose to become my father stood beside my mother and let the door close anyway.
I sit there until I can see again.
Then I wipe my face on my sleeve, take three breaths, and drive home.
All four of them are in the living room when I open the door.
Nobody pretends they weren't waiting.
Dex stands immediately.
Cami has one leg tucked beneath her on the couch, hands wrapped around a mug.
Griffin is beside her.
Ronan sits in the chair with no book this time.
Their eyes hit my face.
Nobody asks anything.
I close the door.
Put my keys in the tray.
Miss.
They hit the floor.
The sound is absurdly loud.
Dex takes two steps toward me.
I meet his eyes. “I was right.”
His face breaks. “Yeah.”
That's all.
He crosses the room and stops in front of me, giving me the choice.
I move.
My hands fist in the back of his shirt and then he's around me, both arms tight across my shoulders.
The first sob doesn’t come dramatically.
I don't make a sound.
I just start crying again.
Harder.
Dex holds me like he can keep every piece in place if he applies enough pressure.
His cheek presses against my temple.
He doesn't tell me it's okay.
He doesn't tell me they suck.
He doesn't make a joke.
That almost makes it worse.
I hear Cami’s mug settle on the table as she stands.
Griffin moves too.
Ronan stays where he is.
Dex's hand moves slowly up and down my back.
“I'm sorry,” he whispers.
My fingers tighten. “I knew.”
“I know.”
“I fucking knew.” My voice cracks on the last word.
“I know.”
Dex's breathing changes.
His arms tighten.
Someone touches my shoulder.
I look.
Cami.
Her eyes are wet. “Okay?”
I nod.
She steps in.
Griffin follows a second later, one hand settling between my shoulder blades.
Contact.
Anchors.
Ronan still waits.
I look at him.
He raises his brows in a silent question.
I nod again.
Then he's there too.
Four people.
Too many arms.
Too much warmth.
For a while, I let them hold me.
Then my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Every muscle in my body goes tight.
Dex feels it. “Don't.”
“I need to.”
“No, you don't.”
“Yes. I ignored it all the way home.”