28. Lane

Banging right next to my face lurches me awake. Wincing at a sharp pain in my neck when I lift my head from the fogged-up window, I rub my eyes and stretch. The banging against the window happens again, and I jump, starting the car so I can roll the window down. A campus police officer scowls down at me from under the rim of a large hat.

"Rough night?" He asks flatly, eyes raking over me.

I don't respond, trying to remember if I've read any rules against sleeping in your car.

"Listen kid, I appreciate you sleeping it off rather than drinking and driving, but you can't stay here. If you're not sobered up, I'm gonna need you to call someone."

"I'm not drunk, officer," I try to explain. "I was waiting for the church to open and I fell asleep."

His eyebrow raises, clearly not believing me. I probably look like I spent the night on some kind of bender. I supposed I did, but not the kind he's thinking of.

"It wasn't that kind of rough night," I say, casting my eyes downward.

"What's your name, son?"

"Lane Blakely."

He looks at me thoughtfully, then nods and raps the top of the car. "Service will be starting soon. You should go ahead and get in there." He turns and walks away, heading to direct traffic as the small parking lot begins to fill up.

I fumble around for my phone. I'd turned it off and thrown it into the floorboard when Noah's texts wouldn't stop. The chiming of the notifications was making my brain feel like it was swelling, and I thought I might burst.

I don't really want to turn it back on and deal with them now, either.

A bell chimes, making my stomach cramp. One thing at a time, Lane.

I've run by the campus chapel nearly every day, curiously inspecting the outside of the historic building, but never stopped. The sign on the door that says, ‘Come As You Are,' intrigues me, but I'd sworn off churches in general after leaving the compound. In the beginning, it might have been out of some misplaced loyalty. Grandfather had always told me that progressive churches were the work of the devil, trying to fool society into believing that the Bible isn't meant to be taken literally. Eventually, though, I think I just didn't want to go. There was so much anxiety on both sides of whether it would be the same or different from what I grew up with. Mom never pushed me to go, although she and Scott attended services occasionally, and Noah usually went with them for holidays and special events.

I'm still unsure about going inside, but the campus officer keeps looking over at me, and I don't want him to think I was lying. I did come here to wait for the church to open, but I don't think I would have gone in if he hadn't caught me sleeping in the parking lot. At the very least, it gives me an excuse to avoid Noah a little longer.

It doesn't seem too busy. I only see a couple of people making their way inside. Most of them wear casual clothes, like jeans and t-shirts. I'm not sure my wrinkled sweatpants, disheveled, snot-stained t-shirt, and slides are appropriate even for, ‘Come As You Are,' but I'm here now. I"ll just peek in and see if anyone else looks like shit before I leave.

The chapel is beautiful and confusing, which maybe makes it more beautiful. It"s dim, with natural light filtering through stained glass windows high above. The main room is at the bottom of the tower, with a small pulpit centered on a single row of long church pews. There"s a cordoned off entry to some dilapidated looking old stairs, and a large wooden door, but other than that, the room is nothing but high beams and stained glass.

In the entryway, there"s a table pushed against one wall. A bronze bowl filled with what I"m assuming is Holy Water, sits to the side. The rest of the table is covered in old framed photographs of this building and some pamphlets for guidance counseling and other campus resources. On the wall, there"s a bulletin board with community news and notices of events and meetups. My eyes are drawn to the large, brightly woven rainbow above the bulletin board with the words, ‘All Are Welcome Here'. On the board is a pinned notice of the Harrison University LGBTQIA+ Resource Center Meetup, which apparently happens in this building, too.

There"s almost no one inside the simple chapel, only a few people are scattered amongst the pews. A woman that might be in her early forties stands at the front near a table of candles. No one notices when I slide into the far back corner, kneeling and propping my hands up on the edge of the pew in front of me. I close my eyes to pray, but the words won"t come. It's been so long since I prayed, even just to myself at home. My thoughts are too convoluted. I feel broken, like a scattered puzzle that's missing too many pieces.

What if God doesn"t want to hear from me? What if I"ve fallen too far?

By the time I look up again, the room has filled up a little more. There are at least a dozen people sitting in the pews, and I notice the woman I saw before is donning a clergy stole. It"s the school"s colors, black and white, with several white embroidered emblems for different religions. Is she the pastor?

My mind shifts through all the scripture I have memorized, remembering passages that specifically forbade women to be leaders in the church. Because Eve was so easily deceived by the serpent in the Garden of Eden, women were not considered worthy enough to preach the gospel or have authority over men in any capacity. I look more closely at the woman, at her suntanned skin that suggests she likes to work outdoors, her somewhat unruly dark curls, and the kind expression on her face as she walks among the congregation, greeting each person like an old friend. When she gets to me, she holds a hand out for me to shake, enclosing my hand in both of her warm ones. Her honey brown eyes exude warmth and make me feel grounded. I find myself smiling back at her as she introduces herself, holds my gaze, and welcomes me. And I believe her. For the first time, I can actually feel God"s love in the form of a person meant to convey His word.

Suffice to say, I like her immediately.

It"s not until she walks away that I realize I hadn"t actually heard her name, and I"m pretty sure I didn"t introduce myself when she asked my name. I was too busy staring and processing. She doesn"t seem offended, making her way up to the pulpit as the small crowd finds their seats.

"Good afternoon," she says to all of us, and we reply in turn. "I see some new faces in the crowd today, so I"d like to introduce myself and what we do here, because it might be a bit different than the places of worship you came from. I"m Dr. Alice Levin, and I"m the chaplain here at the Harrison University Interfaith Chapel. This is a non-denominational place of gathering and worship. It is a sanctuary for all. A safe space for people of all backgrounds and creeds. In these walls you will find acceptance, compassion, comfort, and dignity no matter who you are or where you come from. As long as you enter with love in your heart, you will be accepted as a member of this congregation without question."

Her words penetrate my heart and make my brain spin. This is nothing like the church I grew up in, and I"m having trouble understanding the concept of acceptance at face value. I believe I have love in my heart. At least I think I do. But I"m so afraid that love is tainted.

The sermon is nothing like the ones I grew up hearing. There"s no fire or brimstone or talk of hell. There"s no fear at all. Only more talk of love and acceptance of each other and ourselves. I"m not even sure if she mentioned God once, and she never once lifted a Bible or shouted. No one spoke in tongues. A couple times she even made jokes that people laughed at, while I mostly stared wide-eyed at my surroundings. Everyone looks so comfortable. It"s too easy.

I have so many questions, yet I"m unsure if I could find the words to voice them if I wanted to. I linger for a few minutes after the closing words, nodding politely as the people close to me greet each other and me. I"m so lost in my thoughts that I don"t notice Dr. Levin sit down on the pew next to me.

"A bit different from what you"re used to?" she asks with a warm, understanding smile.

Does she look at everyone like that? Would she be so understanding if she knew everything in my heart? All the fear and questioning that I"m running away from?

"Just a bit," I tell her with a wry smile.

She nods, not expecting any further explanation. The silence between us is oddly comfortable, and I have to admit that I feel better just sitting here than I have in a very long time.

"I"ve avoided church for the past four years or so," I say eventually. "It just didn't feel the same as what I grew up with." More silence, and then I turn my head towards her. "I"m a little confused why this feels right, but it"s not a real church at all."

If she"s offended, she doesn"t let on. She actually laughs. "You"re not the first to think that. But I think church and God and worship are all subjective." My eyes widen and I flinch back like she could be hit by lightning at any moment, which she also finds humorous.

"I don"t mean that in an irreverent way," she explains. "What I mean is that there are billions of people on this earth, all of whom are searching for truth and meaning in some way. Who"s to say who"s right or wrong? What if the God you worship and the enlightenment found by Buddhists monks on the other side of the world are the same entity, just perceived differently? Whether you call it one God or many, or a spirit, or the Force," she chuckles. "It doesn"t matter because the meaning is the same. It"s something that unites humanity, despite it being the cause of war, death, and despair for eons."

"That"s an interesting way of looking at it, I guess."

"You"re too polite to tell me what you really think," she says with a laugh.

"I"m not sure I know what to think anymore."

She hums and nods understandingly. "You were praying earlier. Do you find it helpful?"

"Sometimes. But I"m not really sure He"s listening," I admit.

Her face falls into a somber expression. "What makes you think that?"

"Because I haven"t followed His word the way I should," I say, and my voice sounds small even to me. My eyes cut towards the rainbow in the entryway.

"Lane," she says, and I turn to meet her eyes. "I'm sorry someone made you feel that God doesn't love you exactly for who you are." Her eyes shine, but I don't feel pity in her gaze. "That's not the God I believe in," she tells me bluntly. "Part of the wonder of Creation is that we are all so very perfectly imperfect. I believe we are meant to love all of those parts of ourselves, and I believe He loves you exactly as you were born."

Her words echo what my mother said and burrow into my soul. When I really search my heart, I don't believe that my feelings are the work of evil forces drawing me into temptation. It doesn't feel like evil; it doesn't feel bad. It just feels like me. But I also don't know how to stop feeling the shame of my truths when they've been driven into me, or how to get the voices that say otherwise to stop whispering.

Sick. Abomination. Weak.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Shifting my gaze to my hands, and the cuticle I"ve nearly made bleed, I shake my head. There aren't words for what I'm feeling right now.

"Would you like it if I prayed with you?"

Unbidden, my eyes fill with tears. My vision is blurry as I take in the way she opens her small hand. Although mine is so much bigger than hers, I feel like she"s holding my hand rather than the other way around.

Lending me her comfort and strength, she sits with me while I bow my head and cry. My tears become the prayers my heart desperately needs to shed.

But for once, I"m not praying to be changed or fixed or healed. I've come to terms with the truth that I can't find myself to say out loud. I"m praying for the strength to find acceptance.

Just do it.

Don"t be a coward.

It"s just a shower.

There"s no one here, but even standing in the locker room showers makes my skin itch. How am I supposed to do this?

My head drops to my hands, thinking about how I even got here.

I didn"t exactly plan ahead when I walked out last night. I know he's worried about me, and my one, clipped text response to say I'm fine probably did little to help. But I can't face him right now. I'm not upset with him over what happened last night. He stopped when I said the words, and that means something to me.

I should have said them sooner. But I was too weak to say them. Too embarrassed. Too curious. Too lost to my own lust. I was warm all over and floating in the ether.

Nothing but absolute shock could have burst that bubble, but burst it did. I almost came just from Noah kissing me… there. The sharp stab of pleasure that went through me when he pressed his tongue against the most forbidden part of me sent a jolt through my system that woke me from my stupor. A cold chill ran over me, waking up all the ghosts of my past. Lights flashed behind my eyes, and the whispers were more like shouts. My grandfather and Pastor Gideon, screaming at me to repent. The taste of bitter medicine that still won't leave my mouth.

After I left the chapel this morning, I was feeling a lot more clear-headed, but I still wasn't ready to face Noah. I drove off campus and stopped at a random convenience store, where I got a granola bar and a sports drink. Not sure where to go, but not wanting to go home, I came to the sports complex to brush my teeth and get a change of clothes from my locker. Then I just sat on this bench and stared at my phone as the notifications started rolling in.

Too many texts from Noah. I still haven't read them. Before all Noah's messages could load, my phone was ringing. After sending a quick text to Noah that I'm fine, I answered the call. The number wasn't saved, but it looked familiar.

I wish I hadn't answered it.

It was my new attorney, a woman named Shonda Clarke, calling to give me details about her plan to help us. She's hoping we can avoid testifying publicly before a jury by giving a private deposition. With everything that she suspects I saw or experienced, combined with my mother's deposition, it could be inflammatory enough that the defense will suggest a plea deal. Ms. Clarke also explained that even if Larsen takes a plea deal to avoid a life sentence, there's still little chance he'll see the outside of a prison with the number and severity of charges stacked up against him, especially at his age. Our only aim, she says, is to avoid having to testify publicly so we can protect my anonymity.

The deposition will be at her office in a conference room, with her and the defense team present, as well as necessary court officials that are required to be there. She's managed to schedule it during the few days I have off during fall break next month. She makes sure I'm aware of the potential that I could end up having to testify before a grand jury at some point in the future if her plan doesn't work as she hopes, but she's confident. I should feel confident.

I said very little, absorbing as much information as I could, before thanking her for her time and hanging up.

They want me to talk about it. To remember how many boys I saw taken to the basement, to look at pictures meant to "jog my memory" about what the rooms looked like, and if I'd ever witnessed what happened there. And they need as much detail as possible.

I don't need pictures. I see those rooms every time I close my eyes. I'm there again every time I stand on the cold tile of a locker room shower.

How can I tell them if I can't even handle a shower?

Just do it.

Don"t be a coward.

It"s just a shower.

Before I get undressed, I walk across the showers to turn on the water in the shower stall farthest away. I undress with the curtain closed, and make quick work of getting clean so I can get the hell out of here.

It"s a testament to how badly I don"t want to go home that I even considered the locker room. But I have to get over this eventually. Taking a shower in a locker room, alone, can't be as hard as facing the questions they'll ask.

I"m pretty sure I set a world record for how quickly I shower, focusing on the fact that there are walls around me. I keep touching them, trying to draw comfort from the fact that I"m not in the open space, it"s fine. This is not the same. This is fine.

Detective Moore's voice keeps repeating in my head, her voice merging with the others. My heart beats in my throat. I don't want to talk. I don't want to remember.

It"s not fine.

I throw up blue sports drink all over my feet, and all of my attention zeros in on the drain. I watch in horror as the water washes the mess away, the simple circle grate in the floor becoming my only focus. My vision glazes over. The room spins. I reach out to touch the walls again, to remind myself where I am, but I accidentally turn the shower knob. The water pressure increases and quickly turns freezing cold. A sob echoes in the room.

There are walls. There"s a curtain. Breathe.

The drain gurgles and I gag again, feeling like I might pass out. I suck air through gritted teeth, squeezing my eyes shut against the barrage of images that batter the inside of my eyelids.

Someone calls my name. It echoes with the rest of the voices.

"Sickness." "You can give others the strength they need to tell their stories." "Disgusting." "Would you like me to pray with you?" "Scrub the sins from your surface, and pray for God to scrub them from your soul!" "God is love, Lane." "We'll try to keep your new identity from the public, but you may have to testify before a grand jury." "Repent!" "Would they make mistakes?" "You're weak." "It's a simple mouth swab to determine paternity to corroborate your mother's testimony." "They hurt you." "Abomination!"

"Lane!"

My eyes are forced open, Noah crouching over me, shielding my body from the cold water with his own. Once his dark blue eyes are looking into mine, his expression softens some, and he reaches to turn the water off. His clothes are soaked, but he either doesn't notice or doesn't care. He pulls a towel from a hook on the outside of the stall and wraps it around me.

He"s talking, but I can't hear the words through the chattering of my teeth. His tone is low and gentle, like he's talking to a child.

Every time I blink, we've moved, like a stop-motion video in real life. Before I know it, we're in an entirely different environment—the texture of the flooring, the colors of the lockers, the hints of natural light around the top of the walls. It's enough contrast to help my brain process that we're not in that place. There's no hose. No scrub brush. No dark, rusty water stains that look like blood, or gurgling sounds of the clogged drain not able to keep up with the amount of water.

I'm on my knees in front of a bench, and it makes me think of praying. I hold onto it, letting it anchor me, but the real anchor is running the rough towel over my skin.

"Noah," I say weakly. "Noah."

"I'm here, Lane," he answers, and lets me lean on him. His arms wrap around me from behind, plastering his body against my back.