How to Repair a Mechanical Heart (25 page)

“Okay‌…‌”

“How come you always do that?” he grins.

“Do what?”

“Squeeze my hand twice? It’s cute.”

“Oh‌…‌” Camo Pants bangs out of the laundry room, the rusty bells slapping the glass door. “It’s dumb.”

“There’s a story? Tell me!”

I keep my eyes on the door. He’ll come back any minute with a rifle, the same battered .223 Remington he just used to shoot up coyotes in the Utah backwoods. “Mom used to do that when I was a kid,” I tell Abel. “Sort of a tradition. She said it was like‌—‌” Footsteps scuffle, metal rattles outside.

“Like what?”

It’s just an old lady with a shopping cart. “‌…‌It was our secret code for ‘I love you.’ That way we could say it any time, even when we couldn’t talk. Like in the middle of church or whatever.”

“That’s intensely sweet.”

“Yeah.”

“A good kind of secret.”

You can’t keep secrets from God, guys. He knows everything.

“Bran?”

He sees everything.

“You okay? What’s wrong?”

I stab my nails into my palm. The Father Mike stuff won’t come back.

I won’t let it.

“You’ve got cream on your cheek,” I tell him.

“Geez. Don’t scare me like that.” He wipes it off and forces a laugh. “It’s like you were past-tense Brandon for a minute.”

I get up and start raking our warm dry clothes out of the dented machine, just to shield my face from his field of vision. I don’t want Abel to know that maybe there is no past-tense Brandon after all. Only present imperfect. And if I’m not extra-careful now, he’s going to ruin everything.

***

CHURCH OF ABANDON ROLL CALL!!

retro robot: 
 helloooooo? who’s still here? anyone? **tumbleweeds**

amity crashful: 
 I am!

sorcha doo: 
 me.

whispering!sage: 
 me too but tbh, at this point I’m just kinda killing time until the Castaway Planet premiere. I mean after the hey_mamacita thing‌…‌

a_rose_knows: 
 I know, and plus abandon fic is redundant now. like why am I writing you sex scenes when you’re doing it for real as I type?

sorcha doo: 
 except rosey your scenes are probably better lol

amity crashful: 
 I have to admit they were 10000x sexier when they were tragic and unrequited. ugh! WTF is wrong with me? this is why all my relationships are doomed.

lone detective: 
 Well, not to worry. IF they’re actually together, they’ll be broken up soon. Not that any of you will care by then.

sorcha doo: 
 detective will you shut it! why are you still around??

lone detective: 
 Oh, for the most entertaining part of fandom. Fiddling while Rome burns.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Our first date.” Abel clutches my hand in the Tuscan-tiled waiting cove, bouncing on the heels of his dirty white wingtips. “This is so fun!”

God wouldn’t call this a date.

The Olive Grotto in Layton, Nebraska is the kind of place where teenagers go for fancy pre-prom dinners, where men take their wives to celebrate anniversaries and surprise them with heart-shaped gold necklaces they saw on TV. It is not the kind of place where two teenage boys walk into the lobby holding hands, unless it’s Halloween and one of them is snickering in unconvincing drag.

The hostess has a snappy blond ponytail and quick, efficient hands. She snatches two menus from the pocket on the side of her podium and says “’Kay. You can follow me.” She takes off fast, like she’s trying to lose us or something. Abel’s nodding to the waiters and humming that old song about
your personal Jesus
but I’m taking it all in, and I see how people are looking at his neon polo shirt and skinny white tie and I notice where she seats us. In the corner, with three empty tables between us and everyone else.

I open the menu and start flipping pages.

“What’s with the face?” Abel says.

“The hostess,” I lie. “Just‌…‌reminds me of someone.”

“I know, right? She’s such a type. Overgrown pageant kid.” He cups a hand to his mouth. “Ten to one her parents aren’t entirely convinced the earth is round.”

“Heh.”

“Oh good
gravy
Brandon will you look at that giant fake wine bottle?” He points to a decorative bottle-vase on the opposite wall with two orange poppies stuck inside. “We
must
have it!”

“Uh-huh.”

“We can take it to college. We’ll share custody.”

“You can’t take the decorations, dummy.”

“Oh yeah?” He takes out a five-dollar bill and brandishes it, doing a sleazy eyebrow-wiggle. “My friend
Mr. Lincoln
says otherwise.”

I snort a little. He cracks up. Loud.

“I’m so glad you wanted to come here.” Abel reaches out and grabs both my hands. My eyes dart around.

“It’ll be fun,” I say lamely.

“Yes!
Thank
you. I hate when people are snobby about the Olive Grotto. My dad has this one surgeon friend, he’s like the world’s foremost expert on being a douchenozzle, and he’s always like ‘the Olive Grotto is the Spam of Tuscan cuisine’ and I’m like dude, cram it, ‘cause sometimes you want to stuff your damn self with chicken parm bruschetta, you know?”

I nod. I wish he’d talk quieter. “The breadsticks are good too.”

“They are godlike.”

You know what isn’t Godlike?

“What would Cadmus order here?” I blurt.

“Ooh! Excellent question.” He scans the menu. “I think he’s a straight-up lasagna guy. Maybe some short ribs.”

“Mm.”

“And for Sim‌…‌he’d go clean and simple, if he ate at all. Some grilled lemon chicken‌…‌?”

Across the room, a gray-haired guy with jowls and a bald-eagle t-shirt is staring at us. He turns away when he sees me looking. Whispers to his wife.

“All right.” Abel slaps the menu shut. “What’s wrong?”

Be honest. Tell him this is a mistake.

“I’m having a‌…‌” I hate this a lot. “You know.”

“A baby?” His eyes go tender in a cartoony way. “Awwww,
honey
. It’s just like that mpreg where Cadmus tells Sim he’s expecting twins and‌—‌”

I wave away the joke. “A relapse. You were right.”

“Oh.” I see panic cross his face. “Oh. God. Is it because I sang ‘Personal Jesus’?”

“No. No.”

“It was the dollar store, wasn’t it?”

“Huh?”

“Back there, back there! When I made Spongebob eat the nun figurine?”

“No. It wasn’t that‌—‌”

“God, I’m an idiot! I knew I should’ve‌—‌”

“It’s not your fault, okay? Relax.”

He sits up straight, nodding fast. “Okay. Okay, then. I don’t want this to turn bad. What can I do?”

“I‌—‌nothing, really. Nothing.”

He blinks at me. “Please don’t break up with me at the Olive Grotto.”

“I’m not breaking up with you!”

“Well, I have to do something. I’m your boyfriend, right?”

The way he says that is so sweet I feel like crying. What can I tell him that doesn’t sound deeply insane?
Well, things just haven’t been the same since I found out hey_mamacita is a screwed-up kid instead of a divinely inspired matchmaking warrior.

Abel folds his hands. “So‌—‌I guess, talk to me.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“Tell me exactly what happens. Do you hear that Father Mike’s voice in your head or something?”

“I don’t actually
hear
it.” I shoot him a dark look. “I’m not crazy.”

“No, I didn’t mean‌…‌” He sighs. “Shit. Sorry. I’m just trying to understand.”

“I know.” I reach across the table, stroke his arm. “It’s more like I remember things he said before. Or I imagine what he
would
say, if he saw me.”

“But you said you don’t believe that stuff anymore, right? Like, it’s a sin or whatever.”

“My brain doesn’t. No.”

“But your heart‌…‌?”

“No, my heart pretty much approves, too.” I give him a faint smile and squeeze his hand.

“So what’s the problem, then?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Try.”

“You’ll think it’s weird.”

“What, like, did you see Jesus in your pancakes this morning?”

“Okay.”

“Did an angel appear to you in the iHop bathroom?”

“See.”

“Repennnt! Mortify your flesssssh! Order the Smokehouse Combooooo!”

“You’re getting all judgy.”

“
I’m
getting judgy? I don’t judge anyone!”

“You get judgy about religion.”

“So? I think I’m entitled.”

“So it’s complicated for me.”

“Uh-huh. Okay.” He twists his mouth and tilts back in his chair. “So here’s what I don’t get. You met with Father Mike that one time, and he gave you that stupid
Step On the Brakes
book and quoted the Bible at you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So why didn’t you fight him?”

“What, like‌…‌” I make a fist, mime a punch.

“No, goofass. Why didn’t you argue with him? Tell him you didn’t believe God was really like that? And don’t say you were scared, because I know you have balls. I’ve seen them. In action.”

I shrug, blushing. “I don’t know. It’s like, how do you argue with Leviticus?”

“I do. So do tons of people, right? Aren’t there gay theology people? Those churches with rainbow flags and shit?”

“Yeahhh, but‌…‌” I rub at a water splotch with my thumb. “He’d just tell me they were wrong.”

“Which would be his opinion.”

“Right, but‌—‌”

“And why is his opinion more valid than yours?”

He’s hiding a trap in a stupid question. I roll my eyes.
Pass.

“I’ll tell you why.” He points at me with his fork. “Because you’ve been conned into thinking anything that makes you too happy is some kind of sin.”

“Oh, okay.” I kick at the table leg. “I guess I’m stupid, then.”

“No! Not at all. That’s just what organized religion does, Bran. I’ve seen it before.”

Mom serving stew at Our Daily Bread. Candlelit “O Holy Night” at Christmas Eve Mass.
“That’s not all it is.”

“Well, that seems to be the key feature.”

“You just know about the bad parts. You’ve never seen the good stuff.”

“Oh, well,
pardon me,
Mr. Sudden Random Piety.” He’s shredding a napkin. Angry eyebrows. “You tell me one good thing about it, then. Tell me what’s so awesome, huh? The guilt and shame? The weird OCD rituals? The no-condom rule? The priests who‌—‌”

“Stop! That’s cheap.”

“Facts are cheap?”

“People do great things because of religion, too.”

“Uh-huh. Like Bec can’t do charity work because she’s an atheist?”

“I’m not saying‌—‌”

“In fact, it means more because they’re not just doing it to get to heaven. Next!”

“Well,” I squirm. “The sacraments, I guess‌…‌and like, the sense of community.”

“Aha. Okay. Sure.” He taps his chin and squints. “Whispering your sins in a little closet‌…‌eating a flat tasteless cookie once a week‌—‌”

“All right.” It’s stuff I think myself, but when he says it I hate him for it.

“‌—‌The sublime joys of singing hymns with folks who think you’re earmarked for eternal doom. Now it makes sense.”

“You’re just being shitty now.”

“I’m trying to understand‌—‌”

“Well, you never will!” I shoot back. People glance over. “You never will, because you didn’t grow up in it.”

“Yeah, thank fuck for that.” He mashes the napkin shreds into a ball. “My parents weren’t sadists.”

My mind tangles up with sweet memories. Mom adjusting my pipe-cleaner whiskers on the tiger costume she stayed up all night sewing. Dad narrating backyard batting practice:
Number 44, Brandon Page, steps up to the plate in the bottom of the ninth
‌…‌

“Don’t talk about my parents,” I say, evenly.

Abel blushes.

“I’m sorry. I am.” He picks at the spotless tablecloth. “I’m sorry, Brandon, I just‌—‌I’ve been burned by this. Like, seriously.”

“I know.”

“We’ll talk later. I’ll play nice.”

“Kay.”

“I want to have a good dinner. Okay? Can we do that?”

I nod.

“Sure. We can.”

***

We can’t.

The lasagna tastes like a tire and he stabs at his lobster tortellini the whole time and the conversation starts and stalls. On the cab ride back to the campground, you can feel a fight brewing thick in the air, like that time Dad spilled Mom’s embarrassing aerobics-class story at her high school reunion and the whole ride home was a tense tick-down to her explosion.

Bec’s curled up on the vinyl couch, watching TV with her phone at her ear.

“Heyyyy, kids,” she sings. “How
was
it?”

“Perfect.” Abel keeps his back to her, grabs a carton of milk from the fridge and takes a few glugs. I force a smile. It’s dark; she can’t tell.

“I’m watching an old
X-Files
with Dave.” She points to her phone. “Wanna join? It’s the one with the killer cockroaches.”

“Nah, I’m tired.” Abel slams the fridge. He sears me with a look. “Let’s go to bed, Brandon.”

Bec grins. “I’m turning this up, then.” She cranks the volume.

Abel shuts the bedroom door behind us. He strips off his tie.

“What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?”

“Shouldn’t we like‌—‌talk more?”

“I don’t dwell on bad things. I just make them better.” He tips his chin at me. “C’mere.”

I look at the floor. He steps close. His hand hooks the back of my neck and he pulls my mouth to his before I can even take a breath. After a second he senses I’m suffocating; his lips soften and migrate to more innocent places.