Decca

The dim light rendered him in shadow but it was him. The figure was too tall, too broad to be anyone but Gus. He flicked on the porch light and as our eyes met, I melted, looking into the face of hope.

“Decca?” He flicked on the outside light and that glow he carried around with him, that inner light I loved, reflected onto me, warming my rain-soaked skin.

“Gus? Hello? You look, uh. . . .” Strong. Big. Capable of holding up your end of a theological debate while throwing me over your shoulder and carrying me upstairs.

“What’s wrong, Decca?” He said gruffly, like I’d woken him from a deep sleep. Except he didn’t look like he’d been sleeping. His hair was mussed. His clothes looked he’d just thrown on whatever was rumpled and on the floor after being worn during the day. But there was something wild in his eyes. His irises were almost as black as his pupils. You could only see any difference in the sunlight, but I’d bet they were dilated now, even in the light. He looked . . . aroused. Like I’d caught him in the middle of sex.

Oh, God. Did I catch him in the middle of sex?

Why hadn’t I thought of that? We didn’t discuss relationships. Or sex. Ever. Why had I assumed it meant he never participated? That I could just swim over here and save him from a lifelong loneliness?

My stomach tightened at the thought of a woman in his bed. Grasping his holy sheets in her fists as he licked her—

“Decca. It’s late.” Oh, yeah. I was still on the porch.

“Uh, I’m sorry to interrupt. I had a thought. I didn’t know you’d be . . . busy.”

“I’m not busy,” He barked.

“It seemed to take you a while before coming to the door. I didn’t think about you having, you know, company.”

I turned to leave, berating myself over the stupidity of this momentary thought. “I’m sorry. This was a spur of the moment thing that blew up in my face. I’ll let you go back to whatever you were doing.”

“Decca. I was asleep. Trying to be, at least. It took me a minute to hear you knocking. Then another minute to throw on some clothes. It’s after midnight.”

“Really?” I scrunched my eyes at him.

“Is it that hard to believe I’d be asleep after midnight?”

“I thought you were a night owl.”

“Not on Saturday nights.”

“Oh. Because of church?”

“Because of church.” He nodded, amused.

“Okay, um . . . now that I trudged all this way over here in the rain, do you think I could come in?”

He stilled for a minute. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Decca.”

“Wow. That’s not what I thought you were going to say.”

“What? You thought I’d run for a towel? Maybe, unzip that hoodie of yours and breathe fire onto your chilled skin?”

Umm. Yes, please.

“No. I was not expecting that. Nor was I expecting that weird outburst. I’m sorry I woke you. Just forget I was here.”

He stepped onto the porch. Now that he was no longer half hidden behind the door, I could see he wore his black shirt and black pants, but his shirt was open at the collar, and he was barefoot. His feet were long and slender, but somehow strong. They were beautiful feet.

I focused on them as he reached for my hand, giving it a friendly squeeze before dropping it again and stepping away again like I had cooties.

“I’m sorry Decca. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m tired. I’m going through some things.”

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“I know, Gus. You usually share your things with me.”

“I do,” he conceded. “I guess because it’s because of graduation. I’m freaking out a little over how to proceed. What did you come here for?”

“I’m not sure I want to ask you now.” I sounded like a petulant child, but it didn’t make my words any less true. I didn’t want him in this grumpy weird mood. I didn’t want to be turned away from his door. Frankly, that didn’t bode well for the rest of our relationship.

Dumb spur of the moment decisions. I could be at home by now, showered and dry, my hands cupped around a mug of tea. Alone.

I looked behind him, at the door he’d pulled shut. The door he was preciously guarding. Was it to ensure no leggy, half-naked blonde stepped out and saw me standing on his porch, asking questions he didn’t want to answer? I knew about his fuckboy past. Maybe I’d wrongly assumed it was far in the past. Maybe he was having one last hurrah. Maybe he never intended to remain celibate as a priest.

No. Not my Gus.

“Decca, no one’s home right now. I’m about to be a priest. I don’t love the optics of a beautiful woman coming to my house in the middle of the night. That’s the only reason I’m out here instead of upstairs running you a bath.”

Oh. Well . . . oh. Once I stopped blushing, I’d try to figure out if he’d meant to lower his voice when he’d said that or if I was only reading into the whole new sexy vibe I was feeling from him.

“What were you going to ask me?”

This was my shot. I’d bungled the timing, but he’d reset the clock and now my coming here made sense.

Just one deep breath, Decca. You can do this.

Maybe just one . . . more . . . deep breath.

This was just a friendly deal. A social contract. Nothing to be anxious about. He’d say no, and we’d both laugh at the silliness of it all and get coffee after church tomorrow.

His eyes were the sky at new moon, soft and inky black.

His expression so open and sweet, I could see the Universe in him. In the way he cared for me, even along the periphery. The way he’d watch the same shows as me, even though I binged them and he nibbled them one at a time, so we’d have something else to talk about when our religious discussions got too heated. The way he was honest with me. He never held back for the sake of friendship. He wasn’t afraid to show he cared about me in the way some guy friends were afraid that if they showed anything more than blasé concern about the wellbeing of their female friends, we’d leach on to them and demand more.

That was the thing about clergy. It wasn’t his job to have blasé feelings. It was his job to care. About everyone. To show them the full strength of God’s love.

“Dec—”

“Will you marry me?” My words hung in the air. Maybe the humidity of the rain kept them hovering, preventing them from drifting off, away from the porch roof and out into the night.

But there they hung, waiting for Gus to reach up with his giant fist and punch at them like a speedbag.

His body quickened, something breaking free from deep inside. His lips parted as he blew out a long breath. His chest caved in as he gasped for breath after ragged breath. His shoulders lost their usual crucifix rigidity and for the first time I saw him slump, even his eyes seemed to draw inward. The vacuum before a bomb.

“I . . . Gus?”

Then, it detonated.

His shoulders shook. His chest shuddered. A sound. Big. As large as him. It filled the night air on the porch, silencing the rain.

I stared at him with wide eyes, unable to comprehend what I was seeing. The stages of his reaction—whatever it was—seemed wrong.

Then I understood. He was laughing. At me.

I could do nothing but stand and watch. Mortification had melted my rubber boots to the rotten boards of the porch. Eyes unable to tear themselves away. Like a car crash. Except I was someone who made it a point not to rubberneck. I saw enough atrocities on a regular basis to not seek out morbid thrills.

I especially did not enjoy my own.

Suddenly cold, I wrapped my arms around my belly, tugging my elbows tighter. Excess water squeezed from the soggy material. I needed to leave. Get in my truck, blast the heat, and drive until my sweater eventually dried. Probably not before my eyeballs shrunk in their sockets and my skin grew thin and papery.

He was right, though. It was funny. I knew he wouldn’t think my offer was legitimate. Who would? Well, except for weirdos like me who did crazy shit in the name of anthropological solidarity.

I ignored the deep, booming laugh. I rocked my body back and forth, tentatively prying one foot off the porch, then the other. It wasn’t impossible.

I turned, taking one step away, then another. I made it to the steps before a hand enveloped mine. Gus stopped me. Not pulling me back, but coming around, out from under the shelter of the haint blue ceiling. Standing two steps below me, we were practically the same height.

The blacks of his eyes were wide and glossy. His brow was smooth, open, despite the rain. He looked ten years younger than he had when he’d answered the door.

He squeezed my hand.

It would be alright. I knew it would be. It was only my pride getting knocked around.

Even if it didn’t feel like it was just my pride. So what if something ached inside my chest?

Tomorrow, I’d get up and practice yoga. Dig through soil strata, hunting for a fragment of a mandible. At night, I’d comfort myself with research and a visit to Regina Williams in her assisted living room to discuss her end of life ritual options.

Life would continue.

Gus was a good friend. A good man. He wouldn’t let this ruin our friendship. He would somehow know the right platitudes to say to make me understand how much he appreciated my sweet gesture. One day, we’d laugh at that time I got the crazy idea to propose to him just so he wouldn’t have to spend his life alone.

His eyes searched mine, looking back and forth between them at such a close distance. Closer than we ever dared stand.

His lips parted. Here come the platitudes.

Brace yourself, Dec. You had to expect this.

But with one word—his smile like a vow—the Earth shifted on its axis.