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.”