Soundtrack: 'All I need' -  Joy Williams

{Jon}

The fierce itch of his cuts woke Jon early, when the morning light was still pale through his curtains. Still half-asleep, Jon rubbed his palm over the padded dressing to try to relieve the itch, then kicked his blankets off and scrabbled at the edge of the tape to tear the bandage off. He stared at the smooth skin of his stomach underneath, then rubbed it hard with his fingers, like it was a trick. Five thin pink lines crossed his skin—healed.

He took a sharp breath, covering them with his palm, remembering the heat in his hands in the dream with Jesus. He checked his hands, back and front. They were the same shape and size as usual, too big for his body right now. Blood had dried and stained the skin between his fingers. His fingernails were black where he'd torn at the cuts, digging deep to obliterate both the nightmare and the real-life memory of Kurt's face, hurt in his eyes before he'd carefully reassembled his expression and moved on.

Jon put his fingertips to his lips, closing his eyes. Taste and see. He swallowed, expecting self-hatred and revulsion to rear up in his head. There was nothing except his caught breath and the coppery taste of his fingers against his lips. There was nothing disgusting about that kiss. He couldn't hate himself for wanting Jesus' warmth and life and love as close as skin. There was nothing better.

His nose stung, and he tipped over to bury his face in his pillow again. This wasn't the healing he wanted. He could still feel his yearning to be held by a guy, to take a guy's face in his hands and kiss him. The only thing that had changed was that he didn't feel like he had to tear his own skin open and bleed for that. Incomprehensibly, Jesus loved him completely, and he couldn't muster up hate for someone Jesus so clearly loved.

Jon sighed long and shakily, brushing his fingers over his skin again. The scars were so smooth he could barely find them. He thought at Jesus, What do you want me to do with this now? He was out of practice at listening—he couldn't tell if the answer was be you or be mine. Or both.

He got up and opened his door, nearly falling over Pete's prone body stretched on one of their camping mats across his doorway. His dad was deeply asleep, but even sleeping and unguarded, his face was lined with worry. Jon's heart squeezed a little, looking at him. He wanted to take his thumb and smooth those lines right out of his dad's forehead. Was there a way to start again?

He went to one knee to shake Pete's shoulder, and his dad came awake with a sharp intake of breath. He caught Jon's face in both hands, his eyes black with pupil as they tried to focus on him. "What is it?" Pete's voice was hoarse. "Are you all right?'

Jon put his own hands around his father's, feeling Pete's calloused fingertips press his cheeks. "I'm fine." He swallowed guiltily, realizing how many times he had said that in the past and been lying. "For real, Dad. You can go back to your own bed."

Pete released his face, pushing up to squint down the hall at the clock in the kitchen. "Sun's up—I'm up," he said, and got stiffly to his feet, gathering the mat up with him.

Jon listened to the sounds of his dad in his room getting ready for the day while he waited for his toast to pop. Jon's hands were sweating—he was pretty sure there wasn't a better time to try to talk to him. Cary was in the city today—if the sky rained fire and he had to get out, Jon could bus to the shelter and stay with him. Self-hatred had tied him up and shoved a gag in his mouth, and now that it was gone, Jon felt tentatively okay in his own skin—and like he didn't want to expend all the effort it took to hide from his parents anymore. He was going to need every scrap of energy he had to recover from an opes addiction and start at a new school and figure out how to love himself the way Jesus clearly did. If he stopped playing a part for his family, was there a chance the real Jon White could still fit with them?

When his dad came in, Jon reached into the cupboard to pull the coffee can and filters down, like Pete did every morning. "Can I make you a coffee, Dad?" he asked.

Pete's eyebrows lifted, and he made a small smile that didn't smooth out the worried lines in his face. "Yes, thanks. I didn't know you knew how to make coffee."

"Cary," Jon said. His mouth tugged up at one side. "You know he pretty much lives on the stuff."

Leaning against the counter beside him, his dad looked aside. "Is Cary in the city today?"

"I think so," Jon said, fingering a paper filter off the stack. "He hasn't been on his phone much."

"I want to try to see him—to apologize in person." Pete dug a thumb into his eye, his mouth drawn in a deep, unhappy curve. "He wasn't wrong to try to get me to pay closer attention to you. I could have at least held my temper and listened."

Jon thought he recognized the twist of self-hatred in the line of his dad's mouth, and he wished he knew how to help Pete get free of that too.

"Do you regret coming home?" Pete asked abruptly. "Was it the wrong thing to bring you back here?" His eyes were too bright, searching Jon's face.

Jon shook his head. "You and Mom have been really good. I thought I wouldn't—fit here. That you wouldn't want me like this—but it's been okay."

"That we wouldn't want you?" his dad repeated disbelievingly.

Jon kept his eyes on the can of coffee; his hands were unsteady as he tapped the spoon against the side of the can to level it. "I mostly feel like I'm not the son you wanted and—I need to work really hard to make up for that."

Pete made a choked noise. "Jon. You make me so proud to be a dad—I can't even put in words how much I love you. I should have said it so much more—I assumed you knew."

Jon's heartbeat was shaking his whole body, and his ears sang like he was falling. "I assumed if you really knew me—you wouldn't be proud. You would be upset and stressed out, and Mom would get sad and go away again."

"What are you talking about?" Pete asked softly.

Jon set the spoon down on the counter with a little click, swallowing. He tried to choose the right words. "I remember what you were like when Judah was alive—how happy you and Mom were," he said softly. "I tried...to fill the hole he left, but I can't—quite—do it." He swiped the back of his hand over his eye as he set the filter into the basket. Pete watched him silently, his fingers laid on his mouth.

Jon exhaled, his shoulders slumping. "I know it's stupid, but it's taken me all this time to realize...I'm not him. I can't make you laugh like he did. I can't fill the room like he did. I'm not...not even straight like he was." The last words squeezed to a whisper and Jon closed his eyes a second, pressing his fingertips to the counter. Unreasonably, he thought of Kurt's hands playing a melody on the table next to his phone, and he swiped the back of his hand over his leaking eyes again.

"You don't have to be Judah—to make me happy, Jon." Pete's voice was low.

Jon took a huge breath, opening his eyes to look at his dad. "Did you even hear me?" His dad's face was pale and tense—and non-comprehending. Jon pressed his hand against his stomach, remembering the heat of his palm and the touch of Jesus' hands on his face. It steadied him and cleared his thoughts. "I don't want to pretend for you and Mom anymore. I want to get better from opes and cutting and figure out who I am, actually. And I think I need to be completely honest with you to do that, even if you don't like what you hear."

Pete nodded. "That's what I want, too." His voice sounded as thick as it had when he had first woken up. Jon thought he really hadn't heard the one thing that was so outside of his experience of normal.

Jon's face heated, and his heart was in his throat, squeezing the words soft in the morning-bright kitchen. "I'm gay, Dad." The word stung his mouth, but it needed to sting so there was no chance his dad would miss it.

Pete's eyebrows slowly drew together. "What do you mean, gay?"

Jon made a dry noise. "I like guys. The way I'm supposed to like girls."

Pete was blinking like he couldn't process what he was saying. "Since when?"

Jon clenched his fist against his stomach, fighting to hold his dad's eyes. "Years." The word broke. "I've been trying to change for years—and I can't." His breath hitched. "This is who I am, and—I'm sorry."

{Pete}

He felt like he had the day in the Dairy Queen when Jon had finally admitted that he was being bullied. Like a hundred disparate memories that hadn't made sense before clicked into place. He had precious few pictures for what the word "gay" meant—and none that fit with the words "Christian" or "son."

But he knew Jon. He could see his son was terrified to say this to him. His face was so white the freckles stood out on his face like blood spatter. Pete opened his mouth, then caught his breath and pressed his hand against it, remembering the angry lines crossing Jon's hip. His breath pushed warm against his palm and his eyes burned. He knew in his gut that Jon had been trying to carve this out of his own skin. He couldn't bear to watch that go on any longer.

"Say something, Dad." Jon's voice was thin and shaky.

He didn't know what to say. Instead he moved toward his son and put his arms around him. Jon took a ragged breath, and Pete felt him stiffen to try and stand straight when his whole body was shaking. He cupped the back of Jon's head gently in his hand, remembering the first time he had held Jon, the day he was born. He had thought his heart had stretched as big as it was going to get when their firstborn, Judah, had arrived, but that day, holding the warm weight of his second son in his arms, Pete felt his rib cage expanding even wider with love. The same words he'd said into the tiny shell of Jon's perfect ear then were the words that came to his lips now. "Jonathan Nathaniel White. My beautiful boy."

Jon made a raw noise, fisting his hands in Pete's shirt.

"God loves you, and I love you, and your mom loves you. Nothing you've just told me changes who you are to me." For all that he had no idea what this might mean for Jon's future or for their family, he was sure of that.

A sob broke out of Jon's trembling body, and Pete wrapped his arms more securely around him, his own tears running into his beard. He turned his face to whisper into Jon's ear: "Please don't hurt yourself for this anymore," he whispered. "Son."

Jon took a deep, watery breath and made a cracked sound that might have been a laugh. He gently pushed Pete away, a smile blazing up in his tearstained face—not the smile Pete remembered from before, that hid his pain, but a smile that dug deep into hardship and defiantly waved a flag of joy in the face of it.

"Dad, look." Jon lifted his shirt, his eyes liquid-bright. "They're healed." Pete blinked at the pink lines and clear skin of his stomach. "I met Jesus in a dream, and they're healed."

Pete's mouth fell open, and he lifted his hand involuntarily to check for himself.

"You can touch them," Jon said softly.

Gingerly, Pete brushed his fingers over Jon's skin—the exact skin that had been rough and swollen under his fingers the night before. Smooth. He laughed, shaking his head as if to clear it. "They're healed," he repeated wonderingly. He laughed under his breath. "Thank you, Lord."

The joy in Jon's face crumpled a little. "I wanted him to heal—being gay—and he didn't. I'm so sorry, Dad." He slumped against the counter, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Pete's laugh was rueful. "You don't have to apologize for the Lord to me, Jon. He doesn't do what I want, either." He began to fill the coffee pot with water, feeling as though hope was so large inside him that it expanded his ribs and made more room to breathe.

Jon still looked shaky as he crossed his arms over his body, watching him. "Do you want me to move out?" he asked in a strained voice.

"No," Pete said, alarmed by this question. "Do you want to move out?"

"No, thank you." Jon said, drily. He made his mouth smile, but it wobbled. "I want to be with you."

Pete's mouth turned up in a mirror of his son's smile. "That's what we want too."

That hung in the air while Jon struggled with something, his ears turning a deeper shade of red. "I don't think people in your next church—are going to want that." His fingers gripped the tops of his arms and he wouldn't meet Pete's eyes. "If I'm out. If people know. Having a gay kid isn't going to look good for you in ministry, Dad. If you want, I could go with Cary to—"

"No!" The word flew out, fear making Pete raise his voice for the first time. "You belong with us."

Jon tucked his chin in, his eyes dark as they studied him. Pete's heart burned in his chest, and he spoke right out of that heat, without hesitating to figure it out first. "Jon, if you disqualify me from pastoring because of 'how it looks'—" He bit the words off, more angry than he had expected to be. "I would turn in my credentials—I would throw them away—before I would ever turn you out of our house. I wouldn't think twice. No one is making me choose between my gay son and our faith."

Jon pressed his lips together. "I don't want you to never be a pastor again because of me. It's what you're made to do." His breath caught and he put his hand over his eyes. "I'm so fucking sorry, Dad."

"I'm a dad first." There was a growl in Pete's voice, and he took a steadying breath, reaching out to stroke Jon's bowed shoulder just once to reassure himself. It felt as if Jon had been gone for years, and now that he had him back, Pete was desperate to keep him. "I don't want you to have to choose," he said. "Between our faith and—being gay. Do you—think you do?"

Jon took a damp, steadying breath, wiping his eyes on the back of his wrists. "I know Jesus loves me." The words were dry and soft. "And you and Mom love me." One glistening hazel eye glanced sideways at him. "And I want to be with you—and Him. I don't know who I'd be—without you. And that's—all I know," he finished in a whisper.

Pete sighed, leaning next to Jon and putting his arm around his son's shoulder. Jon made a soft sound and put his face against Pete's arm for a moment. Tenderly, Pete looked down at him and pushed a handful of hair behind Jon's ear. He thought of the thousands of times he had stroked his son's hair to send him to sleep at bedtime, and how familiar the shape of his skull and the texture of his hair were. Had anything changed, really, about his boy? Anything that mattered?

"We'll figure it out together," Pete said softly. "I'm not worried. I have trouble imagining a version of you that I wouldn't be proud of."

Jon stiffened and drew back. "How can you say that—after this year?"

Pete remembered his former anger and disappointment with Jon like it had happened to another person. He'd been missing so much information about what had been going on for his boy, about how much Jon had been carrying alone and in secret. "I'm proud of you right now," Pete said simply. "I've been proud of you since the day I picked you up, and I'm proud of the person I see you becoming out of this."

Jon steadied himself against the counter and met Pete's eyes.

The thing that Jon had told him was slowly sinking in. "Years?" Pete asked. It broke his heart a little to realize how long Jon had struggled with this alone.

Jon ducked his head. "I thought if I could change, you would never need to know. I didn't want to tell you until...I was sure I couldn't." Jon's throat moved, swallowing. Pete absorbed this, pushing his hand against the ache in his chest. "Do you think Mom can handle this?" Jon asked in a small voice.

"Ha," Pete said softly. Finally, an easy question he could answer. "I think you could tell your mother you're a serial killer and she would love you anyway."

Jon didn't laugh—his mouth tucked in at the side unhappily as he looked sideways at Pete.

Pete caught himself. "There's no...comparison," Pete said. It continued to catch him off guard—how much more hurt his son was carrying than he'd realized. "I'm just saying she'll love you no matter what."

Jon rubbed his hands over his face and through his hair.

"Are you...seeing someone?" Pete asked hesitantly, wondering how he would navigate this with Tabitha and Bea if Jon brought a guy home to kiss on the step or hold hands, like he and Mel had when they'd been young. It was a thought that made him feel like he'd been flipped upside down and then dropped back on his feet.

Jon shook his head, his face still hidden.

Something about his posture caught Pete's attention. "Have you?"

Jon's body went still, and he lifted one shoulder in response. "It was never gonna work." His voice was frayed. "His family's Christian too. Not the kind—that would be okay with him. It was stupid to even—be friends."

He looked so crumpled that the ache in Pete's heart deepened. "I'm so sorry, Jon. I'm sorry you had to carry this alone. Thank you for trusting me with this."

Jon let his hands fall and looked him in the face once more, half of his mouth smiling in a happy-sad expression. "Thanks for listening, Dad," he said and ducked out of the room.

Pete slid the coffee pot onto the stand and thumbed the brew button, feeling like his chest was so full he might tip over and spill out. With the coffee maker sighing on the counter, Pete sank into a chair at the table and rested his face against his folded hands. He'd prayed for Jon all night long between broken stretches of sleep. This conversation felt like the answer to his prayers: the beautiful healed pink skin on Jon's stomach and Jon's beautiful transparent face telling him the full truth about himself.

He groaned softly. God, he had not expected this. He had no idea how to walk with a son whose sexuality was oriented differently than his. His stomach twisted, imagining how other Christians in his social circle might react to this news if they ever found out. If they reared back in disgust and fear, it would hurt Jon so much, and he was already so fragile. Pete wanted to set his body between Jon and anyone who would treat him carelessly, as if his gay son wouldn't bruise like one of theirs.

Jesus—have mercy on us. As he prayed the words on his breath, he felt his aching stomach ease. He didn't know what he was going to do with what the Bible said about homosexuality—he'd always hated the word and avoided those verses when he preached, preferring to just treat all people as people God loved. Since the person in question was his son, Jon, he was going to figure it out. He was sure the Lord couldn't love Jon any less than he did.

Footsteps padded into the room, and Mel dropped a kiss lightly on his bowed head. "Have you been up all night?"

Pete raised his face, a puzzle of emotions jumbled inside him. "Jon is—gay. He just told me."

Her eyebrows flicked upwards over her bright, curious eyes. "Oh," she said softly, like she'd just recognized someone across the room.

"I feel like I just met the real Jon for the first time." Pete's face creased and his eyes burned. "And he made me coffee."

Mel's laugh made him feel a foot taller. "How wonderful—we've arrived as parents, Peter. Our children make us coffee in the morning. And tell us the full truth about themselves." Her face seemed to glow with a light from within. "What a good day it is already, and it's just begun."

Pete shut his eyes, his heart too full to speak, listening to the familiar sounds of her pouring their mugs of coffee and adding cream to her own. She set the steaming cup in front of him and sat, touching his arm. "We need to talk about Cary."

*There it is: Jon finally told his parents the whole truth about himself. How do you feel about their response? I'll say a little more about this in the afterword of this novel...

My number 1 and 2 favourite moments of the book in these chapters: Jesus' kiss. And Pete sleeping across Jon's doorway all night.  When I write the Jesus or Split-lip parts of the story, I'm quietly looking and listening for what the Spirit might want to do for these characters. When Jesus kissed Jon right in the middle of his ugly self-hatred and despair, I was so struck by the beautiful purity of that moment, while recognizing that's going to be controversial for some Jesus-loving people. What did you think?

Thanks for the reads and votes, lovelies, be well today. You are known and loved.*