Page 55 of The Revenge Game
“I’m taking it that the lack of gargoyles won’t stop you from visiting the cathedral though.”
“Nope. Let’s go in.”
Drew wanders ahead of me, and my eyes linger on the way his jeans sculpt to his ass, the way his dark-gray T-shirt stretches across his shoulders when he reaches out to hand over his ticket.
“Keep your eyes where they belong, boy, unless you want people getting the wrong idea about you.”
It’s Bobby Ray’s voice.
But ever since Wimbledon, when Dave so casually accepted Drew’s sexuality and tried to set Drew up with his cousin, I’ve spent time thinking about what it would be like to stop hiding.
Bobby Ray had very specific ideas about what made someone a “real man.” The way you walked, talked, who you looked at, how you held yourself—everything was a test I couldn’t afford to fail. Even now, thousands of miles and many years away from him, I still catch myself monitoring my gestures, measuring my words like he’s standing over my shoulder with that disappointed sneer that always preceded his lectures about “men these days being too soft.”
I was fourteen when I realized I was attracted to guys. I’d been watching Tommy Rodriguez do pull-ups in the weight room, the muscles in his back shifting under his thin T-shirt. My whole body had lit up like someone had flipped a switch, and suddenly, everything made sense. Why kissing girls felt mechanical, why I spent so much time in the weight roomwatching other guys work out, why I kept a magazine cutout of David Beckham hidden in my locker “for hairstyle inspiration.”
That night, I’d locked myself in my room and had my first real panic attack, terrified that somehow Bobby Ray would know just by looking at me.
“Stand up straight, shoulders back—you’re not some limp-wristed fairy from California.”
I’d gotten so good at playing the role Bobby Ray demanded, being the perfect Texas football player who dated cheerleaders and never let his eyes linger too long on other guys in the locker room. And I know I’m still playing that role, just with a different audience.
What would it be like to just be open, authentic?
Like Drew is?
I take a deep breath and follow Drew inside.
Inside, the cathedral’s ceiling soars overhead, creating a vastness that makes you feel simultaneously tiny and part of something enormous.
Drew stands on the stone floor, studying his phone intently.
“Are you looking at the app?” I ask because we’d both downloaded the multimedia app that came with our tickets.
Drew snaps his head up. “I was actually looking up the history of gargoyles.”
“What is the history?”
“Turns out they were basically medieval drainage systems with attitude. They started as fancy rain gutters, but then someone decided, ‘Hey, if we’re going to have water shooting out of mouths, why not make them terrifying?’”
“Because nothing says ‘welcome to church’ like being judged by demon-faced plumbing,” I say.
“I guess it was the ultimate warning for sinners about what will happen if you don’t shape up,” he replies.
Our footsteps echo on the marble floor as we wander past elaborate monuments and gilded mosaics.
I consult the app so I can share some historical facts with Drew in exchange for his facts about gargoyles.
“Did you know this is actually the fifth St Paul’s?” I ask. “The previous ones kept burning down or getting destroyed. This one was built after the Great Fire of London.”
“So what you’re saying is the fourth time wasn’t the charm?”
“Apparently not. Though this one’s lasted since 1710.”
“When was the first one built?” Drew asks.
I scroll through the app for information. “AD 604, during the Anglo-Saxon period.”
“I can’t get over the history here,” Drew says. “It’s incredible how something can be built and destroyed so many times, yet still end up standing.”
