Autoboyography
Page 66

Sebastian leans his head against the back of the seat and closes his eyes.
Heavenly Father, please give me strength. Give me the wisdom I need, the surety of decision. I’ll follow wherever you lead me.
“I think it’s a great idea,” Sebastian whispers. “It sounds perfect.”
• • •
The plus side to being gone was that his problems seemed a lot smaller from far away. The feeling isn’t real, and he realizes it as soon as he walks into his house—surrounded by familiar sights and sounds and smells. Reality comes crashing back.
He’s just put his suitcase on his bed when there’s a knock.
“Can I come in?” His dad peeks his head around the partially closed door. “I see our world traveler is back.”
“Yeah. And exhausted.”
There was a tentative cease-fire when the book came out and his parents were able to see the pride of the entire community focused on Sebastian. But he hasn’t had much time alone with his dad in months, and Dan Brother’s presence in Sebastian’s room makes the space feel claustrophobic.
“You have plenty of time to rest up before dinner,” he says. “I just wanted to bring you this.” He hands him a stack of mail. “And I wanted to welcome you home. We’re very proud of you, son. I know you had a rough patch, and it’s made me prouder than you can realize to have witnessed you rise above it all, and be stronger for it. ‘Adversity is like a strong wind: It tears away from us all but the things that cannot be torn, so that we see ourselves as we really are.’”
Sebastian frowns, trying to recognize the Scripture. “I don’t know that one.”
Bishop Brother laughs, and looks at Sebastian with fondness. “Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a Geisha.”
“Okay, yeah, I would never have gotten there.”
The laugh deepens, and his father’s eyes shine. “I guess I’ll leave that one out of Sacrament next week.” He turns to leave before stopping near the door. “Oh, and your mom said there was something in there from Mr. Fujita.” He nods to the stack of mail in Sebastian’s hand. “Might be your last paycheck, so don’t wait too long to open it.”
“I’ll go through it after I unpack.”
When his father leaves, the air slowly drains from his lungs. He closes his door completely and crosses the room to unpack. Toiletries, sweaters, suit, jeans. Underneath is the copy of Tanner’s book he’d printed and taken with him.
The pages are worn, there’s a grease stain on the front from a restaurant in Denver, and the edges are curled in the upper right corner where he would flip through with his fingers as he read. Although he’s probably read the entire thing at least ten times, after the first read, he never started at the beginning. He would flip through and stop, reading from whatever point forward he chose. Sometimes he would start while Tanner was clothes shopping with his mom and Autumn. Other times he would open to the section at the lake, and faggot, and Tanner’s mortifying exchange with Manny.
But being far away from home made him feel removed from this, too. His problems at home might not be real, but if they weren’t, that meant Tanner wasn’t real either. He didn’t have any photographs of him, but he had this book.
Sebastian takes the manuscript and slides it behind his headboard before opening the envelope from Fujita.
Dearest Sebastian,
I hope this letter finds you many books lighter, and many adventures richer. I wanted to update you on our mutual friend’s manuscript. I’m not sure if you’ve spoken to Tanner, but he knows how I came into possession of his novel. He called when grades were posted, certain I’d made some kind of mistake. I was happy to inform him that I had not.
I’ve been working with him on revisions, and encouraged him to make significant changes. Not changes to the subject per se, but seeing as how I think he could really have something here, I suggested changing the names and characteristics of the two lead protagonists, along with any other identifiable details. I’ve been in contact with a handful of editors, and there’s a possibility the Seminar could be two for two. We would, of course, consult you first.
My deepest gratitude, Sebastian, for your bravery. I wish you well. You are an exceptional human, with depth and heart. Don’t let anyone—or anything—dim that light inside you.
Sincerely,
Tim Fujita
Indeed, behind the letter he finds his final check, and Sebastian sends up a silent word of gratitude; when his parents ask about it later, he won’t have to lie.
Staring down at the paper, Sebastian understands his mom’s urgency in sending his application off. Fifteen minutes and he’s right back where he started, missing Tanner with an intensity that has every muscle poised and ready to propel him straight out the door.
It’s too much to imagine Tanner’s book being published, and so he pushes it away, suddenly grateful he’ll be gone again soon, maybe out of the country. Far enough that he can outrun the ache and the temptation to see him again, just once, and tell him everything.
• • •
The next weeks move in a time warp. House calls with his father, mowing lawns for everyone and their grandmother, helping families move. Sebastian barely has time to dig behind his bed every night and read a few pages of Tanner’s book before his eyes are pulled closed by total exhaustion.
The letter, his mission call, arrives on a Tuesday, and the envelope sits on the kitchen counter, untouched, for four days. His mother’s family is flying in from Phoenix. His great-grandmother is due to arrive from St. George by five. A dozen friends and family are driving down from Salt Lake, and countless others are coming from just down the road.
By three his mother has tiny armies of appetizers laid out on baking sheets. Pot stickers, quiches, mini Frito pies, and—to the side—a huge vegetable platter. Faith and Lizzy are in matching yellow dresses. He and Aaron wear identical navy suits.
His hands shake. His jaw is tight from clenching it. They all pace, make small talk, wait.
Tanner’s voice is a soft, teasing loop in his head. If you hate this so much, why are you doing it?
The answer is easy. When he thinks of being gone, he relaxes. When he speaks to God lately, he feels better. It isn’t the mission or the faith he’s unsure of. It’s the weight of his parents’ shame and the pressure of their expectation.
He walks, heart on fire, to the kitchen. “Dad. Can I take the car for a few?”
Bishop Brother looks up, eyes concerned. “You okay?”
“Nervous,” he says honestly. “I’m fine. I just . . . I need to go down to church for ten minutes.”
His father likes this answer, cupping his shoulder in a palm and squeezing with a gesture of solidarity before handing over the keys.
Sebastian means to go to church, he does. But instead, he turns left, not right, drives straight when he should turn, and eventually finds his way down the NO ACCESS dirt road. He parks there, dragging a blanket from the trunk and staring up at blue skies, trying to remember the stars.
It isn’t the same out here now. For one, it’s sweltering; the air swarms with mosquitoes. The second difference—the absence of a long body beside him—is even more notable. He gives himself ten minutes, and then twenty. He tries to say good-bye to Tanner, but even when he closes his eyes and asks God for the right words, for the spell that will unlock his heart, they don’t come.