Convenient Proximity

"The hardest part of honesty isn't finding the words. It's deciding whether the person asking deserves to carry what you're about to say."

The corridor outside the Cultural Hall had become a thoroughfare of post-meeting migration.

Families flowed past in loose configurations, children darting between adult legs, conversations overlapping in that particular Sunday murmur that filled the gaps between formal worship and ordinary life. The fluorescent lights cast their flat, institutional glow over everything, transforming the familiar hallway into something that felt both sacred and mundane — a liminal space where spiritual instruction gave way to discussions about lunch plans and afternoon naps.

I'd paused near the drinking fountain, not because I was thirsty but because stopping felt easier than deciding where to go next. The Elders Quorum had dispersed without any clear plan for regrouping, and Charles had vanished in search of Samuel, and the general flow of traffic seemed to be moving toward the foyer without requiring my participation.

So I stood. Watched. Let the current of people move around me.

That's when I saw Nate.

He was emerging from the Cultural Hall a few metres behind the main exodus, his trajectory angled toward the corridor that led to the car park exit. His posture carried that careful neutrality I'd noticed during sacrament meeting — the studied casualness of someone working to appear unremarkable. His parents weren't with him. He was alone, moving with the particular purpose of someone who wanted to reach their destination without being intercepted.

Our eyes met.

It happened the same way it had in the foyer before the meeting — that flicker of contact, brief and weighted. Recognition passing between us like a current, invisible to everyone else but unmistakable to us.

He hesitated. Just for a moment. A break in his stride that might have been imperceptible to anyone not watching for it.

Then he changed course.

Not dramatically — nothing that would draw attention. Just a slight adjustment in trajectory that brought him toward the drinking fountain. Toward me.

"Hey," he said, stopping a comfortable distance away. Close enough for conversation, far enough to suggest casualness.

"Hey."

The word hung between us, carrying more weight than its single syllable should have been able to bear. Hey. Like you see them. Charles's comment from the lesson echoed in my mind, taking on new dimensions.

Nate glanced around — a quick scan of our surroundings. Checking who was nearby, who might be listening, who might notice two young men having an unremarkable conversation in a church corridor.

"Good meeting," he said. His voice was pitched for public consumption — the kind of neutral observation that could be overheard without consequence.

"Yeah. Brother Leake did well."

"He did." Nate's eyes met mine again, and something passed through them. Something that had nothing to do with Brother Leake or the meeting or any of the words we were actually saying. "That thing he said. About quiet things mattering."

"I noticed that too."

"Thought you might have."

The silence stretched between us, filled with everything we couldn't say. The bathroom. Ryan. The secret I was carrying. The weight of being seen in a moment you'd give anything to take back.

"I wanted to—" Nate started, then stopped. His jaw worked for a moment, the words caught somewhere between intention and expression. "I just wanted to say. What you did. Or didn't do. I mean—"

"It's fine."

"It's not, though." His voice dropped lower, barely above a murmur. "It's really not. And I know I can't... I can't explain, or talk about it, or—" He broke off, frustration flickering across his features. "I just needed you to know that I know. What it cost you. To not say anything."

I didn't know how to respond to that. The gratitude in his voice was genuine, but it sat uncomfortably against the reality of what I'd witnessed. What I was still carrying.

"You don't owe me anything," I said finally.

"I know I don't. That's not why I'm—" He exhaled, a sharp sound of frustration. "I'm making this weird. I'm sorry. I just... I've been thinking about it all week. What you must think. What you probably assume."

"I don't assume anything."

"Everyone assumes." The words came out harder than he probably intended. He caught himself, visibly recalibrating. "Sorry. I didn't mean—"

"It's okay."

"It's not." He ran a hand through his hair — a gesture of agitation poorly disguised as casual adjustment. "Nothing about any of this is okay. But you... you just walked away. You just let it be. And I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to pull me aside and tell me they've heard something, and it never happens. And I realised it's because of you. Because you actually meant it when you said you didn't see anything."

The corridor continued to flow around us, people moving past in their Sunday trajectories, completely unaware of the conversation happening in their midst. A family with three small children navigated around us, the mother offering an apologetic smile as her youngest nearly collided with my leg. An elderly couple moved past at their own pace, deep in discussion about something that required emphatic hand gestures.

Normal. Ordinary. The texture of ward life continuing as it always did.

"I meant it," I said quietly. "I still mean it."

Nate nodded. Something in his posture shifted — a release of tension I hadn't fully registered until it was gone. His shoulders dropped slightly, his jaw unclenched.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. I just... needed to hear that. Again. In person."

"You don't have to keep checking."

"I know." A ghost of a smile crossed his face — wry, self-deprecating. "Old habits. When you spend enough time waiting for everything to fall apart, you start looking for the cracks even when there aren't any."

I didn't know what to say to that. The vulnerability in his words was startling — more honest than anything we'd exchanged before, even in the bathroom when everything had been raw and immediate.

"For what it's worth," I said, "I don't think you're—"

"Jerome!"

The voice came from behind me, bright and warm and utterly unexpected. I turned to find Megan Ashworth approaching, her smile carrying that particular quality of pleased surprise that suggested she'd been hoping to run into me but hadn't expected the opportunity to arise.

She looked nice. That was the first thought that crossed my mind — an objective assessment, the kind of observation anyone might make. She moved with the easy confidence of someone comfortable in these spaces, comfortable with herself, comfortable approaching a conversation she hadn't been invited to join.

"Hi," she said, reaching us slightly out of breath, as if she'd walked faster than strictly necessary to close the distance. "I thought that was you. I was trying to catch you after the meeting but you disappeared."

"I was just—" I gestured vaguely toward the drinking fountain, as if that explained anything.

"Hi, Nate." She turned her attention to him. "How are you? I feel like I haven't seen you in ages."

"I'm good." Nate's voice had shifted — that careful neutrality returning, the mask sliding back into place. "Just heading out, actually. My parents are probably wondering where I am."

"Oh, of course. Don't let us keep you." Megan's smile remained warm, but something flickered across her expression — a momentary awareness, perhaps, that she'd interrupted something. "It was good to see you."

"You too." Nate's eyes met mine one last time — a brief contact, loaded with everything we hadn't finished saying. "I'll see you around, Jerome."

"Yeah. See you."

He moved away, his trajectory resuming its original course toward the car park exit. I watched him go for a moment longer than necessary, aware that Megan was watching me watch him, aware that I should redirect my attention but finding the transition unexpectedly difficult.

"Is everything okay?" Megan asked. "You two looked pretty intense when I walked up."

"Just talking about the lesson." The lie came easily — too easily, maybe. "Brother Leake's comment about quiet things. Nate had some thoughts."

"It was a good lesson." She nodded, apparently accepting the explanation. "I liked what your brother said. About not looking away. That was really insightful for someone his age."

"Charles has his moments."

"He does." Her smile shifted into something more personal, more focused. "So do you, from what I've observed."

I didn't know how to respond to that. The compliment sat awkwardly in the space between us, requiring acknowledgment but resisting easy acceptance.

"Wednesday was fun," Megan continued, apparently unbothered by my lack of response. "The basketball, I mean. Good game to watch — you played well."

"The team played well. I just happened to be on it."

"Modest." Her eyes sparkled with something that might have been amusement, might have been something else. "I was paying attention, you know. You seemed more relaxed than usual. During the game. Like you were actually enjoying yourself rather than just... being present."

The observation caught me off guard. I hadn't thought I'd seemed any different on Wednesday — had just played the game the way I always played, moved through the social rituals the way I always moved through them.

"I like basketball," I said. "It's straightforward. You know what you're supposed to do, and you do it, and you can see whether it's working or not. There's no ambiguity."

"Unlike the rest of life."

"Unlike the rest of life," I agreed.

We stood in the corridor as the post-meeting traffic continued to thin around us. Most of the congregation had dispersed by now — claimed by family obligations, the gravitational pull of homes and lunches and afternoon routines.

"I've been thinking," Megan said, and something in her tone shifted. Became more deliberate. More purposeful. "About what you said at basketball. About not being sure what you want to do after you finish your degree."

I didn't remember saying that. But I might have — the conversations at these activities blurred together, small talk exchanged without full attention, words offered and received without lasting impression.

"I've been in that place," she continued. "That uncertainty. After my mission, actually. I came home and everyone expected me to just... slot back in. Find a job, find a husband, start the next chapter. And I kept waiting to feel ready, to feel like I knew what I was doing. But the feeling never came."

"What did you do?"

"Eventually? I stopped waiting for certainty and just started moving. Applied for jobs I wasn't sure I wanted. Went on dates with people I wasn't sure about. Said yes to things even when I didn't know where they'd lead." She paused, her expression thoughtful. "It sounds passive when I describe it like that. But it didn't feel passive. It felt like... like faith, I suppose. Taking steps without seeing the whole staircase."

The metaphor was familiar — borrowed from a talk I'd heard somewhere, recycled through countless Sunday lessons and seminary devotionals. But Megan delivered it like it was her own discovery, something she'd earned rather than inherited.

"And did it work?" I asked. "The stepping without seeing?"

"I'm still stepping." A small laugh, self-deprecating. "I don't know if it's working or not. But I'm moving. That feels better than standing still."

I thought about the sacrament prayer. The words I'd spoken over bread I wasn't sure was sacred, to a God I wasn't sure was listening. The performance of faith in the absence of certainty.

Was that what Megan was describing? Was that what everyone was doing — stepping without seeing, moving without knowing, calling it faith because the alternative was paralysis?

"I admire that," I said, and meant it. "The willingness to move without guarantees."

"It's not bravery. It's just... what else is there?" She held my gaze, something shifting in her expression. "Jerome, I'm going to be direct with you. Because I've learned that waiting for the right moment usually means missing all the moments."

My stomach tightened. I knew what was coming. Could feel it approaching like weather on the horizon.

"I like you," she said simply. "I've liked you for a while. And I think you know that, because I'm not exactly subtle, and because people in this ward talk, and because we've had about a dozen of these conversations where we circle around something without ever landing on it."

I opened my mouth to respond, but she held up a hand.

"Wait. Let me finish. Because I've started this about six times in my head and I keep losing my nerve, and if I stop now I'll probably never say it."

I waited. The corridor had gone quiet around us, the last stragglers from the meeting having finally dispersed. We were essentially alone — two people standing in an empty church hallway, surrounded by notice boards and fire extinguishers and the faint smell of industrial cleaning products.

"I'm not asking you to marry me," Megan continued, a small smile flickering across her face. "I'm not even asking you on a date. I'm just asking you to be honest with me. Because I've spent the last three months trying to read signals that might not even exist, and I'm tired of guessing."

"Megan—"

"Do you feel anything?" Her voice was steady, but I could see the courage it was taking to ask. The vulnerability beneath the directness. "When we talk, when we're around each other — is there anything there for you? Or am I just... convenient proximity? Someone who's nice enough and available enough and Mormon enough to tick the boxes?"

The question deserved an honest answer. She deserved an honest answer. And I wanted to give her one — wanted to say something that would make this easier, that would explain the emptiness without causing pain, that would help her understand something I didn't understand myself.

But the honest answer was complicated. The honest answer was a mess of contradictions and confusions that I hadn't sorted out even in my own head.

"I don't know," I said finally. The words felt inadequate, but they were true. "I wish I did. I wish I could give you a clear answer. But I don't know what I feel. About anything."

Her expression shifted — not hurt, exactly, but something adjacent to it. The careful rearrangement of expectations.

"That's not a no," she said.

"It's not a yes, either."

"No. It's not." She was quiet for a moment, processing. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Is there someone else? Someone you're interested in that I don't know about?"

"No." That answer, at least, came easily. "There's no one else."

"Then what is it?" The question wasn't accusatory, just genuinely curious. "Because I've watched you, Jerome. At activities, at church, at these random corridor conversations. You're present but you're not... engaged. Like part of you is always somewhere else. And I can't figure out if that's about me specifically, or about something bigger."

I stared at her, momentarily disarmed by the accuracy of her observation. She'd seen something I'd thought I was hiding. Noticed the gap between performance and reality.

"It's not about you," I said. "You're..." I searched for words that would be honest without being hurtful. "You're kind. And smart. And genuinely good in a way that doesn't feel performative. And if I were going to be interested in someone, you'd be exactly the kind of person I should be interested in."

"But you're not."

"I don't know what I am." The confession came out rougher than I intended. "I look at you, and I can see objectively that you're attractive. I can list all the reasons why this should work. And then I wait for something to happen inside me — some feeling, some spark, some sign that this is what everyone talks about when they talk about connection. And there's just..."

"Nothing," she finished.

"Nothing," I agreed. The word hung in the air between us, stark and unadorned. "And I don't know if that's about you, or about me, or about some combination that I haven't figured out yet. I just know that pretending otherwise would be unfair to both of us."

Megan was quiet for a long moment. Her expression had gone thoughtful rather than wounded — the look of someone processing information rather than nursing rejection.

"Thank you," she said finally.

"For what?"

"For being honest. For not giving me some vague runaround about timing or circumstances or not being ready. For actually telling me the truth, even though it's complicated." She smiled, and there was something genuine in it — not forced brightness, but actual appreciation. "That's rare, you know. Most people would have just said what they thought I wanted to hear."

"I considered it."

"I know. I could see you considering it." Her smile widened slightly. "You have a very transparent face when you're thinking through options."

"Samuel tells me that too."

"Samuel is very informative."

We stood there for another moment, the conversation having reached some kind of equilibrium. Not resolution — the questions I'd raised didn't have easy answers, and we both knew it. But something had shifted between us. The pressure of unspoken things had eased, replaced by something that felt almost like relief.

"For what it's worth," Megan said, "I hope you figure it out. Whatever's going on inside your head. Because you seem like someone who's carrying a lot, and I don't think that's sustainable."

"Probably not."

"And if you ever want to talk about it — and I mean actually talk, not the polite deflection we usually do — I'm around. Not as a romantic prospect. Just as someone who's also trying to figure things out."

"I appreciate that."

"Good." She adjusted her handbag on her shoulder, the movement signalling transition. "I should go. My mum will be wondering where I am, and my sister has a habit of saying unfortunate things to fill awkward silences."

"Sounds familiar."

"Younger siblings. Universal experience." She took a step back, then paused. "Jerome?"

"Yeah?"

"The nothing you feel — I don't think it's about me. And I don't think it's a flaw in you, either. I think sometimes people just need more time to figure out what connection looks like for them. Not everyone runs on the same timeline."

I didn't know what to say to that. The kindness of it was almost harder to receive than rejection would have been.

"Thanks," I managed.

"See you around." She offered a small wave — friendly, uncomplicated — and turned to go, her footsteps echoing in the corridor until she rounded the corner and disappeared.

I stood alone in the aftermath, surrounded by the particular silence of a church building between activities. The notice boards displayed their usual array of announcements — upcoming activities, temple schedules, missionary farewells. The fire extinguisher gleamed red against the pale wall. The fluorescent lights continued their constant, mindless hum.

The nothing you feel.

She'd named it so simply. The absence where something should be. The gap between what I was supposed to experience and what I actually experienced.

Was she right? Was it just a matter of timeline — some delayed development that would eventually catch up, some switch that would eventually flip? Or was this just how I was built?

I didn't know. Couldn't know. The questions kept multiplying, each answer spawning three more uncertainties.

"There you are."

Charles's voice broke through my spiralling thoughts. He was approaching from the direction of the foyer, his expression carrying that particular mixture of irritation and resignation that suggested parental instructions had been issued.

"Mum says we need to help load the car," he said. "Something about not leaving everything for Dad to carry, which is rich because Dad's probably still talking to someone about genealogy and won't surface for another twenty minutes."

"Right. Yeah. Sorry, I was just—"

"Talking to Megan Ashworth." Charles's eyebrows rose significantly. "I saw her leaving. Looking somewhat contemplative, I might add. Dare I ask what that was about?"

"Nothing."

"That was a very long nothing."

"It was a complicated nothing."

"The best nothings usually are." He fell into step beside me as I started toward the car park. "So are you two...?"

"No."

"But she wants you to be?"

"Charles."

"I'm just asking. As your brother. Who has a legitimate interest in your romantic prospects, or lack thereof."

"Your interest is neither legitimate nor welcome."

"Harsh but fair." He was quiet for a moment as we navigated the corridor toward the exit. Then: "You know, if you're not interested, you should probably tell her. It's kinder in the long run."

"I did tell her."

"Oh." Charles processed this. "And?"

"And she appreciated the honesty."

"That's very mature of her. And of you, actually. I expected more awkward avoidance and meaningful silences."

"Sorry to disappoint."

We pushed through the doors into the car park, the winter sunshine hitting our faces with unexpected brightness after the fluorescent interior. The air carried that particular Adelaide July quality — crisp and clear, with a bite that suggested the afternoon wouldn't warm much beyond its current temperature.

The family car was visible across the car park, Mum already stationed near the boot, organising something with her characteristic efficiency. Dad was there too — apparently having surfaced from his genealogical discussions — loading something into the back seat.

"Did you grab the hymnbook?" Charles asked suddenly.

I stopped walking. "What hymnbook?"

"The one you were using during sacrament meeting. I saw you leave it on the pew when we went to Sunday School."

"I put it back in the rack."

"No you didn't. I saw it sitting there when we left for combined meeting. I assumed you'd grabbed it."

"Why would I grab it? It's not my hymnbook. They belong to the church."

"Exactly. Which is why someone needs to put them back. And now it's probably been collected by the building cleaning crew and we'll never see it again."

"Charles, it's a hymnbook. They have hundreds of them. No one's going to miss one."

"That's not the point. The point is proper stewardship of church resources." He was grinning now, clearly enjoying himself. "Mum would be appalled at your cavalier attitude toward communal property."

"You're the one who left it on the pew in the first place. If anyone's stewardship is in question—"

"I never touched it. My hands are clean."

"Your hands are literally never clean. I've seen your room."

"My room is an organised system that happens to look like chaos. There's a difference."

We continued bickering as we crossed the car park, the familiar rhythm of brotherly argument carrying us through the transition from church building to family vehicle. It was comfortable, this — the easy friction of siblings who'd spent their whole lives learning how to irritate each other with precision and affection.

We reached the car. Mum looked up from her boot-organising with an expression that suggested she'd been waiting longer than she considered reasonable.

"There you are. I was about to send out a search party."

"Jerome was having an extended conversation," Charles said, his tone innocent in a way that immediately communicated the opposite.

"With whom?"

"No one important," I said quickly. "Just some people from the ward. Post-meeting chat."

Mum's eyes narrowed slightly — that maternal radar detecting evasion — but she let it pass.

As I opened the car door, I caught a glimpse of my parents exchanging a look. Brief. Loaded. The kind of silent communication that married couples developed over decades — entire conversations conducted through eyebrow movements and subtle shifts of expression.

Something was different about them today. Something in their bearing, their energy, the way they occupied space. I couldn't name it, couldn't identify the specific quality that had shifted. But it was there, palpable beneath the ordinary surface of Sunday afternoon logistics.

Charles noticed it too. I could tell by the way he glanced between them, his earlier playfulness giving way to something more alert.

"Right," Mum said, closing the boot with a decisive thump. "Everyone in. Sunday roast won't cook itself."

We loaded into the car in our usual configuration — Dad driving, Mum in the passenger seat, Charles and me in the back. Seat belts clicked. The engine turned over. The familiar routine of departure enacted for the thousandth time.