The Art of Faking Straight

Chapter Twenty-one

         I've spent most of this week wishing for Jack to say something to me and wishing that I could just run away with Connor for a few days. I know neither will likely happen, but I'd love it anyway. I mean just a hint of Jack's old self would be nice to see rather than the shadow that seems to have taken his place. Lately all he's been doing is making damn sure he's not by his locker whenever I am, being extremely late to class while leaving school far too early, and ignoring every single one of my text messages. Part of me is afraid that he will say something to me and I won't be able to handle it, but the other part is afraid that if he doesn't say something soon I'll lose my mind anyway. I give him his space for most of the week, but I eventually give in and decide that if anything is ever going to be fixed it won't be because of him, I need to take matters into my own hands.

         I finally get the guts to try to talk to Jack on Thursday evening. It's raining when I leave my house, and I'm so out of it that I don't even manage to grab a coat, I just race out the house praying Mom and Dad won't notice my absence, start up the car, then drive to Jack's.

         I knock on his front door for at least ten minutes but it seems no one even bothers to get up, not that I blame them. Then finally a light goes on downstairs and suddenly Jack opens the door. His hair is a mess, he's only wearing boxers, and the look on his face is one that easily conveys that he's still pissed off.

         “What do you want?” he asks roughly and I realize I probably woke him up. He doesn't even try to hide the annoyance in his voice though.

         “To talk.”

         “If I don't want to talk to you at a reasonable time what in God's name makes you think I'd want to talk to you at,” he goes back inside for a moment but returns within seconds, “at fifteen past midnight?”

         “I don't know,” I answer truthfully. It's the only real answer I have because I don't have a reasonable answer for him. I just felt like I needed to go to his house, to tell him. I woke up and thought that I had to explain and then I raced over here, to his place.

         As soon as the answer leaves my mouth he closes his front door in my face. I linger for a minute on his front door step, expecting him to open it, but also expecting him not to. I don't really know what he'll do anymore, but I just wish he'd let me explain. After two or three minutes I give up, there's no reason to expect to be treated nicely when I obviously don't deserve it.

         I have one foot off the porch when he opens the door back up. Turning back around, I see that he must have went to his room and grabbed a shirt because he's now standing in front of me in his boxers and a white tee. I can't help but think that he put it on because of me, because he doesn't want me to check him out even though I'd never do that.

         “You have five minutes and then I'm going to kick your ass back outside,” he growls, but opens the door wider so I can come inside nonetheless.

         I go to sit on the couch, but upon realizing how soaking wet I am I just stand there awkwardly in his living room. 

         “Just sit,” he says impatiently, motioning for me to sit my ass down on the couch so we can get this over with.

         “It's raining and I'm soaked, it'll get wet,” I try to explain, but he doesn't seem to care so I sit down anyway. 

         “Talk.”

         Taking a huge gulp I try to tell him what happened at the party, but as soon as I start to his face seems to twist into some sort of pain and I immediately stop.

         “What?” I ask.

         “That's just...” he starts to say, but he can't seem to come up with the appropriate words because he just stops talking. Putting his head is his hands he begins to massage his temple. “I just can't get a grip on this whole thing.”