The Art of Faking Straight

Chapter Twenty-two

         As you make your bed, so you must lie in it.

         That's what the quote says, but yet, no matter how many times I read it I don't feel any better. Part of this is my fault, I know that, but I can't take all of the blame. When a friend makes it harder than it has to be for you to tell them something, shouldn't part of the blame be on them for not being the friend they're supposed to be? I don't really know, but I sure hope so.

         “Are you still looking at quotes?” Connor asks from behind me, his voice sounds amused and I know that it must be because I've been looking at quotes for the past two hours. Which is sort of pathetic of me really. Here I am at my boyfriend's house where I could be hanging out with him, making out with him, whatever, but instead I'm being a whiny prat and surfing the Web on his computer.

         Suddenly, his hands are on my shoulders and he begins to lightly massage them. It's a soft and sweet gesture and I'm quite thankful for it really, but I think he does it because he knows it takes my mind off of everything. I can be in one of the worst moods ever, but a slight touch from him and suddenly I'm forgetting all that has nestled itself into my mind.

         “You know it's not helping,” he says softly, directing his words to the quotes rather than his own motions. “Nothing will help, except maybe trying to talk to him again. It's a new day, after all.”

         I turn around in my seat, letting his hands fall off my shoulders gently, and then we're facing one another. “He didn't listen yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that, or-,” I start to explain, but Connor stops me.

         He holds one of his hands up to his lips, ushering for me to hush.

“Today's a new day,” he says simply then hands me his cordless house phone that was sitting on the receiver just moments ago. “Call him.”

         I start to speak , to give reasons why this is a dumb idea, reasons why I shouldn't call, shouldn't do anything, but Connor just shakes his head.

         “Call him,” he says again, a smile forming on his sweet little lips and a twinkle of happiness dancing around in his blue eyes. He leans in closer, pressing his soft lips to my left ear then says “Please?” in a voice so sweet he could have just asked me to kill someone and I probably would just for him. He pulls back after he says it, to see the look on my face, but his own is one of bittersweet lust. He's being his usual self, having very wild thoughts while we're in no position to be doing any of it and in turn, making me one to act on those thoughts as well.

         “Connor...” I sigh heavily, but he already knows he's won. “Fine,” I say standing up and walking into the other room to call Jack. It's mid-afternoon so I know he's awake, but I'm not positive if he'll even be home. It is the weekend after all.

         I'm in there for a long time, stuck between wanting to call and not wanting to call. There's just so many advantages and disadvantages to both that I simply cannot decide on whether to just do it or not. I want to know what he's feeling, but I don't want to feel even more like shit if he's still mad, which he probably will be.

         I dial his number anyway, take a deep breath to prepare for whatever it is I'm going to have to face, and put Connor's house phone to my ear.

         I'm sorry.

         Two words. One meaning. Spoken hundreds of times by hundreds of people. You'd think it would be easier to say by now, but it's not.

         It rings a few times and I'm about to hangup when Jack finally answers, I know it's him simply by the gruffness in his voice.

         “Hello?” he says.