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.”
I don't know what to say to this so I just start explicating again but this time I think before I instantly say. I also don't go into the details this time when I tell him about Connor and I. He can't handle it.
“So you're with him?” he asks wide-eyed once I tell him about the party. His entire face seems to be in shock, and he continuously keeps running his hands through his hair nervously.
I can't speak. I don't trust my own voice so I just nod.
“And you..” he starts to say, but trails off again. “You screwed him?”
“No, not exactly,” I say, and I can't help it, I feel like dying. I've never – ever – imagined coming out to my best friend like this, especially now when I'm this close to tears. I'm not usually a crier, but I don't think I''ll be able to make it out of this one without falling into a dozen or so pieces. I just hope I'm capable of putting myself back together once I leave.
“But you messed around with him?”
I nod again.
“Why?” he asks, his voice is soft, almost a whisper now.
Here is when some people would try to make up excuses for what they've done, why they done it, and say that they didn't mean to hurt anyone. But I can't think of any reasons or excuses to use that would be good enough besides the one that Jack needs to hear, the truth. Jack deserves the truth this time.
“I didn't mean for it to start,” I say, and I hate myself for it instantly because I know he'll think I'm lying again. “It just sort of happened.”
“You don't just suddenly start fucking a guy Liam,” he says, his voice is hard and his face is stern again. “It doesn't just happen. That's not how the world works.”
“But it did!” I protest.
“If you wake my parents, I swear to God,” he groans, but otherwise doesn't finish his threat.
“I'm sorry,” I say, and I am, for everything.
He shakes his head at this. His face shows more hurt than anger and I can't tell if he's going to punch me in the jaw or cry on my shoulder. “But the funny thing is,” he says, “you aren't.”
“I am,” I say again, but he immediately shakes his head again, dismisses my apology, my honesty. “This isn't how I planned this to happen,” I whine, wiping my wet hands on my even wetter jeans. His couch won't be dry by tomorrow morning, he'll have to figure out something to tell his parents.
“Well how the hell did you plan this then?” he asks accusingly. I go to answer him but he holds up his hand. “Because I'm pretty sure you didn't think a bit of this through.”
And he's right and he's wrong and I just want all of this to go away. I never thought it'd get this out of control, never thought he'd react this way. Now I can't tell if he's overreacting or if I actually deserve to be treated like this. I think it's a little of both.
“Okay,” I say, because there's nothing I can say that will change his mind, make him see my point of view. “I just wanted you to know that...” I try to say, but the words are caught in my throat. “That I was like that.”
“Well thanks for telling me,” he says sarcastically, “because you did such a terrific freaking job at that.”
“I was going to, but it's just not something I can bring up in regular conversation is it?”
He licks his lips for a moment, probably to moisten them, then says, “You could have told me. Could've told me anything. When I figured it out, I was just waiting for you to, but you never even tried. You just lied to me and it wasn't even convincing, you knew you were doing it but you still did it anyway.”
“Except that?” I offer. It's always anything but that.
Then he leans forward in his seat with his face just mere inches from mine. He just stares at me for a moment and in that moment I realize that Jack's not truly mad at me for being gay, he's not that petty, but he's mad because I didn't trust him, never trusted him completely. “Especially that,” he says.
“No, I couldn't have. I mean sure, you'll say that, you might even think you mean it, but you don't, not really. You just don't understand what it's like,” I tell him.
“Yes I do,” he says, but there's no possible way he does. No way at all.
“Oh you do, do you?” I ask, and I know he's confused, he has every right to be confused, but I also know that deep down he knows this is wrong, that he doesn’t truly need to act like this I know he doesn't mean everything he's saying. I also know that I'm hurting too, I'm upset as well, I'm just as mad as he is and I can't just pretend I'm not when I most obviously am.
He nods his head then looks at the clock on the wall, it's been way past five minutes. “Your time is about out.”
I lose it. I let the hurt take over, let the anger take over, let my words flow directly from my mind to my mouth without a second thought.
“Please for the sake of God, tell me what it's like then,” I say. “Tell me what it's like to be ashamed of yourself, like you're some God forsaken abomination all because of how you are. And please, oh please, tell me what it's like to have to hide that part of you, that part that is determined to take up your entire existence, because your friends and family won't accept it. Not that you can say much because you yourself can hardly accept it.”
He stares at me, waiting for me to continue, so I do.
“Tell me what it's like to finally find someone you can connect with, but no be able to tell your best friend of years what it feels like even though he can happily tell you all about his stupid ass girlfriend. Tell me what it's like to be afraid, so God damn afraid, of everyone around you and yourself. Afraid of being hurt, afraid of hurting someone else, afraid of being found out, being discovered.” I pause to take a breath, but I don't drop my gaze from his as I carry on my narrative. “Tell me Jack, please enlighten me, because as of right now I feel like I'm the only one and I'd happily move over and let you join me because I am scared..scared shitless.”
“I can't,” he says and his voice almost breaks right then and there. “I can't.”
I don't say exactly even though that's precisely what I'm thinking. He doesn't know, he can't explain, can't tell me what it's like.
“But you can't know what it's like for me either Liam,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Everyone has problems. You could have told me, could have trusted me.”
“Yeah I could have definitely trusted the guy whose only problem is deciding which girl to bone each night,” I say, but immediately regret it and try to take it back. “I don't really mean that, honestly. It just came out. I'm sorry.”
“Whatever Liam, your time is up anyway,” he says shrugging as he begins to stand up. His voice is back to being hard and his eyebrows are furrowed.
“I'm sorry Jack, I really am. I'm just...upset and mad.”
“Get the hell out of my house Liam, I'm done with all of this,” he says. When I don't move he grabs me by the arm, attempting to pull me up, but he doesn't actually try. His arm just falls back down to his side.
“Don't do this,” I say quietly looking up at him, I hate myself for it, but I'm begging. Pleading, doing whatever I can. “Please, don't do this.”
Jack just laughs, and the feeling that makes its way to my stomach when he does is not one that I want to ever experience again. It's a scary thing, and makes my stomach twist up in knots. “I'm not, you already have,” he says.
“I'm sorry,” I say, but it sounds flat in the air.
“Me too,” he says softly. Then he looks at me for a moment, unblinking, unmoving, but then he says it - the dreaded words. “Liam, just go.”
“I can't,” I say, but maybe I mean I won't?
“Please just go home,” he says and I know that voice. It's the voice that means he's about to lose it, that his emotions are about to get the best of him, that this is hurting him as much as it's hurting me. I can tell he's trying to hold it in, trying not to show that he does give a damn, that he's upset, but I've known him for so long he can't do it. It won't work. I can tell.
I don't say anything, but I remain seated. I want him to say it's okay, that he understands, that we're okay. I want him to say what Connor said he would, that he forgives me.
“Leave,” he says again and his voice sounds so sad that this time I listen.