The False House Ch. 03

My mom finally managed to get a day off from the hospital, and I fully intended to utilize the small window of time I had with her. I nervously knock on her door.

"Come in, darling."

"Mom, we need to talk." I have to literally blurt those words out, otherwise I wouldn't be able to muster the courage to have any type of serious conversation with her. If you couldn't already tell, we aren't exactly a close, cuddly family where heart-to-hearts flow freely. We're hardly a family at all, which is why I don't know why I am even bothering. It's not like my life is her business anymore.

She stops applying layers and layers of makeup, looking at me cautiously through the mirror of her vanity. Swiveling her chair around, she gestures to the foot of her bed and gives a curt nod. As I sit, I get more nervous. With every step forward I want to crawl in a hole and die just so I won't have to do this. It's not like there was ever any inkling before, or any acceptance of myself to nudge me along and comfort me.

I fidget with my fingers and stammer a bit, which is also new for me because I am always collected. "I'm bisexual."

Her face had been tight from nervousness up until I opened my mouth and amused the ever-living shit out of her. Swiveling back around, she nods and continues her makeup. "That's fine, whatever you want."

Completely in awe, all I can do is sit there with a quizzical look on my face. Confusion turned to total expectation, and expectation turned into hurt. Her absolute refusal to fucking acknowledge me made me realize why I even bothered telling her in the first place: I wanted her to act like a mother and give me some advice. This was the perfect opportunity for her to step up to the plate and show me that she cares. I'm sure most kids in my position would die for a parent to be this nonchalant. And maybe it wouldn't get to me so much if she weren't this nonchalant about everything concerning me.

Tears well up, and I quickly walk out so she wouldn't see—although I'm sure she forgot I was even there. I storm into my room and throw myself on my bed, and to my surprise I cry. I'm faced with this huge challenge and this huge burden, and have no one to confide in. I have never felt so alone. My natural instinct is to call Jesse; he always knows what to say. For obvious reasons, however, I can't, and that hurts worst of all. I have two options, and I decide to hit two birds with one stone.

I grab my bottle of Prozac from beneath my mattress and go over to Andrea's. I pop a few pills on the way there, and by the time I'm at her front door my aggression is raging. I slam her against the wall and we fuck like rabid animals. I expected to feel better afterward, and in a way I do. I don't have so much unexpressed emotion inside me, sure, but that anger has only been replaced my guilt and hopelessness. Out of kindness, I stick around and we bullshit a bit. But the only person I am capable of thinking about is Jesse—I need to see him.

I stay with Andrea until I'm mostly sober (I get irrational on Prozac), then hop in my truck and call Jesse. I sit in front her house as the phone rings, and I feel excited about the prospect of him answering my call.

"Hey, man," he says when he finally answers. "Sorry about that, I was in the shower. What's up?" It sounds like he's smiling.

"Can we hang out?" I try desperately to use mind powers and take back those words or reverse time or something, but I already know he heard how pathetically desperate and clingy I sound. All I can do is wince at my own humiliation and thank my lucky stars that he isn't at all the type to make fun.

I heard the background noise on his end of the phone stop. "Are you okay?"

"Rough day."

"Head on over, man. I'll make you some food."

Without a moment's hesitation I start my car and haul ass to his house. My heart races at the thought of him, and then when I finally see him it stops—if only for a moment, for the sight of his wet hair and shirtless body makes the speed immeasurable. Immediately after opening the door he gives me a comforting hug and then closes it behind us. That was the first time we hugged, and man did it feel right. Our bodies were like the only two pieces of some beautiful puzzle. He was soft and warm and it was almost too much for me to handle, considering.

"I wasn't expecting you so soon."

I follow him into the kitchen and sit at the bar as he peers into the fridge and pulls things out. "I was in the area," I lied.

"How does bourbon chicken and fried rice sound?"

I nod like a kid with too much sugar in his veins. Jesse smiles at me with those warm eyes, and for a while I forget why I'm so upset. He has that power over people, you know. If he were aware of it, he would be a dangerous, dangerous man. But his innocence shines through in his every move as his hums and dances around the kitchen. I watch him quickly mix ingredients, occasionally smiling at me.

"Don't think I forgot about you," he said, without looking up at me. "I want to wait until I can focus to talk about your day."

I feel a smile force itself on me, and I nod even though he isn't looking. "Nothing worth mentioning." It was only a fib, compared to a full-blown lie. Sure, I hate that my mom responded the way she did—or more like didn't respond at all. And yes, it hurts. But by that same token, it was almost good in a way. A definitive moment in our relationship, that conversation bestowed upon me the knowledge that she is not worth my efforts. Over time I noticed her getting progressively more absent with me. This was make or break, and she broke. It isn't my problem any longer. "Maybe a little hit would be nice."

He stops what he's doing to rest his messy hands on the counter and look me in the eye. "Listen, man . . . I want to be sober—I'm really making an effort. I don't want to be a goddamn waiter my whole life." With sudden frustration, he throws the spoon in the sink. "I have dreams, you know. Don't you have dreams?" I had none, so I was happy that it was clearly a rhetorical question as he continued on. "I care about you a lot, and you've become a great friend to me. So I hope that this doesn't force us to go our separate way, although I'll understand if it does."

"I'm happy for you," I smile. And I mostly am. That selfish part of me is trying to get the best of me though. I can't help but wonder what this meant for us. No more parties as a way to spend time with him. And then there's the fact that if he succeeds he would probably find love. I shook those thoughts from my mind. "What's your dream?"

"I want to teach. Younger kids, of course." Although he continued cooking and was no longer looking at me, I could still see a twinkle in his eye when he talked about it.

"Were you in college?"

And just like that the twinkle was gone. "No. I was too focused on getting high rather than fixing my screwed up life." He puts the chicken in the oven and the rice to cook, then grabs a seat next to me at the bar. Fingers laced together in front of him, all he does is stare at them in desolation. He tries to force a smile, "Soon though." But I see through it.

Maybe it was coming out to my mother so easily or my hurt left me too apathetic, I do not know. All I do know is that I feel particularly bold at the moment. I'm getting desperate to know him. "Why do you never talk to me about your life?"

I'm shot a quizzical yet defensive look. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I feel like this friendship is a one-way street. I tell you anything you want to know about me and when it is your turn you don't ever budge." Oh god, I'm sounding like a fucking jerk and can do nothing about it. It wasn't meant to come out that way, but my sour mood got the best of me and I am pissed off at the world. So what's the best thing I can do to make things better? Keep talking. "What kind of lousy friendship is that? You take but never give. How am I even supposed to trust you?"

When I look over at him his face destroys my heart, and I literally feel my cruel glare soften. It looks like he just witnessed his pet being run over by a train repeatedly, followed by his best friend kicking him in the dick. "Roman . . ." he finally says, clearing his throat. I brace myself for get the fuck out of my apartment, asshole. "I'm real sorry, man. I didn't mean to be selfish. I can be a huge asshole sometimes, but it is never my intention to hurt anyone—least of all my friends."

Guilt consumes my entire being, and entirely against my will and most desperate inner pleas, I burst into tears and hide my face in the palms of my hands. I hear him gasp. "Please, don't cry. I am so fucking sorry."

"No," I interrupt. Thankfully my tears have slowed down to a sniffle. "I meant it that you never open up, and that does bother me. But I didn't mean that other horrible stuff I said. I'm just in such a shitty mood and I am taking it out on you."

Jesse's soft hand found its way to my shoulder. "I just wish you would tell me what happened."

I suppose I could tell him what happened without telling him every dirty detail. Running a hand through my hair, I graze his fingertips at the end and electricity shoots through my body. "Nothing. I tried to have a serious conversation with her and nothing happened. I don't think I matter anymore. Every single day I fade more and more into the back of her mind."

He smacks his lips and sighs. Quite a few seconds go by where he's just stroking my shoulder blade with the pad of his thumb. "Know what I think? I think you should talk to her about this. It can go one of two ways: it'll wake her the fuck up and she can make a change, or things don't change at all. And if that happens, you can begin the process of moving the fuck on from her. I know it isn't the happiest thing I could tell you, but I get the feeling you want someone to be straight with you. I know you are sick of hearing bullshit."

Jesse gives me a pat to let me know he is still listening before he gets up to check on the food and work on the vegetables. "Is that what you did?"

Aha! I had him cornered. He had to open up now; I was a friend in need that just told him his silence was an issue with me. No, he didn't stop what he was doing. And his level of discomfort wasn't visible to the naked eye. But I did see his pace quicken and body tense up, if only a little. Another few seconds drag by, then another, and then another. I am patient though, because I'm sure it is hard.

"No," he said, with finality. Another few seconds. "My situation was a little different from yours. My uh—dad was a huge prick. He always fought with everyone over everything, and said . . . horrible things . . . Um, there were times where he would get physical, especially with my uh—mom. When I got older, I—uh—started fighting back. Once my siblings left, things were getting worse for me and my mom. I was doing drugs pretty hard, so I just split instead. A "talk" was not really suitable—Mom wouldn't have said a word and Dad would have said too much."

And just like that, I felt better about my situation and happy that he shared even though I know it hurt and even though he refuses to look at me. That all fades, though—and fast. Suddenly I feel so small and I am mad at how I've been feeling bad for myself when he had it so much worse. Sure, it's not like I knew or anything, or even chose not to know. But still, I hurt for him.

"What did he say?" I ask, slowly and unsure of whether or not I want the answer.

He has to fight with himself to prevent brushing the question off, and I know he feels obligated to answer me. And although it does make me feel bad, and although I promise I really do want to tell him he doesn't have to answer, I sit there patiently. Silently. Guiltily, as he writhes in pain on the inside.

"Please don't make me," his voice breaks—and with it my heart.

I hear his front door open and in comes the chattering roommates. The noise had drawn my attention, and we all smile at each other. They don't seem concerned that Jesse is in distress. No wonder—when I look back at him he has a huge smile and is acting like he couldn't be happier.

"Hey, guys!" he chirps. "Bourbon chicken and fried rice tonight."

They both pump their fists and head into one of their bedrooms, waving good-bye.

"It should be done any minute now," Jesse says as he peers into the oven. He tosses chopped onions and vegetables into an oiled pan, waiting for them to brown before adding the rice and egg. It smells incredible, and it's almost enough to keep my mind away from the conversation we were having. But, I knew how badly Jesse wanted to get the hell out from under me, so I let it go.

Knowing that he allowed himself to be vulnerable for my sake only made me want him more, ensuing this incredible pain in my chest. I've never felt anything like it before—just a combination of aching and hurting and yearning. The AC kicked on and his cologne hit me again, and I begin to salivate. It is impossible not to stare at him in awe; his perfection makes my chest tighten, and it feels like someone is continuously lying bricks onto it until my body breaks. All I want to do is scream to him that I love him, then taste those plump little lips of his.

His voice wakes me from my dreaming when he lets the others know the food is ready. They file into the kitchen, and the one who I think is Troy refuses to look up from his DS. Everyone goes into the living room to eat except for Troy, who takes his food and goes hide out back in his room.

No, it isn't awkward. Or, maybe it is for them, but I rarely find myself in a position that leaves me uncomfortable. Andrew puts some TV on as background noise, and we all occasionally glance at it while we eat. The food, by the way, is phenomenal.

"Holy shit, this is so good, Jesse," I moan over a full mouth.

He nods a thank you.

"We mostly make him do the cooking," Andrew pokes, winking at us.

"How long have you guys known each other?"

Jesse swallows his food and looks at Andrew for confirmation. "Since senior year?"

Andrew nods. "He was good friends with Troy, my brother. And then we ended up getting really close. So we all just decided to get an apartment together. I may be leaving soon, though."

"Why?" I pry, wondering if maybe Jesse is a crappy roommate.

"Well, I've been dating this girl for about a year now and we want a place of our own. That kind-of thing." Seems genuine enough.

When we finish our food, Andrew takes off to visit his girlfriend, and I help Jesse clean the kitchen. "I guess I better get going," I say. "Getting kind-of late, I suppose."

"You don't have to go home, you know. If you don't want to be around her or be alone feel free to spend the night here. I'll take the couch."

I decline his offer. Mother wouldn't be home, which was fine with me, and I couldn't bear to spend another night smelling Jesse's pillow all by my lonesome. So I thank him for the kind invitation and head to the door. He follows to walk me out, and he's so close I feel the heat from his body. "Listen," he says, kind-of under his breath. He leans against the door frame, and puts himself in the perfect position for me to grab him and kiss him deeply. ''If you wanted to get out of her house, you could always come live here once Andrew leaves. I can make it plenty loud for you," he winks.

The remark was a clever joke, and I know that. But it makes my cock rock hard instantly, and I feel it painfully rubbing against my jeans. I gulp—probably audibly—and thank him profusely for the offer before jetting out of there. The minute I get into the truck I waste no time pulling out my dick and jacking it off. My head falls against the back of the seat and I'm so hot to the touch that I hiss. I literally cannot stop thinking about what it would be like to get in between those masculine legs and fuck the daylights out of him, and him loving it so much that he moans without shame. Headboard slamming against the wall. Hands clawing at skin. Sweat dripping down our writhing bodies. Within seconds I feel an orgasm coming on, so I cup my free hand over the head and let loose.

It's a huge load—I impressed myself with this one, I won't lie. Although it's only my second time getting off to the idea of another man, I am considerably more comfortable with it this time. And on a plus side—still no guilt afterwards. I honestly think I just needed to tell someone that I had these thoughts. Sure, that someone didn't give a damn and provided me with no real comfort or consolation. But I didn't need her to; it's one of those things where just finally acknowledging it aloud made all the difference. As I drive home a thought dawns on me. Maybe I was always into men, and that's why I have felt so guilty every time I am with a woman. But this also poses the question of whether or not I'm gay or bisexual. Perhaps I just prefer guys, or the guilt was just my subconscious letting me know something else is in store for me.

I just do not know! I won't pretend to understand this at all. Just because it's easier for me to accept doesn't mean all my answers are obvious to me. But I am okay with that, because I know in time things will become clearer.

Just as long as Jesse is there beside me.

. . . .

The following Thursday rolled by relatively quickly. Would have been uneventful until Jesse comes in shamelessly late—and he looks fucking lit. That accidental arrogance I always talk about seems to now be a cocky rage, and he gives off a "don't fuck with me" vibe that I have never seen him display. I have to admit, he looks extremely intimidating, and even Mr. Murphy seems hesitant to make an approach.

"Thanks for joining us, Mr. McKale."

Jesse sits in his seat. I look around and no one seems to be paying him any mind, except for me. But he refuses to look anywhere except for the one spot on the wall that his eyes burn holes into, even though I beg silently for him to give me a look—something to let me know what is going on in his head. Minutes go by like this, until eventually I give up when I'm called on. Every now and then I'll glance in his direction, and anger seems to be fading into apathy. Or maybe sadness? There's an emptiness in his eyes I can't put my finger on.

I'd pretty much been in my own world, tuning them all out, until his familiar voice wakes me up. He's scoffing, looking absolutely repulsed by Murphy. "Jesus, man. You're a fucking doctor, aren't you? Shouldn't you know better than telling these assholes lies just to make them feel better about themselves?"

"Jesse . . ." Murphy warns sternly.

But he just continues on. "No, fuck that. I'm so sick of hearing this bullshit about addiction being a disease. It's a disease? Was it in your genes? Did you catch it from someone else? No, you didn't. You fucking chose this." He angrily stands from his chair, knocking it to the ground—voice raised and suddenly so deep. If he weren't so busy making me feel small, I would be rock solid. "But you are all so desperate to rid yourself of the fucking blame that you're listening to this guy's bullshit about how it isn't your fault. News flash, you fucking morons, you did this to yourselves," he spits at us venomously. Then he gives Mr. Murphy one more look of disgust. "And you need to stop justifying it for them."

He storms out of the room, leaving us literally stunned into silence. Murphy in particular looks stunned, mouth ajar and eyes wide. The thought of going after Jesse only makes me nervous because of what consequences I may suffer with Murphy. But I already know what I need to do, so I do it while carefully avoiding eye contact. By the time I exit the room, he's more than half-way down the hallway.