Shattered Glass(112)
Love? Why did I go there? Why did I think Peter would be right beside me when I chose that route? By all rights love, to me, was a fairy tale. Who had I ever truly loved besides Jesse? Dave, and to some extent, Angelica, maybe?
Had I loved Jessed? Or was I just remembering the emotion of a confused teenager? Maybe I wasn’t gay. Maybe this was stress.
Maybe he looked so much like Jesse that I….
Had to be. Because I didn’t love anyone. Not romantic love. Comfortable love. I knew what that was. I could handle that. Friendship, companionship—
Jealousy. Obsession. Awe. Heartache in the best way possible. His kiss. His touch. His smile. His strength. His fucking hot body.
Those were not symptoms of stress. Or comfortable love. Those were what I felt for Jesse.
Peter knocked gently. “Can I come in?”
“I’m busy. Washing jizz off my face.” I turned on the faucet for effect and peeled off my sweat-slicked shirt.
Peter looked like Jesse.
But Peter was nothing like Jesse.
The stark glare of my sterile bathroom surrounded me. “Are you in love with him?” I whispered to my haggard reflection.
No. I wasn’t in love with him. Another puzzle piece clicked in place. “Yes,” Peter had said. “But not yet.” I didn’t love him, and he didn’t love me, but that was where this was headed. I had to get out of this circle of denial. If I had felt this for a woman, I wouldn’t have questioned it at all. Run, yes, questioned, no.
If I did love him, what then? Did men love each other? Was that even real? What if I loved him and he never loved me back? What if his kind of love was different?
Gay love. It wasn’t the same, right?
I looked at my reflection. “You’re gay. You’re gay. You’re gay.” It didn’t change anything. He didn’t—couldn’t—love me.
Being gay was irrelevant. You can make it about anything you want, but that won’t change the truth.
He said he was falling for me. Deep down I didn’t believe him. Fundamentally I believed that I was unlovable. And hadn’t that borne out with my mother and father?
Lying to yourself has failed you every time. Losing Peter would be the worst of your failures.
“You are fucked up,” I told the reflection. So get over being fucked up. “He’s going to break you.” Yeah, but isn’t it worth it?
“I have cake for your pity party,” Peter said.
How could I not love you, Peter.
“And pony rides,” he added.
“Christ. Is this how you treat Cai? No wonder he’s rebelling.”
“Cai doesn’t throw tantrums or sulk in the bathroom.”
I washed and dried my face quickly and threw open the door. “I’m not sulk—” Hello. Peter still hadn’t pulled his shirt back on.
He displayed himself, hands bracing on either side of the doorway. The shorts hung low on his hips. The missing button left a gap, revealing the edges of the clipped hair. Sculpted ridges along his hips formed an arrow pointing right to his groin. My mouth went dry and my doubts faded in a cloud of want.
“I just wanted…Look, you’re also sweet and funny and charming. And there’s a…goodness,” he fumbled with the word, “—you’re a good person. And not self-righteous about it.”
“And?” I said brusquely to cover that his words were making me lightheaded.
“And I can’t always see past those to the bad things,” he admitted. “And I have to, because you’re too dangerous to love.”
“I’m falling in love with you. Is that better?”
He dropped his hands from the door and backed away, brows furrowed, eyes wide. My hardwood floor stuck to his now bared feet. “There you go again. You made a decision, and it won’t even matter about the truth!”
“What’s the truth?” I stalked him across the bedroom.
“People don’t fall in love in two weeks!”
“A week and half,” I corrected. “You’re just scared. And you want me right there with you.”
“With good reason. What you’re feeling isn’t real. You’re wanting someone else, and you’re projecting him on me!”
“Don’t tell me what I feel. Maybe I don’t love you. Maybe I’ve just convinced myself I do. But despite all your faults, this is the closest thing to love I’ve felt. So maybe I’m in love with you, but not yet!”
He took another step backward and then another. “That’s the problem. You don’t think I have faults. I’m just Jess to you. The perfect—” He buckled backward onto the bed. I landed gently atop him. “—memory.”