Book One: Love Is Legal [CURRENTLY BEING REWRITTEN]

Chapter 6- Straight [EDITTED]

Chapter 6

LIFE IS AS ADJACENT TO PERFECTION AS IT EVER HAS BEEN; maybe it was too perfect to be true. Maybe all of this is just merely a blissful dream I don’t want to awaken from, or maybe it does get better after all. I sit in the study later that afternoon, calmly staring out the window at the moist grass. If this had all been just a dream, would I want to wake up from it? The answer is no. I would most likely choose death over that at this point.

I hear my father’s raspy voice calling up to me from downstairs. Grumbling, I stand up and make my way downstairs.

The hair on my arms rise as I see Jacob’s father lounging on our sectional, watching his daily sports with my dad. My eyes shift to the empty seat next to him where Jacob usually sits. After our morning breakfast, he dropped me off back at my house with a gentle goodbye. He mentioned something about having a meeting with his football coach.

“Mr. Coleman would like to tell you something.” my father says, gesturing me over to them. Relating myself to my parents was fairly easy. I resembled my mother’s feminine figure and rounded face, rather than my father’s harsh butt-chin and sullen cheek bones. His dark-brown hair was patted to his forehead.

"I wanted to thank you, son." Jacob Coleman Sr. says as I reach the bottom of the last step. Jake unquestionably inherited his dad’s genes. They have indistinguishable features: a broad chest, shocking blue eyes, and an angular figure. The only perceptible difference between the two is age and the slender grey furs blending in with his dirty blonde hair.

"May I ask what for?" I ask with a slight laugh. I could feel my lips contort into an awkward smile.

"You have shown my son how to be polite and gentlemanly. I think you two might be best friends someday." His smile was one of modesty.

"Not to disappoint you or anything, but your son didn't need me to show him how to be polite. He's one of the nicest guys I've ever met." I could feel anger start to course through my veins; I constantly clench and unclench my fists, attempting to compose myself. I could see why Jake feels misunderstood. His father doesn’t even try to understand him.

"I think he sees too much for himself. He could make millions being a pro-football player, but he's been leaning toward the books. Can you knock some sense into him?” His careless laugh is what pushes me over the edge.

“If you bothered to pay attention to your son every once and a while, you would know he is very intelligent. Maybe it's time for you to be a father and support him instead of planning his future. If you don’t, you’ll regret it. He’ll drop you out of his life faster than he will drop his football career. Get your face out of sports, you archetypal dick-head." I shout. I did not realize how loud my voice was until I stop shouting at him, leaving a quiet silence behind me.

“Eric,” my father’s disapproving voice quietly says. Mr. Coleman’s mouth is wide open, shocked that anyone would dare talk to his highness that way.

Everything I just said was one-hundred percent true, whether he chooses to accept it or not. My mind scrambles to the past of all of the times my father has tried to correct my lifestyle. His voice echoes through my mind. Don't walk like that. Don't talk like that. Don't sit that way. Man up. I finally blow up. I dart for the steps, pushing everything off of the island as I go. I run up the stairs as fast as I can and slam my door.

Anger is a peculiar feeling. Usually, if strong enough, it temporarily abolishes every single moral you have set for yourself. You instantaneously feel the desire to hurt and to destroy. That is what anger is. Anger is rage. Yet, I am not violent or malicious. Alternately, I feel the need to cry when I am this livid.  

The warm tears flow out of my eyes in a stream of irritation. Why do I stick up for what I believe in? Why can’t I just keep my mouth shut? Less than two seconds later, I hear voices from downstairs. Not voices- I hear yelling.

“What the hell did you say to him?” Jacob roars.

"He went off on me about how I don't pay attention to you. Who does he think he's talking to? Who is he to tell me I don’t pay attention to my own son?"

"Have you ever stopped and considered that maybe he’s right? You could care less what I want to do in my life. Just because you fucked up with yours doesn’t mean that you get to control mine.” he says sternly. I could hear his calm footsteps up the stairs.  There was nothing but silence that lingers now downstairs. He lets himself in my room, locking the door behind him.

"Are you okay?" he asks, wiping a tear from my eye. His facial expression was one of distress, but I couldn’t tell if it was from what just happened downstairs or from me. He sits down on my bed and hugs me tightly.

I can't take it anymore. The craving for human contact still loiters in a hollow spot somewhere inside of me. I soon identity the hollow spot as my heart, and a new desire sparks. I want love. My body reacts, and I bury my face in his chest. I am half-expecting him to cumbersomely become tense. His response to my touch extraordinarily does not surprises me. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me as close to him as he can, as he entangles his right hand in my hair.

In his arms, I now realize that it's not anger that made me cry. It was everything- everything that has been building up in of soul: loneliness, depression, suicidal thoughts, pressure, my parents, school. But somehow, someway, it magically disappears now that I am in his arms. I push my face closer into him, and embrace the feeling that nothing can harm me. I embrace him.

“I like you, Jacob.” I whisper. A weight inside of me lifts as I hear myself say this aloud, and another one drops deep into the pit of my stomach as he does not reply to me.

"I'm sorry." I stutter a minute later, the tears flooding out of my eyes. Was it selfish of me to want him to change his sexuality for me? Was it selfish to crave his presence every single minute of the day? I know the answer to those questions, but I can’t find myself to admit it. All I can do is apologize.

"Why on Earth would you be sorry, Eric?" he objects.

My throat abruptly feels like a giant rock was wedged inside of it. I couldn’t swallow. I couldn’t speak. “You’re straight.”

He says nothing more after that.