Come Back to Me [Boy x Boy]

Chapter 3

Jesse P.O.V

I walk to the art room in silence. Connie comes from the opposite direction, so we don't walk together. We simply meet in the room and she checks up on me.

"Hey, Jesse, you okay?" Connie asks while taking my bag to our table.

I haven't considered myself "okay" since the crash. Nothing has been the same since then. I feel like I'm not even myself anymore.

I shrug my shoulders and sit down. Connie gives me a worried look before sitting down at the opposite side of the table. She obviously wants a better answer than what I've given her. Unfortunately, I'm not willing to give her one.

The art teacher takes attendance and explains our newest project. We're drawing a still life using charcoal. She wants shading and value to be a big part of it. In all, the assignment is easy and I should finish before it's due.

I begin to sketch on the large sheet of paper, looking up about every four or five seconds. That's the key to observational drawing. I'm focusing on a wine bottle with several other smaller objects around it. I believe it will look nice.

Every so often, I glance up at Connie. She isn't working, she's looking at me. She still wants an answer.

"You should do your work," I remind her.

I begin to shade the sides of the bottle, paying close attention to how the light reflects on the glass. That's one of the main points of the assignment.

"You didn't answer my question. I'm worried about you, Jesse," she says in defense.

I sigh softly and pinch the bridge of my nose, accidentally getting charcoal all over my face. It doesn't seem to amuse Connie. My twin sister can be particularly persistent sometimes.

"I'm fine," I mumble before continuing to work.

"You're only saying that so I'll leave you alone."

I would defend myself if she wasn't correct. I'm not fine. Hell, I'm the polar opposite. I just want to continue my work so I get a good grade. There's nothing wrong with that.

"I'm just trying to do my work," I defend.

Connie rolls her eyes at my weak defense. She can see right through me. I've never been good at lying to her and I most likely never will be. She knows me too well.

"You're telling me after school, no objections," her tone is stern, meaning she's serious about it.

I sigh softly to myself and nod, knowing I have no choice. Connie is very persistent when it comes to anything, especially getting answers out of me. If it were a sport, she would be the world champion.

I get as much work done as I can before putting away my still life in the class folder. Connie would have done it for me, but I wouldn't let her.

I'm not as helpless as she thinks I am. I can do plenty of things on my own. I'm not completely self-sufficient, but there are certain things I can do on my own.

The final bell rings, dismissing us. Connie grabs my bag, despite me telling her not to. She never wants to listen to me.

"I can carry it."

"It's fine. I don't want you to overwork yourself," she says while walking.

I sigh softly to myself and walk with her. Carrying my bag to the front of the school won't kill me. Walking across campus isn't easy, but I can do it. I might get a bit tired, but I still manage.

"I carry it for five other periods," I remind her.

"You roll it," she corrects me.

"Same difference," I mutter. "You could roll it, you just choose not to," I add.

"And that's my choice."

I sigh as we reach the front of the school, leaning against the wall. The campus is large and walking across it isn't easy for me.

"Take it easy," Connie says softly while rubbing my back.

I nod slowly and take a few deep breaths. After a few moments, one of our fathers arrives to take us home. Connie gets in the passenger seat while I take the back.

Connie and I have two fathers. Our father, Xander, is transgender and put himself through hell to carry us. That takes a level of bravery that should be highly respected.

"How was school?" he asks softly, looking in the rear-view mirror to see me.

"It was fine," Connie answers for both of us.

I slowly nod. School was not fine, but I don't want to worry my parents. They worry about me enough as it is.

Each time my father looks at me, I see the pain in his eyes. I know that deep down, somehow, he's found a way to blame himself for my health problems. While my condition is genetic, he shouldn't blame himself for something he couldn't control. I may not be healthy, but Connie is. She's happy and healthy and will live longer than I will.

"What about you, Jesse?" he specifically asks me this time.

I take a deep breath and lean against the cool glass of the car window. The cold glass feels nice against my warm skin.

"It was fine," my voice is barely louder than a whisper.

I hear a soft sigh come from our father as he continues to drive. I know he doesn't believe me. Unfortunately, I don't feel up to telling him why my day isn't okay.

The rest of the drive home is silent. Connie put in her earbuds to listen to music, I refuse to speak further, and our dad is focused on driving. The silence is relaxing and peaceful, although it's also gloomy.

I haven't been doing much talking since the crash. It worries my family, but I don't have anything to say. The one person I want to talk to is in a coma and there's nothing I can do about it. I would give anything for the roles to be reversed, but they aren't.