The False House Ch. 02

Complete and utter denial sink in, sure, but I'm more focused on the joy of not feeling any guilt for once.

. . . .

When I saw Jesse at therapy the next day, I felt the tips of my ears get hot. He walked in and smiled at me, and all I could do was look away in horror. My paranoia was trying to convince me he magically knew what I thought about the night before.

That was about, what—two, three months ago? I knew erasing the memory entirely just wasn't feasible, so I sought out the next best alternative: I haven't committed the act again, have ignored any odd feelings toward him that arise, and have been giving all my attention to passive sluts. Even though it's a great strain on my life and my emotional well-being, my friendship with Jess is perfect.

We've become pretty-much inseparable; he is the best friend I have ever had and literally the only person I can truly be myself with. There's never judgment for the fact that I still like cartoons or like Elvis or make faces with ketchup on my fries and burgers. It isn't even just because of the fact that we share those similarities— he's simply that laid back and accepting of everyone he meets. I even noticed it rubbing off on me, and am proud to say I've become far less critical of others. Maybe it's the way he does things without caring whether or not people approve. He is proud of his love for learning and has no problem sitting in front my TV with a bag of carrots watching some documentary about Lord knows what. It's things like that, you know?

With my other so-called "friends" there is always an unspoken understanding of things—sort-of like rules. It's sounds cliché, but if you are snobby and rich with snobby, rich friends, you probably understand how cold of a world it can be. If I ever showed my child-like side to those people they would look at me like I was stupid and probably make remarks behind my back as they drink my alcohol at my party. We aren't allowed to really show emotion—we've all become so dead inside that we are conditioned into pretending everything is "cool" and okay all the fucking time.

But never with Jesse—who, although loves listening to my problems and life stories, refuses to ever speak of his own. It's gotten quite frustrating at this point.

Anyway, there's a party going on at my house (surprise); Jesse and I are shooting the shit in the pool, not paying much mind to anyone else when my special "friend" Andrea joins us. Your typical bubblehead, I guess. Jesse is trying to be nice and not exclude her, but I can see in his eyes that he is annoyed by the fact that everything she says is a lame attempt at being funny. Let's also not forget how flirty she is with me. I don't mind but I'm sure it gets very old for everyone else.

"Why?" he grins, when she finally leaves.

"She's a freak." I take a swig of Heineken, trying to chalk it up to that and move on. Jesse rolls his eyes in a mostly playful way. "What!" I yelp.

His arms go up in a surrendering shrug and a you-know-what-you-fucking-idiot look possesses his face. "Hey, I'm just saying you can do better than that."

I pay no mind to the moron who just cannonballed next to me. "You really think so?"

"Yes, you fucking jackass!"

I laugh and am happy to do so; I don't want him to know his compliment made me smile.

"I'll tell you what your problem is: you sleep around way too much. Can't find a nice girl that way."

I smirk at him and breathe a loud laugh. "Ain't no nice girl going to give me the time of day if they know what's good for them. Nice girls don't date drug addicts."

He gives my shoulder a playful smack, followed by a nod that makes it look like he's disappointed in me. "What?" I ask again, softer this time.

I get a sigh. "You define yourself as an addict, like it's all you have to offer. There is more to you than that. That always frustrates me."

"What does?"

"When people use that term to characterize themselves. 'I'm an addict'. What you should say is 'I'm Roman. I'm nice and funny and brilliant, and I just so happen to have an addiction.' But," he continues, picking up a snobby British accent, "t'is not the way they would see it anyway."

Suddenly I feel so bashful. "You don't really think I'm brilliant . . ." Jesse nods vigorously, a huge smile on his face. "I've never been called that before." I feel a thickness in my throat, and realize I'm almost on the verge of tears.

"I guess not; look at who you surround yourself with. These people don't know worth if it isn't green or shiny. And that mother of yours . . ." he trails off, anger resting on his face.

I inch closer. "What's the matter?"

Looking away, he lowers his tone. "I cannot stand a parent who doesn't love and pay attention to their kid or let him, or her, know they matter. Not to say that if she were around you'd be sober. But she knows exactly what you do and still leaves you alone." Long pause. "It's cruel."

Jesse climbs out of the pool and lends me a hand to do the same. As we walk, he continues on. "And I know cruel. My mother was the same way. They both were, to me and my siblings."

Suddenly so intrigued, I struggle to keep up with him. "I didn't know you even had siblings." Yes, it was hinting—I was dying for him to tell me more.

"Two brothers and sisters, and only one of us is doing fine. Both brothers are in prison and one of my sisters moved to Tennessee with some abusive asshole. Nicki, my other sister, is a teacher in the Bronx. We talk on the phone every once and awhile, but she more or less cut us all from her life." He shrugs. "I get it."

"Do you talk to the others?"

We walk into my bedroom, where he puts on his shirt. "No. I haven't seen anyone in my family for several years now, except for my grandparents. I lived with them in high school, and visit them regularly. Aunts and uncles on occasion, but no one from my dad's side of the family."

I don't even pay attention when he takes off his swim trunks and puts on his jeans and shoes. "Who do you live with?"

He begins walking downstairs and motions for me to follow. "I have a few roommates," he continues, without looking back to see where I am. As we get closer to the bottom floor he has to raise his voice considerably higher. "It ain't so bad."

I was too deep in the conversation to realize where we were, until I heard his truck door open. Jesse stood in the doorway—if you want to call it that—and shoved his hands in his pockets. I ask, "Are you leaving?"

"Yeah, this conversation has really upset me, I'll be honest with you. Your mom just make me so . . . I hate to see the people I care about hurting, knowing there is nothing I could do. Even if I grabbed that woman by the shoulders and shook her head loose, she still wouldn't see. I'm just not in the partying mood anymore," he shrugs, hopping into his truck. "Later, Ro—"

"Can I come with you? This party stinks," I smile, nervously.

"Hop in."

Once we drive off, his entire attitude changes. It's back to icing me out about his life, and when I asked a question he told me not to worry about it. So I do as I'm told, and allow our playful banter to kick in. We get to his apartment, where I meet his roommates Troy and Andrew. They seem really nice, but Jesse tells them we are off to bed. As you can imagine, when he says we and takes me into his bedroom, I get a little pep in my step.

His room isn't huge, but it is certainly cozy. Brown, with cream carpeting. There's a small computer desk in one corner with a laptop and table lamp, but not much else. His closet is open, and I can't help but note how neat it is. The first thing that really struck me was the smell—it smelled like his heavenly cologne, and it took all my strength not to blatantly inhale all the smell. Only one side of his queen-sized bed had an end table, and on that end table were a few small things like change, a watch, another lamp, and a book.

I'm all ready and willing to share the bed with him when he says, "You take the bed, and I'll take the sofa." I feel the smile literally fall from my face when he wasn't looking. But I certainly didn't object. Instead I took all but my boxers off and climbed into bed. He did the same, except he put sweatpants on and told me to sleep well on his way out.

It wasn't very late—1 AM—and I couldn't sleep. I stared at the ceiling and thought about Jesse. About how kind he was earlier, saying he cared about me and getting visibly upset by how my mother neglected me. Really, it meant so much that even now I feel myself tearing up. It really struck me that even though he apparently had a similar situation with both his parents, he hasn't been desensitized to it. Not just that, but he wasn't even telling me that stuff to make it about him. He did it for me, because it was important for him that I know I wasn't alone. I just wonder how hard it actually was for him to talk about that stuff with another person.

Sighing, I looked around his room. My eyes fell on the small green book resting at the edge of his end table. Curious, I turn the lamp on and pick it up. The Giving Tree, by Shel Silverstein. I'd never heard of it before, but remember him mentioning it a few months ago. Well, not exactly. He said his favorite book was Shel Silverstein and that he often times feels like the tree. So I suppose there isn't any way to be totally sure that this is the book he was referring to; just call it a hunch.

I smile as I read it, feeling somehow closer to him. The further along in the story I get, the more the smile fades, and then I feel sad. If you haven't read it, it's about a tree that continues to give and give and give (hence the name of the book) herself to a boy until she is merely a tree stump. But because it makes the boy happy, it makes her happy, as well. It could have just been something Jesse said when he was under the influence, or there could be some truth behind it.

Either way, I put the book back on the table and shut off the light. My heart somehow feels heavy—maybe this is how he felt for me earlier in the evening. I turn over, and the smell of whatever amazing shampoo he uses immediately takes over my senses, and I feel happy again—secure even. Safe. I allow Jesse's tender words to wash over me, and for once I feel worthwhile. No one has ever made me feel good about myself the way he does.

And then it dawns on me: holy shit, I'm in love.