Chapter Thirteen
Zander
“Go out with a bang, you said!”
“Yeah, Jules, not a bang to someone's fucking face!” Pinching the skin between my eyes, I wrack my brain for a way to explain this mess to Theresa. The rapid swelling currently taking over the side of her son’s face literally looks like exactly what happened– he picked a fight with a bigger guy and certainly didn’t come out on top.
“It all happened so fast, what with Holly, then Marcus, then you– shit, Zander, your hand–” I continue my pacing up and down the slick tiles of the boys' bathroom floor, shaking my hand to rid it of the growing ache radiating from each knuckle up into my wrist.
“It’s fine.”
“You need to get it cleaned up and–”
“JULES! I said it’s fine.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I instantly regret them.
There’s only been one other occasion where I’ve raised my voice at him, and ironically, he was trying to save me that time, too.
Jules moves slowly, tentatively. Each inch he closes between us lessens the weight of guilt in my chest.
“Let me look…” His hand reaches out; a silent request. My feet stop the tracks they've been wearing into the grime, and I risk a glance at him. He looks ridiculous with his swollen cheek and soft eyes, but something about the situation we’re in right now fills my body with warmth.
Maybe it’s the dwindling adrenaline, or maybe it’s his endless patience and his familiar comfort– either way, it’s welcoming.
He reaches to my side, pulling my hand into his. A hiss of air leaves my mouth at the same time it does Jules. It feels like a bolt of electricity straight up my arm the moment his skin brushes mine. Pretty sure it’s the three cracked knuckles.
“Why did you do it, Jules?” I manage to ask between the surging currents of pain.
He doesn’t answer, not right away. Instead, he makes a show of turning and rotating my hand in his, running his fingertips along my palm, and squeezing random points.
I’m sure he’s just trying to be thorough, but something about his gentleness almost feels intimate, filling the air around us with a strange kind of anticipation.
Not the type that worries he will hurt my already damaged appendage, but the kind that will hurt us.
“It doesn’t matter,” his tone is dismissive and clipped, a stark contrast from the way he’s handling me.
“Yes, it does.”
“I just lost it for a minute. Is that so hard to believe?” Not once do his eyes meet mine, even when I swing my head into his direct eyeline.
“Yeah, actually, it kinda is. This isn’t you…” Jules lets out a snort with a shake of his head,
“And what is? Please, Zander, tell me because I have no fucking clue.” He drops my hand and turns towards the sinks, clutching onto either side and hanging his head low.
“Holly seemed to think she knew who I was, and what I wanted when she forced her lips on mine…” His voice is full of hurt and anguish, the rising pitch a reflection of the mounting tension inside.
His lip wobbles with the threat of tears as he tips his head back, letting out an incredulous laugh.
“Then Marcus thought he knew better, by telling me how upset you would be to see me kissing a girl, y’know, because we’re boyfriends? ”
I don’t have any words ready to comfort him; all I can do is watch as he unravels in a tangle of torment and turbulence. He catches sight of my oblivious expression and forces a chuckle, “Oh, did you not get the memo, either? Yeah, we’ve been closet lovers all this time, who knew?”
It’s not like I haven’t heard the whispers before; I just chose to ignore them.
The times when someone would confront Jules with the allegations, however, were the times my fists would get involved.
I’d always protect him, just like today.
Seeing him rolling on the floor beneath Marcus lit a fire inside me, one that demanded I jump in and save him.
He looks so defeated that my eyes sting with the injustice of it all– Jules doesn’t deserve anyone’s hatred; he was made to be adored.
Since we’re alone in the bathroom–and words are failing me–I do what comes naturally.
Closing the distance between us, I stand behind him and wrap my hands over the top of his.
His back is flush with my chest as I rest my cheek on his shoulder.
His head lifts and tilts inquisitively in my direction, before dropping back and resting against mine.
We stay like that for what feels like forever, each of us taking comfort from the other as we always have.
“They don’t understand,” Jules whispers into the air.
“I know.”
“I’m not sure I do, either.”
“I know.”
It’s the truth. I do know he struggles with himself.
It’s not just about his orientation or preferences; it’s about his whole being and his place in the world.
There’s guilt laced with my empathy towards him, though.
Have I enabled him too much? Have I inadvertently confused him further by giving him the freedom to behave however he’s comfortable in the privacy of our friendship?
Was it selfish of me, all those years ago, to not let go of his hand?
These are thoughts that come to me regularly now that we’re getting older.
I worry that protecting him is also prohibiting him.
I’m overcome by feelings of selfishness; Jules never asked me to step into this role, I chose it for both of us, and now he’s facing the consequences.