Chapter Six You’re Naked #4
Jacob opens his mouth, his gaze finding the floor. “You’re right. I did know that. I just thought that I could be enough for
you to want to try.”
“Don’t turn this around on me,” Owen pleads. “I wanted to try, I did try.”
“You’re saying that I didn’t?” Jacob prompts.
“Do you think you did?”
“I don’t think either one of us did,” Jacob admits. “If you want to really know what I think, there it is. I think we both
screwed up, and I think that we both could’ve tried harder.”
I thought you would’ve fought harder, Kaitlyn’s words echo in the back of Owen’s mind.
“I know that I could’ve been more honest, that I hid, that I do the ‘thing I always do,’” Jacob says, reminding Owen of the very words he’d used during their final phone call.
“But you could’ve at least tried to come with me, made an effort to get over your anxieties because I was worth it.
And maybe that’s not fair to put on you, but that’s how I feel, Owen. ”
And he’s allowed to feel that way. Just like Owen is allowed to feel the way he does.
Owen eyes Jacob, unblinking, silenced by the outburst.
Jacob’s never been the sort of person to get heated, especially not over his own feelings. But this is different. There’s
a strain behind Jacob’s words, like he has a wound that hasn’t quite closed. Owen feels like such an asshole.
Jacob lost his best friend too.
His shoulders slumping, Jacob seemingly remembers where he is. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to react like that.”
“It’s fine, Jacob. Don’t apologize for how you’re feeling.” Owen certainly has no plans to. “I don’t know if I’m ready to
be your friend.”
Jacob turns to Owen with a new sadness behind his eyes. He opens his mouth to say something, a half-baked sound coming out
before he looks away again. “That’s fair.”
“But I’m prepared to play nice,” Owen continues. “At least, I’m willing to try.”
Jacob turns, nodding slowly. “I am too.”
“All right, then . . .” Owen says, feeling so much worse than he did before they started this conversation. “I guess that’s
that, then.”
“So, are we like, pretending to be friends? Are there rules?”
“Not pretending . . . not exactly, anyway.” Owen says before he adds, “No fighting. That’s rule one.”
“No passive-aggressive remarks,” Jacob says, eyeing Owen.
“That feels biased against me.”
“I’m prepared to admit that it is.” Jacob chuckles, which pulls a laugh out of Owen as well. “Maybe if we don’t have anything nice to say, we don’t say anything at all.”
“Again, this is just sounding more and more biased against me.” Owen feels the corners of his mouth perk up ever so slightly.
“Well, start making up rules, then,” Jacob teases.
“What about when we’re alone?” Owen asks.
“Do you really see us being alone that often on this trip?”
Owen motions with his hands, gesturing to the moment.
“Right, well . . .” Jacob sighs, falling to the edge of the bed next to Owen. “Maybe we could use this time to . . . figure
things out?”
Eyeing Jacob suspiciously, Owen considers the words carefully, weighing all of them. “What does figuring things out look like?”
“Maybe we get to a place where we’re not pretending.”
Owen stares down, fixating on the pattern stitched into the white comforter on the bed. “Maybe.”
“Do you think we could at least try?” Jacob asks. “I know that being friends might be too much, but . . .”
“But . . . ?” Owen prompts.
“Forget it.” Jacob stands with a sigh. “It was a dumb idea anyway.”
Owen wants to stop him, tell him that maybe it’s not such a bad idea after all, but he doesn’t. He feels his chest flush with
shame and pressure. Forcing his eyes closed, Owen does what he can to steady his breathing, praying that Jacob hasn’t noticed.
“So, it’s a truce?” Owen asks, just so they can put a label on it.
“A truce,” Jacob repeats, his words weighty, like he really doesn’t like that this is the best thing that they can hope for.
Maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t.
Who knows, there’s always the off chance they’ll find closure—maybe they could be friendly by the end of this trip. But Owen’s never been a glass-half-full kind of person. What if they end up hating each other more?
With his pinky extended, Jacob reaches toward Owen. “Truce?”
Owen stares at the outstretched finger, their old method of making sure the other person was being 100 percent honest about
something, a symbol of absolute truth, no goofing around or purposefully rage-baiting the other. He jumps when there’s a loud slamming against the door, and
the sound of footsteps, followed by Kaitlyn shouting, “Owen! Jacob! Hurry up, homos!”
“What are they even doing out there?” Owen asks.
“Abigail and Kevin wanted game night,” Jacob replies. “Pictionary, but I think Abigail brought her Uno cards too.”
“So, someone’s probably bleeding tonight,” Owen quips. “We should keep the ship medics on standby.”
Owen listens to the warm sound of Jacob’s laughter, breathing in the lingering scent of Jacob’s cologne. “I’ll keep them on
speed dial.”
With his own pinky, Owen finally reaches up, returning the gesture. So, there it is.
A truce. He can’t imagine being Jacob’s friend again, being that involved in his life, going out to dinner or movies, texting
and calling him just to check in; to have that all again when he can’t take Jacob’s hand and hold it as they walk down the
street, when he can’t rest his hand on Jacob’s lap as they ride the bus, when he can’t hold Jacob’s cheeks in his hands and
kiss him for as long as he wants . . . How could he survive that?
Maybe it’d be better to burn his bridges, totally let Jacob go.
Wouldn’t that be easier than having to exist alongside him, without ever getting the chance to love Jacob the way that he
used to?
The way he knows, deep down, he still does.