A few days passed, and the group mostly spent the time lounging on the beach. Olivia and Josh had finally made their relationship public, and Jacob had yelled, "I KNEW IT!" and winked at Josh when he had broken the news. As if anyone believed Jacob didn't already know about it.
As for his own personal issues, Jacob still hadn't talked to anyone about how he was feeling, not even Lauren. He decided it'd be better not to mention it, since it would probably only end up as a fling. A week-long hookup. He wasn't looking for short-lived fun. He wanted companionship.
Oh, he hated being so sensitive. He hated being so emotional, so much weaker than the other guys. He hated that he cried. He hated that he loved fashion. He hated a lot of things about himself.
Did he ever tell anyone that he hated how he was? Of course not. If he told a guy, they'd probably punch his arm and tell him to man up. (How he wished he could.) If he told a girl, their face would most likely scrunch up and they'd hug him and tell him how perfect and cute and sweet he was.
He was sick of it all.
He didn't feel like he deserved the girls' adoration. Everywhere he went, they would laugh at his jokes, give him hugs, tell him how amazing the hugs were…it was flattering at first. Then as time went by and he felt more and more secluded, it began to bother him.
Why did he feel this way? Well, why did he enjoy the things he did?
When he was little, he said he wanted to grow up to be a unicorn.
That didn't go over well with anyone. All throughout middle school, even up through his present adult life, he was teased. Not just for the "unicorn" comment, but for a lot of things. People wondered why he became a hairdresser. People wondered why he was always the most stylishly dressed band member. People wondered why he had the persona of a black woman.
He thought that last one was ridiculous. So he swiveled his neck once in a while. He wasn't obsessed with being black like Solomon was.
People wondered, and people began to talk. How many times now had he read a blog somewhere online where they called him gay? How many times had male fans seemed to avoid talking to him? How many times did the girls come up to him and tell him that they "supported" him?
Just thinking about it all made him extremely angry. As he sat on the bus reflecting on his thoughts, he picked up the nearest object and threw it as hard as he could. The one manly thing I do, he thought.
The object hit the edge of a counter and smashed into pieces. For a moment, his heart melted and his thoughts cleared. He regretted throwing whatever it was, and now it was ruined. He stood up and walked over to the shrapnel, realizing that he had thrown one of Lauren's prized possessions, a French-themed snow globe given to her by her best friend.
Tears filled his eyes. He had hurt her. She didn't know it was broken yet, but she would soon enough. And she would be hurt. Why couldn't he control himself?
Shaking his head, he snuffled and messily smeared the tears off his cheeks. Real men didn't cry. In fact, regardless of how much he cared about Lauren, he shouldn't care that he broke her snow globe. Right?
That was what Solomon had always told him. "You gotta be tough to make it. You can't waste your time thinking about everyone else all the time."
He grimaced angrily and picked the broken glass off the floor. He went and got a towel, to soak up the water. He pushed the glitter into one pile. Stupid snow globe.
His own brothers had ditched him. They went off to see a movie, and said "someone needs to watch the bus." Well, of course, he was too nice. AGAIN. And now he was stuck on this godforsaken hunk of metal that he hated almost as much as himself.
He kicked the inside of the bus. Not only did his foot now hurt, but there was a dent in the aluminum interior. And he scuffed his combat boot! Man! These were expen—
He stopped his thought short. There he went again. FASHION. Why did he care? Josh threw on a pair of jeans and a shirt every day. Girls fawned over him. So why did he put in so much effort to look nice?
It wasn't for girls. It CERTAINLY wasn't for guys. He wasn't gay, no matter what anyone thought. He wasn't gay.
He wasn't. He couldn't be.
He wasn't.
The amount of times he had to tell himself that sickened him. Tears filled his eyes again, hot and angry this time. Seeing a basket of magazines on the table, he picked it up and flipped it over. The magazines ripped in midair from the force he put into it. Pieces of paper slowly floated down to the floor.
He grabbed them in one fist, scrunching them and ripping them further. He didn't care if they were Nathan's. He didn't care about anything. The tears were spilling onto his cheeks again.
He threw the ruined paper into a trash can and stormed off to the tiny bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Gripping the sink with both hands, he slowly raised his head and looked at himself in the mirror.
Oh, he was a mess.
Bloodshot eyes, tussled hair, tear-stained cheeks, an intense look of desperation on his face.
He couldn't stand to look himself in the eye any more. He screamed in rage and punched his reflection.
Shards of glass fell to the floor, along with blood from his knuckles. He hardly felt it. All he could feel was a white-hot heat growing inside his chest.
Ripping his gaze from the latest mess, he went back out into the common area. He couldn't even explain his anger any more. He wasn't angry about the broken objects around him, the dented wall, the scuffed boot, the hurt body.
He was angry with who he was.
Sinking down into a chair, he finally gave in to loud sobs. The anger was still present, as was the heat, but dimly lit. He suspected the heat and the anger were one and the same.
He couldn't take it. The loneliness was just too much. He couldn't argue with himself any longer. No, he still wasn't gay, but he was emotional. He was sensitive. He was…different. Always had been. Always will be.
No girl could identify with him. There was no such thing as a "soulmate" for him. All the girls who told him how much they looked up to him didn't really know him. They were just fans. They didn't know. Didn't know the half of it.
His mind was complicated. He didn't understand himself. He felt things and said things that he never planned on. What was wrong with him?
His brothers had tried to be supportive. They had told him that he was fine, just a little odd. Just a little awkward.
He lifted his hands and looked at them. One was perfect, the skin soft and smooth. The other was ugly, split and still bleeding. The perfect hand was Lauren. The broken hand was him. Although they had similar makeup to them, they were not the same. Never would be. Never could be.
The tears stopped flowing. His face softened into a deadpan expression. Never could be. The words rang through his mind. Never could be.
Never could be.
He stood and walked to the bathroom.
Never could be.
He stooped and picked up a piece of glass from the mirror.
Never could be.
He closed his eyes. No one was here on the bus with him. It would be hours before they even came back for him.
Never could be.
He lay the glass against the wrist of his perfect hand. It felt surprisingly warm, as if inviting him.
Never could be. Never could be. Never will be.
The next thing he knew, he was sobbing again, huddled on the floor, with Lauren's arms wrapped around him in an embrace that said it all.