In the end I can't bring myself to say it, but it doesn't matter. Lunkhead or not, Jake isn't a moron, and he figures it out after a long enough silence.
I watch the realization dawn on him like seeing a pantomime in profile: the brow furrowed in thought, the one eye I can see widening, the jerk like he'd been hit with something, the color draining from his face, finally culminating in him meeting my eyes with a shellshocked, zombielike expression. "Me?"
Still unable to speak, I just nod, a dumb nervous grin spreading across my face even though I know that's the absolute worst facial expression possible (except murderous rage. So I'm still handling this better than Othello). I bite my lip to control it, which just results in a crooked half-smile — not much better, but at least it now looks ironic. "Sorry, Big Jake. You're quite the charmer."
He doesn't appreciate the joke. His complexion still cheeselike, there is a flash of anger, of Frustration Face. I read his mind as well as if he were thought-speaking to me: How can you joke at a time like this? And then, immediately after, Why are you doing this to me? "I don't know if you've noticed, but we're kinda in the middle of a war, buddy." His voice is hardly more than a breath, infused with the weakest shred of humor.
"I know the timing's pretty bad," I agree quickly, "but I . . . I couldn't keep it . . . you know. I waited until last period, though, so you don't have to go back to class." I offer this last like an olive branch. Look, see how I still care for you. I'm always gonna have your back.
I've been trying to keep the naked, futile hope out of my voice and face, but I must not be doing good enough, because he sees or hears something that dissolves all the anger. Involuntarily I cringe away from him, because what's left is worse somehow — the raw, crushing anguish of not being able to give me what I want. He's fighting with every muscle in his face to keep from crying, and I know in this moment that if there was a way to turn him gay (a love potion, whatever the opposite of those prayer camps is) he'd do it. I even think I can see him wondering if he could fake it, just to make me happy.
In this moment I can read his love on his face, and it's not what I want but it feels like so much. It almost feels like enough.
The moment ends. Giving up, his head drops into his hands, and I hear a choked sound that's like a mix between a sob and a gulp. "I'm not . . . Marco, I'm sorry, but I can't."
"I know. I don't expect you to." God, this sucks a lot more than I'd thought it would. Well, less in some ways — he's not yelling homophobic slurs at me like he did in my nightmares (which wasn't likely, but fear, like love, is irrational sometimes), and he hasn't started running for the woods yet — but I'd been so focused on how much this would hurt me that I'd barely even considered the pain I'd be putting my best friend in, and that's much worse than anything I'm going through.
It kinda makes me feel like a dick, if we're being honest.
"I'm sorry." He keeps saying it, his voice muffled by his hands. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
Despite how I feel, despite how much I hate everything including and especially myself, I can't help but roll my eyes. "Jeez, you say it like it's your fault."
I'm offering him a lifeline, and he can feel it. Still not looking at me, he lifts his head and mumbles, "I guess I am pretty lovable. My mother told me I'd a heartbreaker."
I chuckle, a weak and weary sound that is 90% air. "She'll be thrilled to be proven right. Mothers usually are." We both stop, feeling the full force of those words for an oppressive moment. He's broken my heart. He didn't mean to, he didn't want to, I sure as heck didn't want it to happen, but here we are. That sounds good, and I say it out loud: "Here we are."
He nods, looking drained and empty. "We're . . . are we going to be okay?" In that question I can feel the expectations we have to live up to, the war we have to fight, the inconveniences I've created.
I also hear the friendship we've strained, a friendship that is still so precious despite it all. Maybe even a little bit because of it all. I hear that he's not interested in walking away just because things might get awkward. He just doesn't want me to be in pain because of him.
A little late, man. But I lean forward so he can see me and raise one eyebrow. "Hey, don't think just because of this I'm going to stop bugging you. Who else would I crush at Mario Kart?"
A weak smile quirks at his lips. "You're not that good."
"Au contraire, my sausage-fingered friend. You handle the control stick like it's a basketball, all force and no finesse. T'is why you shall never defeat me."
"Also because you play video games 24/7."
Suddenly this whole thing hits me; now that I no longer have to comfort him, I need to get out of here before I have a total breakdown. I punch his shoulder and climb to my feet. "Come on. You've got class to not go to, and I've got . . . stuff to do."
He winces like I've struck him, and I know he can hear it in my voice. "Right. I'll go . . ." Unable to finish the thought, he clears his throat and shuffles his feet.
"Yeah, me too."
"Listen, if you need to . . . I don't know . . ." He's desperately clawing for words, and once again I'm mad at myself for creating this whole stupid situation. "I don't want you to feel like you've lost your friend," he finishes, turning pleading eyes on me. Pleading, beautiful eyes.
I need to get out of here.
"Jake, we're fine. We'll be better later. But you can't scare me away — I'm incapable of fear, not after seeing Ax tear through the food court. Now that's terrifying. This? Is just . . . awkward. We've always been awkward." The words are tumbling out of my mouth in no particular order, and I can't tell if they make any sense. I'm just trying to get out of here with a teeny shred of my dignity intact.
It seems to make sense to him, though. "Good. That's good. I'll see you." He nods his head up and down like one of those weird bobblehead dolls, and I nod back at him, turning to escape to the little stand of woods.
"I'm sorry." I turn and see his face, a rictus of misery like one of those tragedy masks.
Shit.
He doesn't get how badly I need him to stop being sad. To stop drawing this out. To leave me alone so I can be sad for a little while.
He sees some of this in my face and waves me away. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't . . . I'm not . . . I'm just sorry. Get out of here."
"Aye-aye, Captain." This is the last thing I'm able to say, and I don't even check to see whether he's gone back inside or toward the road or morphing into a bird right there on the school steps before I'm gone, headed straight for the copse of trees. Once I reach them, I collapse, wrapping my arms around a sapling that can barely support my weight and sinking to the ground.
I don't think I've ever cried like this since I thought my mom was dead. Not even after the most harrowing battles have I felt so out of control. Duties to self done, best friend comforted as best as possible, I couldn't form coherent sentences if Visser Three were pointing a dracon beam at my head. They're crippling, throat-tearing sobs that seem to spring up from some deep well inside that I didn't even know I had. I'm smeared with tears and sap and dirt and snot and I just can't bring myself to care. Who cares if I look cute or pathetic or stupid or whatever?
It's not like it matters much anyway.