He taught me how to ride a bike, how to shave, how to drive; he comforted me when I got hurt, and scolded me when I fucked up. He’s been my fucking father my whole life, yet now I look at him like he’s supposed to be more than that.
I’ve always prayed that it’s just an attraction. Because he’s hot as fuck, nothing more.
But as my lips quiver and my fist curls around my erection to visions of him touching me the way I’m touching myself, I can’t even be sure.
All I know is that I’m jerking off to thoughts of my dad right now…
And less than two minutes later, I’m coming in my hand with his face in my brain.
Chapter 3
James
* * *
It’s just after midnight when I drag myself up the steps to my bedroom.
I’m barely even tired, but I just knew if I stayed downstairs on the couch I’d end up drinking too many beers and passing out down there, which is something I’d prefer not to do.
I just don’t want to seem like I’m drowning my sorrows, because I’m not. I dodged a bit of a bullet when Leslie ended things. I’m glad it happened, though it pains me to admit it. Why wouldn’t I want to get serious with a beautiful woman? It doesn’t make much sense.
I just can’t stop thinking about how Jesse clammed up when I mentioned the reason for the inevitable end to the relationship. I never meant for him to feel guilty. At the end of the day, it’s not his fault at all. I was the one keeping Leslie at a distance. It had nothing to do with him. These are all my issues.
Maybe I’m not meant to settle down. With anyone.
Inside my bedroom, I strip down to my boxers and climb into bed. Beneath the covers, I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling for a while, my internal obsessing whisking me away until I barely even remember how I got to where I am in my head.
I’m not a great sleeper. I’ve always struggled with getting a full eight hours. Or even five. But part of me thinks I run better on a lack of sleep. I’m fine with it.
When I hear sudden footsteps in the hallway, I’m on high alert. My bedroom door is open a crack, done so for a reason. So that he doesn’t hurt himself.
Because when he staggers inside, he’s shuffling like a zombie, eyelids fluttering as his heavy steps clunk him right into the side of my bed. And then he crashes down onto it, nestling up on top of the covers.
I let out a despondent sigh.
Jesse sleepwalks. He’s been doing it since he was a kid, and we’ve never been able to get to the root of the problem. The first few times were terrifying. I’d wake up in the morning and find him on the bathroom floor, or curled up in a ball in the hallway. Thankfully he’s never injured himself, but that’s why I put up a gate at the top of the stairs, just in case. He seems to walk just fine in his sleep, making it all the way downstairs in the past. But it’s not a risk I’m willing to take. The last thing I want is him tripping down the steps and breaking his neck.
He’s seen a therapist before, where he was diagnosed with some mild anxiety. They gave him sleeping pills in an attempt to keep him thoroughly conked out, but he doesn’t like taking them. Says they make him groggy.
So instead, we got the gate, and confined him to upstairs. And now, his subconscious brings him in only one direction. My bedroom.
I know it’s not healthy. I’m not a lunatic. But the thing is, I don’t have the heart to stop him. Jesse is a strong-willed kid. He’s smart and grounded, but he’s always suffered within himself. He’s quiet about his emotions, and he internalizes everything. I think I know where he gets it from…
For as much as I’ve raised him, as well as I could as a nineteen-year-old without a clue, I know Jesse feels the absence of his real parents. He’d never voice it to me, but he does. He knows I’m not them… And I’ve always wondered if I’m glad about that fact or saddened by it.
I don’t know if I want to be his father, or just his guardian. There’s a big difference in the two.
Sure, I’ve done everything I can to give him a loving, stable home over the years. He doesn’t call me Dad, and I’m totally fine with that. I try to talk about his parents with him as much as possible, but at this point, it’s been so long since they were around, I barely remember what they were like anymore.
It fucking sucks. Because they were my only family…
And now I have this boy of theirs, who’s supposed to be mine just as much, and I don’t have any way of helping him. I don’t think he’s broken on the inside… I sure as shit hope not, because I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to put him back together.
Jesse turns in the bed, shifting onto his stomach with his face mashed into the pillow. My bed is big enough that there’s plenty of room between us. I wouldn’t let this happen if there weren’t. But I also don’t make any immediate attempts at moving him, and I don’t really know why.
I just want to keep him comfortable for a little while longer, and if this will do it, then fine. I’m not sure why he comes into my room in his sleep, but I refuse to make him feel bad about it, or myself either, for that matter. I don’t know if he remembers any part of doing this, but we don’t talk about it.
And let’s just say, this is one giant reason why I always spent the night at Leslie’s house. Over two years of seeing each other, she’d only spent the night in my bed twice. And both times, I locked my bedroom door, and stayed awake all night, stressing about Jesse, hoping he wouldn’t try to get in while she was here.
Fucked up, I know, but what can I do?
I’m better off alone. Again, because if the alternative is alienating Jesse, well then, it’s just not going to happen.
The sounds of Jesse’s soft breaths begin to lull me into a sleepy trance, and I force myself out of it. I’m going to have to move him soon, meaning I absolutely cannot fall asleep. If he wakes up in my bed, it would be the most confusing, awkward thing ever, and we can’t have that.
Rolling onto my side, I observe him for a moment. His light blonde hair looks almost platinum in this light, mussed up and strewn about. Such a unique color. He definitely got it from Himla.
His mother was of Swedish origin, and while Trent had a slightly darker complexion and hair, Jesse came out as a spitting image of his mom. The pale skin, hair a color that people choose from bottles, and those golden eyes, like wildflower honey.
He’s a real looker, the kid. Whoever he ends up with will be one lucky son-of-a-bitch.
He’s wearing the same thing he was when he went to bed; high school football team hoodie with the torn front pocket, gray sweatpants, and some ridiculous fuzzy Rick And Morty socks he wears constantly. It brings a curl to my lips, promptly falling away when I recall him storming out of the room at barely eight o’clock. Jesse doesn’t typically go to bed early either, so I just know he was upset about what I told him… Thinking he was the reason for Leslie and I ending things.
I don’t want him to worry about me. He doesn’t need that stress.
I’ll be fine. All I have to do is be here for him. Fuck love anyway, right?
All relationships are doomed to fail before they even start.
The next time I glance at the clock on my nightstand, I notice that it’s almost three in the morning. Where the hell did the time go?