Faults
A lot of people—most people, in fact, look at him and see this perfect angel of a being. They see his blond hair, those eyes, they see that smile and they can’t imagine that the inside isn’t a complete reflection of the innocence he projects.
Well, the innocence that he used to project, anyway.
After a few years with me, that’s gone. I destroyed it. Chris Hobbs destroyed it. Ethan destroyed it. A few others took their share of hits, but I think I have the honor of claiming the most credit there.
If you look closely, his eyes don’t have the same look about them. They used to look at me—at the whole fucking world—like a kid does. You know, all ‘life is fair and life is beautiful and everything is wonderful’. They don’t look like that now.
They look—tired.
Sometimes they look cynical or snide. Wary is another good adjective, like he’s waiting for the shoe to drop on his head again. And sometimes, when we’re together, when it’s going well and there’s no shit getting in the way, then they can still look happy. They have this sparkle about them—sounds sappy, doesn’t it? Fuck it, I don’t care. They do, once in a while they still sparkle.
His smile isn’t quite the same, either. Oh, it’s still enough to make me forget to breathe for a few seconds, but now I notice that he has learned how to use that incredible smile to his own advantage. He’s learned how to play it.
Yes, there are still times when he forgets—or forgets to think about it—and then it still knocks my fucking socks off. Usually, though, he knows what he’s doing with it.
The hair. I love his hair. I love the spun gold of it, like something in an old fairytale my grandmother used to read to me before she died. I love that it feels like silk and that it’s long enough that I can get my fingers tangled in it when we kiss or make love. I just so fucking love that.
The longer hair makes him look older, I think. No, not old—just not like a schoolboy anymore, not like a fifteen year old the way that short hair made him look when he was back in high school.
I think he was getting tired of looking like a kid.
Fuck me, I know. He’s still barely twenty. He is a kid, certainly compared to me he is.
What is it about kids that they want to be older? I know I always did, but I had a reason. I wanted to get away from the Jack and Joanie asylum. Why does Justin want to be so much older? Does he really think that it’s better?
I know, I know—he wants the freedom, the independence. I know that.
It just goes so fucking fast.
He doesn’t know that yet.
I used to wonder why it was that he –as Debbie put it—got in under the wire. He did. She was right.
Why did I let it happen? Why him? Why not any one of a thousand guys I’ve had?
Maybe the timing was just right. I suppose that was part of it. I was ready for it to happen, at least subconsciously.
Alright, fine, but then why him? I mean besides his looks.
That’s another thing, the thing about his looks—and my looks. Yin and yang, you know? Tall, dark, small, blond. Old, young. Rich, poor. Upper middle class WASP prince, lower middle class Mick. I could go on, but you get the idea, you see where I’m going with this—opposites attracting and all of that shit.
Maybe it’s true. It was with us, I know that.
Sure, he’s smart, maybe as smart as I am and that’s not easy to find, truth be known. I like that. He kept things interesting. I couldn’t scam him all that easily, he would see through me the same way I could usually see through him. I had to pay attention around him, had to think things through or he’d call me on shit, just like I’d call him out if he pulled some crap.
You know? He used to look at me like I was his hero. He MADE me a fucking superhero, remember? He used to think that I could practically do no wrong. He said that he was on to me—and maybe he even was—and he still wanted to be around me. Well, for a while, anyway.
Then we had that parting of the ways and after we managed to put it back together—at his instigation—he just didn’t look at me the same.
I think he still loves me, but it’s different now. It used to be unreservedly, now he loves me, I think, but it’s as if he knows me but still loves me anyway despite myself.
It’s different.
He doesn’t worship the ground I walk on anymore.
I guess that might be good. I know it’s more realistic. He sees through me, just like I see through him.
He knows I’m not God. Daphne told me once that after that first night, a lifetime ago, he said that when he met me he’d seen the face of God. She was at the loft waiting for Justin one day and we’d gotten high while we were hanging. Damn she laughed when she told me that.
So did I. I’d never been referred to as God before—the Antichrist, sure, plenty of times, but never God.
Well, he’s over that now. Talk about your phases that pass.
Debbie used to say that he was my baby, just like Gus was. I never said anything, but that always pissed me off. He’s no fucking baby.
What the shit would that make me? A frigging pedophile? Are we trying to validate Craig fucking Taylor now?
He’s not my baby, he’s no one’s baby and I’m not his fucking Daddy. Let’s get this straight before I get really pissed off. He’s an autonomous young man and I’m his lover. OK? Got that?
Shit, that pisses me off.
What is it about him that makes people want to infantilize him, protect him, think that he’s not as tough as nails? He is, you know—he can chew you up and spit you out if he wants to—and not in a positive, life affirming way, either.
He’s no fucking baby.
You know something else that I don’t completely get? Why he stays with me—why he came back and seems to want to stay, at least for a while.
OK, at first I knew why—I mean like the first year up to the bashing and even after, up til he left with Ethan—which I also understand, by the way. But why does he want me now? I know what I am and I know what I’m not.
I’m not bad looking and I’ve got a good build. I’m a great fuck and I’m damn smart. I’ve got money and style to burn. I’m usually honest, more than most people, anyway. OK, that’s the good part.
On the other hand I’m selfish, I can be pretty damn rude, I drink too much, I take too many drugs, I screw around and I’ve told him not to count on me. I don’t do romance or love or boyfriends—except when I made all those exceptions for Justin and he knows that. And, as we all know, boys and girls, I’m also on the list of the unemployed.
Fuck.
The point? Yeah, I’ve got one.
Justin isn’t the angel and I’m not the devil, like everyone seems to think. I’m not the only one who screws up and he’s not fucking perfect. In fact, sometimes I’m positively altruistic and he’s a cunt.
Are we going to make it work out this time? Look, I don’t know. I know that I hope we do. I think he hopes the same, but neither one of us really knows.
He loves me, I know that and he knows that I love him, whether I say it or not.
Maybe it’s enough, maybe it isn’t.
We’ll see and I think we’ll both give it a Hell of a shot because it really sucked when we weren’t together.
And we both know that.
Damn, I’m glad that he’s sleeping next to me again. Such a little thing and it makes all the fucking difference.