The Art of Faking Straight

Chapter Twenty-five

          I once heard that love is like a disease without any cure, which is enough to make anyone with a brain want to run for the hills at the mere mention of it. Love can be wild and wonderful, but it can also be scary, painful, hopeful, miraculous, and cruel. It’s an evitable mixture of pleasure and pain, but that’s putting it into black and white, which doesn’t count for all the grey area that it has.

         Love is many things and the worst part is you don’t have a say in who you love, but then again, maybe that’s the best part of all.

         Which is what I’m thinking while sitting next to Connor on his bed after having just watched the whole sixth season of Supernatural on Netflix. 

          “God, why did Castiel do that?” I ask as I scoot closer to Connor. After sitting in bed lounging around all morning, I’m getting into one of those sentimental moods that doesn’t happen very often.

          “I dunno, but it was pretty badass, don’t ya think?” Connor looks over at me, his hair falling in his eyes as he does so. He swiftly brushes them out of his face so that he can see me better, smiling.

         
          I just nod my head; I’m still a bit cloudy headed after having been watching one damn good show all morning.

         “But still, this really freaking blows. It makes me almost want to hate him and you just can’t hate him, I mean he’s Castiel for goodness sake. He’s the baby in the trench coat for a reason. He’s there to make everything awkward and funny, not to be like, God or whatever. This new writer is screwing the whole damn story up!”

         “You’re cute when you’re flustered,” he says amiably.

         “I know.”

          “And you’re oh so modest too!” He jokes, gently shoving me in the shoulder so that I’m pushed a few centimeters away from him. 

          “I’m really just such a catch, don’t you agree?” 

         “You are, and I do.”

         I just shake my head, thinking he’s just kidding around again despite the serious tone of his voice. I’m far from a catch to be honest.

         “What?”

         “I was joking, I’m not a catch,” I say. I’m not saying it so that he’ll disagree with me, there’s no point in that, I already know he likes me, but simply because it’s true and I don’t want him thinking I’m big-headed when I’m not. Well, not usually.

         “Ah, but you are.”

          I shrug my shoulders in a way that is supposed to mean no I’m not but I’m not going to make you mad by arguing.

         But then Connor grabs my face, and looks me straight in the eyes, his blue ones staring back at my own. He begins to speak and his words just start tumbling out, as if he is afraid that he has too much to say and not enough time to say it. “You know,” he says, “I think I love you more than Supernatural, even when you’re stupid, like now.”

         And I don’t even have enough time to let him know the feelings are reciprocated because the next thing I know we’re rolling around on his bed both in intense need of removing the other’s shirt. I’m not the least bit ashamed to say his is the first to go.

         
He pulls off my shirt with both hands and brings me mere centimeters from his face. I gently kiss his top lip and then his bottom lip, letting the palm of my right hand linger on the side of his cheek as I pull him back down to me. “Okay so maybe I just love your body,” he says softly, chuckling softly to himself, and then leans back in and kisses me again. I can’t even begin to say how good it makes me feel, not the kiss, though that too, but just the sure thought that Connor finds me attractive. I mean sure, I’m been called attractive before, but I doubt I’ll ever get over the feeling of pure thrill I get when I hear him call me good looking. It’s just idyllic.