All the Best Lies Are Told With Fingers Tied

There are some secrets I can't keep.

Like the time I had to tell you that Rian liked that weird girl Cassadee in the other class when we started high school, or that time when I felt it a compulsory moment in our friendship to let you know I once pissed in your pool when we were ten.

Those secrets are okay to tell though, because they're not exactly about me.

They don't run so deep in my mind that it makes my eyes sting to think about them, and they don't make my chest ache when I wonder about, "What if...?"

I have secrets like that, you know.

Secrets involving you. I can't ever tell you. But I think you could guess it right if you tried really, really hard. Maybe you wouldn't even have to try all that hard; maybe it's more obvious than I realise. I don't know. You tell me.

There are moments in our so-called friendship when I've gotten a little too close for comfort without meaning to.

At junior prom, we were in the cab on the way home and my hands were all over you. We'd got a hold of some beers, I could blame it on that. I could blame the fact that my hands were wandering inside your jacket on the alcohol. I could blame the fact that my finger was just lightly tracing the waistband of your dress trousers on all the beer, yeah. I could. But that would be a lie.

I tell good lies, Alex, and that's something you've yet to learn about me.

What about the time we were fucking around on our guitars in your room? I stole your pick, just for fun, but somehow we ended up wrestling on your bed and somehow you ended up on top of me, and, somehow my lips touched yours. But then you returned the favour and it was okay. We did it again. And again, over and over, kisses and shirts getting rucked up for maybe ten minutes before my mom called at the worst moment possible, right when I felt your hand starting to trace my stomach, telling me it was late and I should come home. Maybe you don't remember, at least not as vividly as I do. I replay that scene in my head all too often when I'm alone at night, naked, save for a blanket covering my bottom half as I get some relief from just being too near you sometimes.

I'm only seventeen, Alex, just like you. How am I supposed to control these feelings? I can't. But that's okay.

I tell good lies. You really don't have a clue about that one. You know me better than yourself, better than the back of your own hand, better than the feel of your own fucking dick in your palm, or so you think.

There are two things you don't know. One, I tell good lies. And two, I love you.

All the best lies are told with fingers tied, Alex, did you know that? I keep mine crossed tight always when I'm with you.

Over the years I have expressed my feelings about you dating certain people -- translate: most people... maybe, just perhaps, actually, everyone you've ever dated. They're not of hatred, I just drop hints, you see. About how that one's a whore, that one's not right for you, she's too bitchy, she's too sickeningly nice... the list goes on. You've never dated a boy before, but secretly I'm glad. You kissed me that one time but if you ever went out with another boy I don't think I could quite bear it. Girls are bad enough with their curves and provocative words seducing you.

You sleep with them. I haven't touched anyone, apart from you. Well, that's a lie too, actually, I've done some grinding and palmed with a few other guys at parties when I just wanted to forget that it was you I needed but I was always drunk. They don't count, not really. Not in the long run. Not in the grand scheme of things.

I really don't like those girls you date. You might call it picking fault, which, technically, I am. These days you just tell me to shut up because you can't see anything wrong with them. I tell you that you simply can't see their faults because you're so infatuated. I'm protecting you.

But the truth is, I genuinely disliked all these girls. Maybe only because they were dating you. However, that's besides the point. I'm a very jealous person, Alex. I don't want you to date and I don't want you to date me either.

No, that one is a lie. I would sell my goddamn soul to be with you. But you're my very best friend. Best friends aren't meant to fall in love with their -- supposedly -- heterosexual best friends. I'd ruin us. So I lie with fingers crossed tight, because I figure not having you as a best friend is worse than not having you as a boyfriend.

I suppose, over the years, you've gotten suspicions. Well, not suspicions, more like knowledge. You actually have correctly guessed that I have feelings for you several times but after some awkward small talk, blushing and my continuous denials, you let it drop. At least for another few months before you begin interrogating me at random all over again.

But you never used the L-word. Not until today.

Oh, Alex. There's a third thing you don't know about me. Not only have I lied about how I've invested my whole being into loving you, beautiful you, until the day I die, but I also shed tears over it.

Yes. I cry. I sob into pillows late at night until my voice is wrecked and my eyes feel small and swollen, until my breath becomes jerky gasps and I feel too beaten down to face the world.

I tell good lies though, and you don't know this. You don't see me cry often -- perhaps twice in recent years when I sought your comfort after my dog died, or that time I broke my arm falling off my bike.

But never have you seen me cry about something like this. I almost did, today, when you said it. You used the L-word, that hideous, ugly word that will rip us apart if I tell you it's true.

But it's not true, to you anyway, because I tell good lies. Fingers tied tight.

You look like you've tossed and turned in bed all night with the mere thought of us, of me. Your eyes are tired and your hair is mussed. Your clothes hang on you oddly, like something about you isn't quite fitting today. But you're beautiful, all disheveled. I want to wash your face and comb your hair and kiss your forehead. But I don't. I pretend I don't want these things with my excellent, excellent lies.

"Do you love me, Jack?"

Your face is serious, your brow crinkling just that little bit with a need to know.

This is it, my chance to uncross my lie-bound fingers. My eyes burn with desperation to fall to the floor and admit everything, clutching at your legs and praying I'm still your best friend Jack. I want to.

"No, Alex. I don't love you."

My voice sounds tight; held in. Keeping a secret. But you already know what it is. You'll just never hear me say it, and so the game continues.

There are some secrets I can keep, Alex. I tell good lies, don't you know that yet?

All the best lies are told with fingers tied, and I'm never uncrossing mine.