The Girl I Once Loved: Love & Hate Duet

I twist and I turn in bed, unable to silence his words. Viciously, they claw and scratch around the edges of my brain, leaving ugly scars, demanding they be heard, until I have no choice but to confront them head on.

Although I hated every word that came out of Noah’s mouth earlier today, I can’t deny there was some truth in them.

I have been hiding.

But contrary to his belief, it hadn’t been purposely done at first.

I had planned on writing my own stories when I first graduated, but for that to happen, I knew I needed a job that would enable me to pay my bills and still leave me enough time to write. Getting accepted at Rosewood Publishing as a ghost writer seemed to fit that need perfectly.

It was just dumb luck that my first assignment was an autobiography of a famous chef, who wanted to up his celebrity status by giving the world a tell-all book about what really happens in a Michelin star restaurant. When the book came out, it was such a success that Hollywood came knocking to turn the book into a T.V. series, one that eventually would win Emmy after Emmy.

After that, the ghostwriting autobiography jobs just kept on rolling my way, and I was all too eager to accept them, completely putting my own dreams of writing fiction to the side. It had been so easy for me to get pulled in and distracted from my original objective. And though Noah accused me of being a cowardly sell out, my decision to continue on the path I was on hadn’t been entirely about the money.

Although I must admit, the five to six-figure paycheck at the end of each project didn’t hurt either. The more prestigious the celebrity was, the more I was paid for my discretion.

Still, that’s not why I kept at it.

Even from an early age, I had been fascinated with people’s interactions and lives. How they thought, acted, and felt. While before I had to eavesdrop to get my fix, my clients now shared their personal stories with me willingly. Through them, I got to experience all sorts of things. How it felt to climb a mountain in the worst weather conditions, or the adrenaline pulsing in a singer’s veins when she stepped on stage to be greeted by thousands of her loving loyal fans. It was all so captivating and exciting for me to hear these stories first-hand that somehow it felt like I had been a part of it. A part of their journey.

Though I would never have the recognition of writing such tales since I was legally bound to never take credit for one word that was written, it didn’t matter to me. In the end, I didn’t feel like I should be credited for any of it anyway, since all I did was narrate the lives of people who couldn’t do it for themselves. I was happy just to be a part of their experience and felt humbled they turned to me to help them share those intimate memoirs with the world.

But in the back of my mind, there was always something missing.

A nagging sensation that would tug and pull every so often.

That, while I was busy writing everyone else’s stories, I wasn’t living mine.

Noah had been right on another account too.

It was comforting hiding behind someone else’s name.

There was no pressure or high stakes for me if the book didn’t do well.

But his callous accusations made something else even more transparent to me.

That while my clients opened up their hearts and showed me true vulnerability, I didn’t have to reciprocate in any way, shape, or form. I could still keep my walls raised up high while they poured their hearts and souls out to me, sharing their best and worst moments, hoping I’d see the humanity in them and have the grace to write down their successes, as well as pain, in a dignified manner.

Yes.

It had been all too easy for me to write such books, since I didn’t have my own skin in the game.

Because in the end, that is what writing is all about.

Showing the world what your insides look like and praying they don’t judge you for it. You share your traumas, hopes and dreams, bleed them onto paper and then hand them off to complete strangers, hoping they will see the beauty in your words. I don’t think there is another job in this world that forces a person to be that vulnerable. To be that raw and honest. Especially with yourself.

So is it any wonder that I have hidden behind my anonymity?

That I have taken the easy way out instead of being brave and putting myself out there?

Instead of writing my truth?

Of course, it had to be Noah Fontaine to cast a spotlight on my insecurities and bring them into the light. Though the irony isn’t lost on me how the person who broke my trust and confidence in the first place is also the one who is disappointed in my cop out. That he feels he’s entitled to an opinion on how I conduct my life and make any sort of demands is beyond me.

But that’s exactly what he did.

Make the demand that I live up to the potential he sees in me. That I once saw in myself.

God, how I hate him!

But just as I think this thought, my lips burn at the memory of his mouth on mine. How they molded perfectly to me. How his body pressed up against mine, ignited something inside me that no one else has ever managed to coax out. How every touch, every bated breath, every whispered taunt, sets me aflame with desire, kindling a fire in me that I was sure had burned out years ago.

With just one kiss, he managed to tilt my world on its axis, and make me second guess every decision I’ve ever made.

Argh!

Unable to sleep, I turn on the light on my bedside table and get up from my bed. I then begin to manically pace my bedroom, left to right, like the unhinged woman he’s turned me into. With just a few words and a fucking kiss, he’s awakened things in me that should have stayed dormant. Feelings that have no business resurfacing.

It’s his fault I’m like this.

He was the one who broke me.

How dare he demand anything of me?!

And suddenly the itch to write down how much this man has scarred me, how much his cruel ways have damaged the course of my life, becomes too unbearable to withstand.

My gaze flashes to the closed laptop on my desk and then to my closet, the latter beckoning me towards it, forcibly pulling me in its direction.

Fuck him.

He wants my words?

My truth?

Then so be it.

I’m very aware that logic and reason have officially left the building when I rush to open my closet doors, dropping to my hands and knees to find a piece of my past that I had no intention of ever touching again. Safely stored behind shoe boxes and textbooks, I pull out a box that contains the laptop Noah gifted me before he turned my whole world upside down.

Before he broke my heart.

Holding the box close to my chest, I jump onto my bed, hurriedly pulling the laptop and cord out and plugging it in. When the laptop miraculously comes to life, I don’t hesitate, I just react, bringing forth the story that has been trapped inside me all this time.

The very one my step brother so tragically inspired.

And so I write.

I once knew a boy whose stormy eyes stole my very breath away just by looking directly into mine. Either in fear or morbid fascination, he always managed to captivate me. Too young and dumb to know any better, his stare was enough to leave me an emotional wreck. I was either intoxicatingly enamored by his tumultuous sea of blue or overwhelmed by the notion that diving into such deep waters would be my ultimate ruin, drowning me once and for all.

From the tender age of fifteen, his eyes promised me so much.

Promised me pain, suffering, and almighty misery.

And for years, he made good on all his promises.

He became the bane of my very existence. The boy that sought me out, only to torment me, purposely casting a shadow on every joyous moment I had in my pathetic life.

I’m not going to lie to you, my life was definitely an endless ocean of dullness.

Especially considering the only rush that excited me—the only thing that made me feel alive—was taking him on and provoking his wrath at every turn. I never shied away from his bullying. I didn’t curl up into the fetal position and take his abuse. Oh no, I always fought back. I made it a point of showing him he could never break me, no matter how ingenious his attempts were. My world could have been falling on top of me and I still would’ve mustered the strength to give him the same hell he showered me with.

And what glorious battles we had.

I thrived and yearned for them.

But not once did I think I’d lose the war.

It never occurred to me what his true end goal was—that somehow, against all odds, he’d be capable of stealing something as precious as my heart.

Like a fool, I gift wrapped it for him, naively believing that somehow it would be safe in his malicious hands.

He played the long game, I’ll give him that.

So much so, that right up until the very end, I never saw it coming—how deviously cruel his black heart really was or how calculating he’d been from the start to make me fall the way I did.

He played his part beautifully, and like a sucker, I fell for it.

Kudos to him.

He really did a number on me.

Because of the boy I once hated, I’d never be the same girl again.