Chapter 2
What did he mean, "I can't keep messing around"?
Wasn't this exactly what he wanted?
He'd shaped me to his liking, molding an innocent girl into his on-demand wild thing—ready to go anytime he wanted.
And now he claimed he wanted clean and pure.
I wanted to ask: Isn't this all what you asked for?
I wanted to ask: What was I to you these past ten years?
I wanted to ask: Did you really never feel my love?
But I was afraid.
Terrified. Scared of hearing the answer I couldn't face.
Ten years of feelings, and it seems I was the only one taking it seriously.
We sat in silence, not a word between us.
He finished washing me, dried me off gently, then scooped me up and carried me back to the bedroom.
His eyes flickered with that telltale spark—he was getting in the mood again.
He leaned down, pressing me into the mattress.
I opened my mouth to say no, but before the words could escape, his phone buzzed.
He slapped a hand over my lips, shooting me a sharp look that said, "Not a sound."
From the other end came a girl's voice, sweet and whiny.
"Jackson, I've got a fever. Can you come over and take care of me?"
Jackson's reply was so sickly sweet it made me nauseous.
"Just stay home and wait for me—I'll be there soon. Be good!"
That "be good" hurled me back to our first time, when he'd murmured, "Be good, give yourself to me."
It also dredged up the memory of when I was the one with a fever, and he'd smirked, "Let's do it once; you'll sweat it out and feel better."
He scrambled into his clothes, not even glancing my way.
In ten years, this was the first time he'd ever ditched his desires midway—for anyone else.
Jackson rushed out, leaving with all that unspent frustration.
Once he was gone, my phone lit up with a barrage of his messages.
[These next few days, I'll be with Carissa, so I won't be back.]
[Go ahead and pack your things. Tell me when you're finished, and I'll come change the locks.]
[Make sure to clean up thoroughly—don't leave any of your stuff behind.]
[I don't want Carissa spotting anything and getting upset.]
[Other than that, if you need me to satisfy you or whatever, feel free to call anytime.]
A wave of bitterness hit me. After ten whole years, I was actually struggling to let him go.
I: [What the hell were these ten years to us, anyway?]
It took him ages to respond.
[Essie, we're not kids anymore. Adults, consenting and all that—you know how it is. But...]
Then another message popped up.
[We can still be friends.]
I stared at the screen, and suddenly I was laughing through tears.
I couldn't even imagine how we could possibly "be friends" after all this.
A girl's best decade, reduced to nothing but "consenting adults" and "we can still be friends."
That night, I curled up alone in the empty villa, sinking into the living room couch.
As I stared out at the pitch-black sky, my thoughts wandered back ten years.
To that evening when I was nineteen, clutching my textbooks.
Desperate to make curfew, I'd taken a shortcut through that dim alley.
The streetlights were out, with just a weak glimmer filtering in from a far-off convenience store.
"College girl, eh? Come play with us big boys?" The abrupt voice made my whole body jolt.
Six punks surrounded me, their leader grabbing at my shirt collar.
"Leave me alone!" My voice shook as I pressed my back against the damp brick wall.
"Keep harassing me, and I'll call the police."
"Ooh, feisty one."
A guy smirked, turning to his buddies. "I like 'em even better that way."
His hand crept toward my face.
I was trembling, scared out of my mind.
That was when blinding motorcycle headlights pierced the alley's entrance.
"A bunch of guys picking on one girl—you pricks have no shame?"
He was silhouetted against the glare. I could only see a tall figure dismount the bike, slinging his helmet casually over the rearview mirror.
He had this distinctive walk—shoulders swaying slightly, like a lazy panther stalking its prey.
The leader obviously recognized him, his bravado crumbling instantly.
"Jack... Jackson.... We were just joking around..."
Jackson—hearing that name sent a little jolt through my heart.
He was the star of the sports department, the campus crush from a loaded family, the guy who turned heads everywhere at school.
My roommates and I would always make excuses to stroll past the basketball court, just to watch him soar for those epic dunks.
His white T-shirt drenched in sweat, hugging his body and teasing the outline of his abs.
The girls courtside would stifle their excited squeals.
"Scram." One word from him, barked out sharp, and the thugs bolted like scared animals.
As he got closer, the alley light finally caught his face.