Remembering to Forget

Synopsis: What if the shy girl did get the rich, arrogant player? What if he fell madly in love with her and vice versa? End of story? Not when the guy can't seem to keep his penis tucked safely inside those ridiculously priced boxers of his...


I stared at him. Words wouldn't formulate and tears failed to produce. My emotions ceased to exist and my mind seemed frozen in thought. Only his words were magnified, for my ears to hear, my heart to bear, and my eyes to watch. His words were like lights on a Las Vegas strip, blinking over and over again in the confines of my mind.

"You cheated on me?"

The words themselves felt foreign.

"Cassie, baby," he sighed, rubbing a hand over his tired face. "We talked about this."

"Don't!" I shouted, causing even the eyes focused on the school god—now my cheating ex—to look at me. I blushed under the scrutiny of their gaze and ducked my head to hide the emotions brewing on my face; in between the crinkle in my brow was anger and confusion and the tiny, clear balls cascading down my face emanated my sadness to the world. "Don't call me baby," I whispered softly to him, though it came out scratchy and hoarse.

Even with my eyes on the floor, I could predict what his reaction was: he didn't care. He never cared. The world was simply a toy to him; he used it and manipulated it to his pleasure. I just happened to be the battery for the toy; the miniscule detail that allowed his pleasure to be fulfilled. Apparently, he found fulfillment elsewhere.

My body stiffened when I felt his large hands take grab at my lower back and bring me close to him. He always held me like that, encasing me within a protective shelter only he could provide.

"Baby," he sighed and internally I cringed. I'd told him not to call me that. But he didn't care. He never would. "This has happened before."

I winced. He'd cheated on me before. The first time, I found out because he was openly talking about it with his friends at lunch. I wanted to break up with him right then and there. But he lured me back; he always did.

"But I gave you what you wanted," I sobbed, clutching tightly to his fitted shirt. "Why?" I pleaded. "Why'd you still have to go and have sex with someone else?"

"Cass, it's been three months since we've had sex. I can go without it for three weeks at the max," he explained as if talking to a child who he expected in no way would understand.

He pulled back and wiped gently at my tears, occasionally kissing my bottom lip whenever I bit down on it. "I love you," he reminded me. "Not them. They're just easy fucks up for grabs. You, however, are mine," he stated fiercely. "No one else's."

He sealed that promise with a searing kiss, marking me as his and his only.

But I pulled back. "Not this time, Tristan," I whispered, turning around and walking down the hallway, my face red with humiliation, my heart still chained to his with love.

A/N: I redid this a little bit in hopes of getting it to motivate me to write more of this story as honestly I haven't been able to get it out of my head.