Never Trust A Past Crush

Dominic charges ahead towards the restaurant. His pace is swift and with each stride, he practically doubles the length of mine. His posture is immaculate. Back straight, shoulders squared and not a single ounce of hesitation in his steps. You would never guess that five minutes ago, he asked for help with someone he likes. If anything, confidence rolls off him.

Meanwhile, I am forced to awkwardly jog after him like an underpaid assistant trying not to lose his internship.

It is painfully clear that Dominic couldn't care less what I think of him. My opinion of him is a fleeting blemish on his ego, like the mole on my lower back that only exists when it itches or when I am catastrophically bored.

I am the mole to Dominic.

The second we cross into the restaurant, the atmosphere shift punches me in the soul.

I look around at the refined, stylish décor of the interior. The lights are low and golden, casting everything in a flattering haze. The room has an elegant design. It smells like money and monogamy.

I feel… wildly out of place.

Did we walk into a couples night?

This place looks like a setting for grown up love. Everyone looks emotionally stable, drinking wine in slow motion. They probably all have matching insurance plans.

Yeah, I wouldn't mind this someday.

Me and my hypothetical husband coming here. The kids at home with their overpriced nanny while we toast to nothing in particular. I would lovingly smile across the table at my hypothetical husband. I haven't completely given up on love. Eight billion people in this world. Statistically speaking, one of them is probably built to love me the way I need.

Despite all the elegance, something is missing.

No sizzling pancake smell. No child shrieks as they run around. No stressed out office worker downing espresso like his life depends on it.

It's not the diner.

It's not home.

Standing in my sweater, adjusting my sleeves nervously, I can feel the confused eyes on me. Wondering which back door I sneaked in through. I look like I wandered off the set of a teen drama and crashed an invite only dinner party. Dominic somehow blends in. No judgement follows him even though he doesn't match the aesthetic, but because he radiates immunity.

I hover near the entrance awkwardly, expecting a waiter to scoop me up with a polite escort. That's what happens in movies, right?

I consider telling Dominic we might be in the wrong place. The fast food chain three blocks away could have been a better place for two teenagers. Meanwhile, Dominic walks ahead as if owns this entire establishment. Not a single glance at him. Only I am the one who gets the judgemental looks.

I hesitate.

"Um… excuse me!" the waiter calls, trying to inject authority into his voice, but Dominic doesn't even hesitate. "Sir, you cannot just walk in he—"

Dominic turns and gives him one glance.

Narrowed eyes, venom flashing just below the surface.

And the waiter falters. No, he evaporates. His words die mid-sentence, panic leaping into his throat and he murmurs an apology so fast it sounds like static. Then he vanishes back behind the host stand as if retreating to the only place Dominic's stare cannot reach.

I blink.

What just happened?

Did Dominic hex him? Speak a demon command with his pupils? Why did the guy fold like origami at a little scowl? Shouldn't a manager be storming out with a clipboard and asking us to leave the premises immediately?

The waiter briefly makes eye contact with me while walking, full of apologetic confusion.

I stretch my face into something resembling a smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. I am too stunned to reassure anyone or to play polite.

I hesitantly follow Dominic. My movements are slow as if I'm walking into a lion's den wearing a dead wildebeest around my person. I keep glancing behind me, half expecting the waiter to reappear with backup: maybe a bouncer. But no one comes. Just lingering silence and the ghost of confrontation.

Dominic chooses a booth with the ease of someone who knows he will not be stopped.

I slide in across from him and we stare like two conflicting energy fields separated by the polished mahogany.

"What… was that all about?" I ask finally, gesturing with my thumb toward the waiter.

"That doesn't matter," Dominic replies coolly, gaze glued somewhere between disdain and boredom.

"Um, it does matter," I insist, blinking. "That waiter looked like he had seen death incarnate. Are you allowed to just do whatever you want in here?"

He sighs dramatically enough for a curtain call. "My mum owns the restaurant and several others. Also, some hotels. Possibly a country club. That might be why I can do as I please. Are you satisfied now? Has your curiosity been sated?"

My nose wrinkles at the last line. "Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?"

"That weird insult thing you do at the end of each sentence. Like you have to finish every sentence with a punch to my ego. You could have just said your family is filthy rich and as a result, you're a spoiled brat."

"Spoiled bra—" he begins, but cuts himself off in the middle of his reaction.

Even with the impassive look that rests on his expression, I have already gotten the reaction I wanted.

The corner of my mouth curls into a satisfied smirk.

Gotcha.

He is not as stone faced as he wants me to believe. I have cracked the armour, just a little.

After taking in a deep breath, he brings back the façade of stolidity onto his face.

"Instead of asking irrelevant questions," he says, eyes locked on me earnestly, "why don't you focus on how to get the girl I like to like me back?"

I blink at the absurdity before cracking a grin. "Why can't you just do it yourself?"

He crosses his arms, clearly unimpressed. "Because I'm telling you to do it."

I lean forward in faux earnest. "C'mon, stop being such a pussy."

His head tilts, dangerously slow. "Excuse me?"

"Just do it yourself. I mean, with that vaguely boyish charm thing you have going on, I guess…" I pause, squinting thoughtfully. "Yeah, no. You are definitely getting rejected but fear not, kid. The silver lining to getting rejected is, you get over it pretty quickly… probably."

He glares at me.

"Look, rejection builds character. I mean, you might get lucky with the girl you like but more likely, you're going to get turned down. It might seem like something that would shatter your entire self-esteem until you realise who the person you're confessing to is."

His eyes narrow at me venomously as if to vaporise me with the power of pure disdain.

Unlike the waiter, I don't flinch.

After three years of being under his hateful glare in hallways and group projects, I have built an immunity stronger than any vaccine.

Before he can snap back, the waiter materialises, menus clutched protectively like shields. He's halfway to placing them on the table when Dominic waves them off like royalty dismissing peasants.

"Just get us two strawberry milkshakes," he says, clipped and rude as ever.

I shoot Dominic a sharp glare. "Rude much?"

He ignores me, staring off like this booth contains his every woe. Honestly, I miss the version of him that used to pretend I didn't exist in both seventh and eighth grade. That Dominic was irritating, sure, but this one comes with wild declarations like requesting favours from me.

And still… I can't believe I'm here.

If someone had told me back then that I would one day be sitting across from Dominic Lachowski, ordering overpriced milkshakes in a restaurant his mum owns, plotting how to get a girl to like him—I would have called them delusional. Or a poorly trained psychic. Therefore human.

The waiter practically bows but before he can retreat to the kitchen, I reach out on impulse and tug his wrist.

He stops mid-step, startled.

His eyes flick to mine then drop to the touch.

A sharp frown creases his brow.

I let go instantly, hands recoiling like I touched a stove.

Some people hate physical contact; maybe he is one of those people.

"Sorry," I mumble with an apologetic wince, scanning his name tag with squinted eyes, "Juanpa."

"It's alright," he replies, polite but cautious. "Did you need something, Sir?"

"Oh please," I wave off the title. "Call me Seong Jin or Starr. Whichever sounds less difficult. People usually go with Starr because apparently Seong Jin triggers their dyslexia… or their need to assume all Asian names are meant to sound exotic."

A silence thick enough to hang regret on falls like a curtain.

Both Juanpa and Dominic stare at me confused.

Juanpa finally clears his throat. "Okay… Starr?"

I nod. "Going with the safe route, I see."

Dominic sighs, arms folding with theatrical exhaustion. "Are you done flirting?"

"I wasn't flirting." I narrow my eyes at him. "Not everything that sounds like basic kindness is a seduction."

"Right," he mutters, staring off like the ceiling deserves more of his time than this interaction.

I swivel back toward Juanpa who is staring at me expectantly.

And my alarm bells go off. "Wait no, not that you're not someone worth flirting with. I mean… you are perfectly flirtable."

His brows hit a new altitude. "Uh… thanks?"

At his unsure response, my lips tug up stiffly and I slowly nod.

"I'm not gay," he clarifies.

"Oh," I say and then, "Thank God!"

I exhale like I have just disarmed a bomb and place a palm over my chest. That could have gone so much worse. I mean, yeah, that was still a disaster but at least nobody got offended by the statement.

The silence that follows is oddly loud, I swear I can hear a pin drop.

Both Juanpa and Dominic are staring at me like I just confessed to a murder. Eyes wide. Mouths hovering somewhere between horror and barely contained laughter. Their expressions are textbook, What just fell out of your face?

And for a brief moment, I am not entirely sure what caused it.

Until it hits me.

My words.

My eyes widen in horror.

"Wait, not thank God that you're not gay," I blurt, backpedaling like my mouth is on fire. "I mean, being gay is not a bad thing. It's fine. Totally fine."

There is a glitch in my brain that suggests I add something more to prove I'm an ally.

Unfortunately, it takes the form of, "In fact, I love all gay people and... sodomy. Completely."

Pause.

"What?" I whisper to myself, mentally slapping the steering wheel of my mouth. "I'm just gonna shut up now."

I fold myself into the booth like a collapsing tent, cheeks scorching and dignity evaporating.

Across from me, Dominic leans back with the smug air of someone who has just been handed a front row ticket to my spiral. "No, please. Don't stop. Watching you humiliate yourself is going to be the highlight of my day."

I resist the urge to lob a shaker at his head.

Instead, I bite my tongue so hard it might sue. Because engaging with Dominic is like poking a bear with a stick—mildly entertaining for him, fatal for me. At this point, I just want the awkward mission to be over and the comfort of my bedroom walls to wrap around me while I wallow in sorrow.

"I'll have chocolate ice cream instead of the milkshake," I tell Juanpa, trying to sound casual like the previous disaster monologue never happened.

Dominic, of course, cannot resist.

"Does this look like an ice cream parlour to you?" he asks, voice flatter than a pancake, his dead-eyed stare almost impressive in its apathy.

"Domi, keep quiet," I snap instinctively, the nickname slipping out like muscle memory. Eighth grade me used to say it with affection. Present day me says it dipped in sarcasm and mild loathing. "The adults are talking."

Something flickers across his eyes—a twitch, a shadow of something half-emotion before his usual storm cloud of indifference washes it away. I catch it. Almost. But he's already sealed it shut again in a vault with trust issues.

And suddenly I'm staring at him properly.

Puberty hit Dominic everywhere. He looks taller. His shoulders are broader. Jawline now has edges capable of cutting. Except his eyes. Those stayed the same. Still cold, still unreadable. Still the reason I was halfway in love with him before I knew what heartbreak tasted like.

Back then, I mistook his silence for depth. Mystery. Strength.

Now I know better.

Now I know Dominic's just emotionally constipated with excellent bone structure.

The waiter shifts awkwardly, trying to return this trainwreck back to the tracks. "Um… we aren't allowed to serve dessert without a meal," he says, clearly hoping I won't bite his head off for corporate policy.

I frown like he's just told me gravity was optional.

"But you can serve milkshakes?" I ask, baffled.

Juanpa glances toward Dominic for approval, as if he's waiting for permission to explain himself. This only confirms my growing suspicion that Dominic is some sort of mini-boss in this restaurant. Not quite Satan, but high enough on the hierarchy of leadership.

"Milkshakes are technically beverages," he explains quickly. "Made of milk, sweet flavouring, usually ice cream whisked until frothy…"

"Unnecessary info, but still stupid rule," I mutter, but my lips twitch when he laughs.

Juanpa is human, after all.

Until Dominic gives him a single look that drains every drop of joy from his expression.

Yikes.

Okay, so he definitely can get people fired.

All he would need is one pouty complaint to Mrs. Lachowski and Juanpa would be crying into a rejection email by sundown.

"If that's the case," I say, leaning into the ridiculousness, "I'll take one of those chocolate cold drinks made of milk, sweet flavouring and typically ice cream… whisked until frothy."

Juanpa chuckles again, scribbling it down. "Coming right up."

The minute he walks away, I turn to ask Dominic, "So, what were we talking about? Oh, I know. You were about to return my, very not yours, possessions."

"Not happening."

I offer a shrug, like his answer didn't just send a mini fury straight through my spine. "Worth a shot."

Beneath my façade of chilled nonchalance, I am fuming.

My sketchbook. My memory card. Property of me, Seong Jin Lee. Did he skip over every vlog ending where I literally sign off with my name like a digital autograph? Did he not read the cover of my sketchbook with my name printed in bold font as if it was screaming for its privacy to be respected?

And of course, the Edward portraits. The ones that are practically going to work against me.

"So, what?" I say, leaning into the table. "The girl you like doesn't like you back?"

Dominic shrugs, the gesture loaded with vagueness.

I squint and when I think about why I'm here, sitting in front of Dominic in this fancy restaurant, the puzzle begins to piece itself. "No, you haven't even told her, right? And that is why I'm here. To be your wingman."

He nods.

I drum my fingers on the table. "You know, you miss a hundred percent of the shots you don't take."

Dominic frowns like I just spoke Elvish. "What?"

"It's a metaphor."

His brow raises.

"You don't take the shot, you don't score the goal," I explain, feeling mildly offended that I have to unpack something that motivational posters have been screaming at humanity for decades. "It's basically sports psychology meets courage. Honestly, I thought it was a brilliant analogy."

Dominic rolls his eyes. "Please take a moment to evaluate what you're about to say next time you decide to open your mouth. Consider if it's smart or even remotely relevant to our conversation."

I flick my hair off my face. "You're bare rude, you know that?"

He doesn't respond.

"So… you haven't even told her you like her?" I ask, lacing my tone with disbelief.

"No," he replies flatly with no shame. Just Dominic being Dominic.

I squint. "Why not?"

"The only person crazy enough to like me is you."

"Liked… in the past," I correct adamantly. "Almost three years ago now."

His expression doesn't change.

I scowl at the fact that he's still pushing this agenda that I might still have feelings for him. I have definitely learned my lesson. I will never fall for someone like him again. He's the type to reject you with little to no remorse.

"Besides, your personality? Major turn off."

"Exactly," he says not even fazed by my insult. "How do we get my turn-off of a personality to get the girl?"

"Okay, first and foremost stop calling her the girl. She has a name, doesn't she?"

"Everyone has a name, Starr."

"So, do I. It's Seong Jin. No one calls me Starr anymore."

He shrugs in the kind of way that makes me want to un-shrug him.

Luckily, Juanpa arrives like a breath of fresh air, setting down our milkshakes—dark chocolate for me and pink strawberry for His Majesty. Dominic immediately takes a sip, and Juanpa waits like he's holding his breath underwater.

Dominic rolls the taste around as if judging a fine wine, then gives the tiniest nod.

Juanpa slumps in relief and tosses an "enjoy" at us.

Before retreating like a soldier discharged from the battlefield, I flash him a polite smile and offer a soft "thank you."

Then I take a sip.

And wow. 

Okay, this milkshake is sweet and rich in flavour, cooling every emotional burn Dominic has thrown at me today. I nod in silent approval as the liquid blooms on my tongue.

For a moment, there is peace.

"So, what exactly do you want me to do?"

Dominic leans forward like we're about to exchange top secret intel over milkshakes. There is a dramatic pause after he takes a sip of his drink, then a conspiratorial whisper escapes his lips, "Okay, the plan is—"

I cut him off with a squint and a raised brow. "The plan?"

"Yes, the plan." His tone carries just enough pretension to make me want to throw my milkshake at him—lovingly.

I sigh, swirling my straw. "Can't we just let the chips fall where they may? Trust the universe or let destiny do her thing? Plans are overrated. I read somewhere that they are like paper boats in a hurricane."

He groans. "No, we cannot let destiny do her thing."

"I think that quote meant plans are like trying to control the randomness of the universe," I reply dreamily, steamrolling his response. "Cause the universe is untethered and always trying to ream you."

"What are you even saying, you idiot?" Dominic stares at me like I just grew a second head. "Where the hell is your mind at, Starr?"

"Seong Jin," I correct him sharply, just as I sip the most euphoric burst of chocolate milkshake that has ever blessed my tongue. Somewhere in the distance, I imagine Franklin's diner crying softly.

Sorry, mate—there's a new milkshake overlord in town.

Dominic exhales through his nose. "We need structure. Instructions. An actual step-by-step strategy."

I pull the straw from my mouth and lick the delicious chocolate coating off the end, barely hearing him over the taste explosion. What did they put in this thing—liquid dopamine?

Then he tosses in his signature verbal knife: "Besides, with your intellect of an uneducated donkey, you'll probably need the instructions I'm giving you."

I freeze.

Slowly, I turn toward him, eyes narrowed. "You just did it again."

"Did what?"

"The snide little jab at the end. You can't help yourself, can you? It's like you're contractually obligated to insult me once per sentence."

He stares at me unaffected, pointedly gesturing to what I'm doing right now as evidence of me being a supposed, uneducated donkey. I pause for a second, considering what I'm doing but in the end, I resort to nonchalantly lifting my shoulder.

"You know what? Whatever. I'll follow your instructions like the dumb donkey you claim I am. As long as I get my possessions back at the end of the day."

"I'm glad we agree."

He then starts telling me his detailed plan about how he is going to get this mysterious girl to fall heedlessly in love with him. I sit through his telling, wondering how long it took for him to plan all of this because it's extremely detailed. Even going as far as having second contingencies if things do not go as planned.

At the end of his explanation, I'm watching him with eyes as wide as an owl's, shining with the mesmer of a child who has just been told the answer to the infamous question about the chicken and the egg.

I wonder if I had come up with a plan like his, would I have been in a relationship already? All I do is wing my confession and hope for the best—which inevitably ends with me getting rejected a hundred and ten percent of the time.

"How long did it take to perfect this plan?" I exclaim, somewhat impressed with the dedication he has to get the girl he likes.

"A few alterations had to be made last night since you're the only person willing to help me, but a few tweaks are nothing."

I glare yet again. "Willing is a far stretch, don't you think?"

"Yeah," he murmurs with a tiny smirk making the side of his lip twitch just a bit. "Don't you just love the person who created blackmail?"

"Well, that solely depends on what end of the stick you're on."

His brows flick up in intrigue.

"From your end, yeah, I would be grovelling and kissing his dirty, cobweb crusted shoes. From my end, I'd sooner spit on his grave and snatch every flower his family places there each month. Maybe even sell them off to local florists for recycling."

I remain silent, stopping midway sipping on my cold drink.

"I just realised how morbid and evil that sounded. Spitting on a grave, Seong Jin? Do you want to get yourself haunted?"

Dominic lets out a slow exhale through his nose, eyes gleaming with equal parts amusement and indifference.

"I think we've been spending way too much time together," I sigh dramatically. "Your behaviour is rubbing off on me."

Dominic barely blinks. "It's been less than half a day."

"Exactly. Imagine me in a month—dragging my feet around like a gloomy vampire in daylight, glaring at any creature that crosses my path and dares to breathe in the same air as me."

His expression goes full stone statue.

The message in his silence is crystal clear: You are not funny.

I beg to differ, though.

"Okay," I say, scooting my milkshake to the side to get into the thick of it. "If we're gonna do this, I need a name. Who's the lucky girl?"

He doesn't answer right away.

I take an obnoxiously long sip of my milkshake while he contemplates the weight of his crush. The thick, velvety chocolate flavour makes waiting almost bearable.

Then, finally he exhales. "Jodie."

I pause, straw still in my mouth.

"Jodie?" The name slips out with genuine confusion.

He gives a single, curt nod.

I sit back, thoughts scrambling. The only Jodie I know is… well, was my best friend. Back in primary school we were a chaotic trio, thick as thieves. But then tenth grade came swinging with drama and ingroup fighting, betrayal and my sudden hatred for Savannah. Somehow they got me kicked off the football team. I think more so Savannah. I know it was her even if she never owned up.

And when that whole war erupted, we split—me and Taylor on one side, Jodie and Savannah on the other.

"Jodie Dillon, Jodie?"

He nods again.

"The one in the same school as us?" I hiss incredulously, hoping that this is just some sick joke.

I'm afraid the possibility of that being true is very unlikely. Impossible unlikely, because Dominic isn't someone who partakes in the art of comedy. He's obviously being serious. I don't like that. I don't like that at all.

"Yes, you idiot."

I gape at him. "But isn't she like, you know… a little on the promiscuous side?"

"If you're trying to call her a proper sket and failing to sugarcoat it then yes, Jodie is a little on the promiscuous side. Honestly, I think that's the one thing about her that draws me in."

"You're taking the piss."

He stares at me blankly.

"Wow."

"What?" he replies, ignoring the thick coat of sarcasm in my tone.

"I'm just surprised, is all. I never thought that was… what you were into."

Dominic rolls his eyes.

"Look, I don't know if you're fully aware of this but Jodie is best friends with Savannah. And unless you somehow missed the memo, which I don't think you have since you mentioned it during the car ride over, Savannah hates me. Like aggressively, unreasonably, burn my name in effigy."

"So what?"

"Which means, by extension, Jodie hates me too. It's guilt by association, Dominic. She's not exactly gonna cheer me on if I show up waving pom-poms for your love life."

"You don't know that Savannah hates you."

"Savannah threw up on me last year and during the last football game the school hosted where they lost drastically, she dumped a whole can of coke in my hair. That stain didn't move for weeks. She obviously did it on purpose. There's no way to accidentally trip and raise your hand over my head and spill an entire can of coke in my hair."

"Oh, that's why you always wore a beanie or a hood for a week," he murmurs thoughtfully.

I blink in shock.

Why does he remember that?

"Also, the vomit fiasco? Everyone clearly saw that she was sick. It wasn't her fault that you were the nearest thing that looked like a trashcan."

"You're not funny," I state in a deadpan tone.

He lifts his shoulders up as if to appear adorable. He's not, and he's most certainly not funny.

"I cannot befriend Jodie. That's just pure madness. Savannah is gonna make my life a living hell."

He leans forward and suddenly the light tone in the atmosphere disappears, squashed by his dark, demeaning look. "I'm gonna make your life a living hell if you don't carry out this plan," he threatens.

"Wow, I never realised how evil you truly are until now," I say monotonously, folding my arms over my chest with a pout. "Hey, did you know that Dominic sounds a lot like demonic?"

"Did you know that Starr sounds a lot like smartarse?" he responds.

I frown in thought. "No, it doesn't."