The One Where I Was Never the Villain (But Maybe the Monster)

Jessica

You think I'm the villain in their story, don't you?

Please.

You think I'm some deranged, psychotic ex with a God complex and a ticking biological clock, right? Cute. Really. I'd clap for you if I wasn't currently curled up in my condo with a glass of blood-red wine and a Google search open that says: "how early can pregnancy symptoms start if you're not actually pregnant?"

Yeah.

That's right.

There's no baby.

Not yet anyway.

(Don't judge me. That man is made of sin and serotonin, and I was stupid enough to let go back to him four times. Do you know how hard it is to find a man who makes you hate yourself and your therapist this much at the same time?)

Let me say this clearly, loudly, and with my whole damn chest:

I want Charlie Trentford back. And I'll do anything to make it happen.

That's not obsession, baby.

That's history.

See, I've loved him since I was thirteen — since I transferred to Brookhollow High and walked into Biology Class and saw him sitting there, all dimples and boyish grin and sunshine. And you know who he was sitting next to?

Her.

Carly Dorrington.

The "best friend."

The golden girl.

The pick-me who never had to say she was picked because Charlie had already chosen her before anyone else had a chance.

You want to know the truth?

I never hated Carly because she was mean to me.

I hated Carly because she was never mean to me.

She was nice. That annoying, high-horse, polite smile, perfect grades, secretly-competitive brand of nice. The kind of nice that looks you in the eye while she's beating you.

And the worst part?

Charlie never saw it.

He saw Carly as his person. His ride-or-die. His "I'll never fall in love with her because she's family" comfort blanket.

He saw me as the chaos. The fun. The girl who wore his shirt and left in the middle of the night and only came back when I missed him like oxygen. And he missed me too, every damn time, because Charlie's not a saint either. Let's not pretend otherwise.

He's a flirt. A fool.

Mine.

Until he stopped being.

Until she moved into his goddamn penthouse and started playing "domestic goddess" like she wasn't the one sabotaging every relationship he ever had.

And now you all wanna call me the problem?

No, sweethearts.

I'm not the villain.

I'm the result.

I'm what happens when a man keeps choosing the wrong girl, over and over again, while fucking the right one until she can't tell where her heartbreak ends and her insanity begins.

So yes.

I lied.

I told him I was pregnant. (God, his face… priceless.)

I said the words because I had to anchor him somehow. Because I know Carly won't forgive that. Not easily.

You think that's low?

Then you've never loved someone who kept calling someone else "home."

And just for the record...

I said there's no baby.

Not yet.

But you'd be amazed how fast these things can happen when a woman like me decides she's done playing nice.

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To be continued...