One
What even is this life?
Aria
May 2017
“What do you mean, he’s gone?” I whisper into the phone, dread filling my limbs at the thought of having to tell anyone else my secret.
Only three people in the world know what’s happening to me. Demi and Tate—my soul sisters. I’d make them my life partners if I swung for their team and they were into a more polyamorous lifestyle. They’re perfect for each other and I’m the odd man out, but they also happen to be the two best friends a girl could ever hope to have.
If I were smart, I’d take off and figure this shit out on my own. My girls will always know where to find me, but I’d really prefer if no one else could. Why did being responsible sound like the right thing to do here?
“I’m sorry A, I fucking hate this shit. Ireallydon’t want to be the one that tells you, but there’s not any other way to say it, he doesn’t want anything to do with you. I’m going to be completely transparent with you because I think you can do way better and deserve so much more with your life than settle on a loser with no ambition and no real goals other than getting laid,” the deep voice on the other end of the phone line states in a huff, clearly annoyed at being the messenger.
“I’ve been told to tell you that he’s gone. Look Aria, I like you—a lot—more than any girl Benji’s brought home in the past, so I’m going to level with you. This is his M.O. He dates a girl for a few weeks and then bails, usually leaving me to clean up the mess. If we hadn’t been friends since childhood, I’d have left his selfish ass behind a while ago. Fuck, I might anyway. I’m sick of being his scapegoat. He treats everyone in his life like shit so just… I don’t know, try not to take it personally, okay?” Jake, my ex-boyfriend's best friend and roommate lets out a humorless laugh as he tells me the bullshit my ex puts people through. What a selfish prick. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t know that but still…
“Look Jake, I’m sorry I called you. It shouldn’t be your place to deal with the dramatic aftermath of Benji’s bullshit. When he started blocking my calls and messages, I wasn’t sure what else to do.” I heave a deep sigh at how awful that came out. “Ugh, that sounded desperate and clingy, sorry. I swear I’m not hung up on him or anything. I definitely don’t want him back. In fact, I wouldn’t have even bothered to reach out at all except then I’d feel guilty and I really don’t need that on my conscience right now. I just felt like it was my obligation to let him know that I’m… well, I’m pregnant. I don’t need him, his money, or anything else. I just thought it was the right thing to do, you know? Anyway, I’ll let you go. Have a good life, man,” I say with as much confidence as I can muster after a seemingly endless ramble, then hang up the phone before he can respond. My body feels like it’s visibly deflating now that I’ve gotten that off my chest. I may not have told him, himself, but I did everything I could since he won’t answer his door or phone and he’s blocked me on all social media. Why are guys such assholes?
There I was, eighteen and stupid falling for the charms of this stereotypical bad boy at a pool hall one night while I was out with my friends. Sure he was hot as hell, but did I have to be so dumb that some tattoos and a couple of piercings really sealed the deal for me? Now look at me—about to be a teen mom. I’m going to be responsible for a whole other human being when I can’t even figure my own life out.
I hadn’t planned to go out that night so it’s not like I was dressed to kill or anything. I was only in my jeans and a hoodie. It had seemed like a miracle at the time that he’d even taken notice of me but, then again, I guess we were the only two outside smoking at that point.
“What’s a sweet girl like you doing in a rough place like this? Are you even old enough to be smoking?” he’d said to me with a cocky grin settled on his pouty lips. “Pfft… that’s what you’re going with, huh? A sweet girl?” I’d raised a brow at him in question before looking down at myself.
A ratty hoodie that belonged to my little brother covered my body. I was wearing my favorite torn up skinny jeans and my red lace up Vans. I’m nothing to write home about on a good day so I’d been more than a little skeptical when I knew I looked like a delinquent of the trashy variety.
I questioned him, but honestly even the healthy dose of suspicion I’d felt wasn’t enough to keep me from flirting a little bit. I’d craved the attention after a night of chaos and retribution. “And who are you exactly? Does the owner of this establishment require an age police? Need to check my I.D.?” I’d asked like a smart ass, not thinking he’d take me seriously.
“Yeah, actually. Why don’t I? I don’t exactly work here but I’m friends with the owner here and he’s not always the best at checking I.D. when he sees a pretty face.” He’d deadpanned.
Amused, I’d handed over my driver’s license and my grin broadened as he pretended to look it over with care before we were interrupted by the actual owner of the pool hall. “Hey Benj! Are you harassing my customers? I’ll kick your ass if I find out you’re scaring off this stunning little thing,” he’d threatened the guy holding my I.D., while giving me a long perusal with his gaze landing on my face. “There’s too much dick in this place. Don’t ruin things for all of us.” He’d grumbled, earning a smirk from ‘Benj’.
“Nah, you ain’t gotta worry ‘bout me Johnny. I’m just making sure Aria here is legal enough to be smoking these death sticks,” He’d joked and handed me back my I.D.
That particular night, I had just found out that my biggest secret—the guy I’d fallen for in our first year of high school and had a hidden relationship with off and on for years—had been talking about me at a few of the barn parties out in the backwoods past our high school, and not just casually mentioning us hooking up, no he was giving out details on how I liked to fuck. Someone caught him on video as he drunkenly droned on and on about the positions I liked and my preferred kinks.
Slut shaming is hard enough to deal with in a small town. Everyone looks at a girl who’s openly sexual as if it’s dirty. Guess what? It’s not. Men don’t reserve the right to hold a double standard in my face because they have a dangly bit. If men were really smart, they’d set their dick measuring aside and learn from the women because there’s nobody better to know a woman’s pleasure better than herself or another woman.
If I didn’t genuinely enjoy the ride and overall male body, I’d consider dating women. Lord knows, I don’t judge. Hot is hot and if the personality’s there then I’d never let society tell me I couldn’t date someone.
Most of the guys in my town don’t know their ass from their elbow, yet all of ‘em fuck around more than most of the female population. Of course that doesn’t matter because I was the one who’s name was getting thrown around that night, making it sound like I’d be down for any good ol’ boy to hit it and quit it.
He’d made half our class think I was easy, down to fuck whoever, whenever. Like I hadn’t had something special with him after takinghisvirginity. I felt so stupid and naive to think he was better than any other guy in this god forsaken town.
So I did what any scorned, love sick teenager would do. I’d taken my broken heart out for a little joyride to slash his lifted monster truck tires, created some tasteful art with some spray paint on his big beautiful black Chevy, then egged his house.
I won’t lie. It hurt my heart to hurt that truck, but I felt better knowing that he’d have to explain to his mama why her driveway said that her son was a filthy pig in bright red paint. Basically I was an asshole.
Afterwards, a few friends and I hit the city for some rounds of pool and to find some decent weed.
I’d crushed hard on Colt—the shit talker—since freshman year. He’s this massive footballer with a laid back attitude, wit for days and a crooked smile that made me weak in the knees. I’ve never been a clique type of girl, but I get along with most anyone as long as they aren’t dickheads. Colt was the beefy football god that I’d drooled over forever, definitely amongst the popular crowd. A regular good ol’ boy with broad shoulders, thick thighs and a damn nice ride. Which in his mind meant that we weren’t friends in public unless it was a casual hello as I spoke with someone from his group of friends. I was cool with it though. My ego probably took a hit subconsciously, but I never let myself dwell on it.
He had an off again, on again girlfriend but when they were off, him and I were getting it on. She was the innocent princess amongst the crowded halls of high school, and I was the dirty little secret. That’s me in a nutshell. Never someone to be proud of, always the girl you come to for some fun before the one you really want comes along. It’s in my genes. White trash just like my mom.
It all officially started at the fourth of July rodeo, our sophomore year and since we were finally seniors, it had been going on too long without a label attached. I mean, it would’ve only been fair that I’d have gotten some claim instead of staying some side piece, right? Apparently, that would’ve been too much though. Instead, he’d rather blab about our sex life to the entire senior class; essentially putting it out there that I’m down for whatever, whenever for whoever wanted it.
Excuse me, but hell the fuck no. I’m a fuck up in the highest regard. I know this. I smoke too much. I drink too much. I fuck too much. My school counselor tells me it’s because I’m desperately craving the attention I’m so obviously lacking at home. She almost called the cops my freshman year when she found out I was sleeping with a twenty-seven year old. I broke it off so that she wouldn’t, but damn was I sad to see him and his nice ass car go. Not many guys around here that are my age evenhavecars or know what the fuck a clit is. Even less so my freshman year.
