It’s Always Been You (Complicated Us Trilogy #2)

CHAPTER ONE

Riley — 16 years old (Sophomore year)

The moment Jasper rolls over, I practically jump off the bed and blindly grab for my jeans. This isn’t what I was expecting or thought it would be like.

Every girl dreams for their first sexual experience to be romantic and special, right? Okay, fine. It doesn’t have to be romantic or special. Those things are reserved for books and movies, apparently.

But the sex is at least supposed to make you feel good.

This was just…disappointing and painful.

“So, happy birthday?” Jasper says, his words laced with amusement. “Give me another minute, and I’ll be ready for another round.”

Another round? What? It feels like my whole downstairs area is on fire, and he wants to go again?

“I’m a little sore,” I respond begrudgingly.

He turns on his side, regarding me with a lewd smile. “Yeah? Well, the first time is supposed to hurt anyway.”

It’s only supposed to hurt this much if I’m not fully prepared, which means that Jasper didn’t even bother making sure that I was ready for him. Sure, this was my first time, but I’m not completely uneducated on the matter.

I read romance books; I watch porn — so I knew what to expect.

My thighs rub together, and I wince at the painful twinge that comes with the friction. I so did not imagine my birthday sex would end up like this.

Once I’m dressed, I grab my wallet and phone. “Do you mind driving me home?”

His eyebrows furrow. “Home? I thought we were spending the day together.”

Jasper convinced me to skip school today. It’s my first time missing class since the academic year started. But he coerced until I relented. It’s your birthday. I planned something special for you.

His something special was this — bringing me to his parents’ cabin and birthday sex. Taking my virginity was his birthday present to me.

It’s not like I was expecting roses or a cake; Jasper isn’t that type of guy. But this has been underwhelming, to say the least. I missed my classes for shitty birthday sex.

“Yeah, and the day is ending. I have to be home soon.” I exhale slowly as another dull throb thuds in the back of my head. This tells me I need to get someplace quiet and dark to ride out the dreadful storm in my brain. The pain would soon ebb into a lonely haze. Because my headache comes and goes. “You know the rules.”

“Jesus, you’re sixteen now. Your curfew is still 7 p.m.?”

Of course I still have curfew. I probably will for the rest of my life.

Parenthood is the ultimate power trip for Thomas and Nora Johnson. They dictate every aspect of my life. What I eat, how I speak, who I talk to, how I dress, when I wake up, where I go, when I sleep. It’s a tight leash they have around my neck, and it’s something that I’ve involuntarily grown accustomed to.

My lack of freedom.

The only reason they allow me to date Jasper is because his father is the Chief of Police. Thomas Johnson wants to have a connection in every corner of the state, maybe every corner of the damn country. Me dating Jasper benefits my dad, therefore, for once, I’m doing something right in my life.

Something beneficial for the family, as my mother would put it. That’s the responsibility of a Johnson, as the only child of my parents: to be of use to them.

So, here I am.

Giving Jasper the one thing he has been after since we started dating.

My virginity.

To please him, to keep him around — so I can please my parents.

“My mom is practically my manager. I’m a busy girl, what can I say?” I give Jasper my best pageant smile and my face almost cracks under the weight of it. “You will soon be dating Miss New York Teen USA. Having me as your girlfriend has its perks, doesn’t it?”

Jasper makes a show of looking me up and down, but by his expression, I’m not sure if he is liking what he sees, or if he’s judging my body. Does he see my imperfections the way I do? “You’re so sure you’ll win?”

“Of course I will.”

I always win. It’s not arrogance; it's merely a fact.

I have never lost a pageant since I was one year old. My mother was a pageant queen turned actress, and now she’s a politician’s wife — the definition of a trophy wife when she got married to my father. Nora Johnson is obsessed with beauty and being the center of attention.

When she started to lose the fame that came along with her beauty, I became the avenue to her obsession.

I rub my temple, where a headache is forming. “Are you going to drive me home or not?”

“It’s not like I have a choice,” he grumbles under his breath. “You’re coming to the party tomorrow night, right? Don’t be a bore and cancel on me, Riley.”

A birthday party that Jasper is throwing for me. Because his parents are out of town and he has the house to himself. The perfect opportunity to have a party.

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it for anything,” I affirm, my voice filled with fake excitement. The smile is still plastered firmly on my face, and I worry it will crack any second now. The pain between my legs throbs insistently. “Let’s go?”

***

I wave at Jasper as he drives away, and the moment he is out of sight, I practically run inside. They say the person you love is supposed to bring you comfort, make you feel good and safe. But right now, I just want to wash him off my skin.

His smell invades my nose, and I want to gag.

So I guess this confirms it.

I don’t love Jasper. I never did.

Sure, I “liked” him enough to date him, but this can’t be love. This is not what I read in my books — the overwhelm of love and adoration — and today confirmed it.

I don’t know if it was his lack of care toward me today, or him fulfilling his selfish needs without making sure I was okay. But today has left me with more than one uncomfortable feeling.

Jasper isn’t always attentive, but he’s usually sweet.

The Jasper in the cabin was being extra-convincing, but the actions accompanying his words were completely different. Careless and unpleasant.

Insensitive.

“Riley, your dinner is ready,” Miss Miller calls out from behind me as I run up the stairs.

Pausing on the last step, I turn to face the housekeeper. Olivia Miller is a tall, middle-aged woman. Her reddish hair is piled up on top of her head, in a tight, sleek bun and her dress has no wrinkles. She is the perfect image of immaculate and flawless. She was forty-five when she first started working for us, and at first glance, I thought she was a sweet, kind woman. That impression barely lasted a week. Now, ten years later, I can reaffirm that Miss Miller is simply my mother’s shadow. Her smile is sweet, yet empty, but her eyes — it’s always been her eyes. They have no trace of warmth in them.

“My parents—”

“They’ll be home late,” she answers stoically before I can even finish my sentence.

I nod. “I’ll have dinner in my room then.”

I don’t wait for her answer before walking away. Once I'm in my room, I rush to the bathroom and lock the door behind me. I practically tear off my clothes, and in my haste, I stumble into the shower. The water is almost scorching, but I can’t bring myself to care.

Scrubbing myself with urgency, I don’t stop until my skin is red and sensitive to touch. Then I wash between my legs, where I’m still sore and hurting. I stay under the spraying water until it turns cold, and only then do I shut it off and exit.

After toweling myself dry, I walk toward my full-length mirror and step on the scale naked. I never weigh myself in clothes. I need the numbers to reflect exactly what I weigh, and clothes could potentially deceive that. My heart thuds in my chest, and my body quakes at the idea of looking down at the neon numbers on the glass scale.

It’s okay, I just have to look down.

My flesh rises with goosebumps as the cool air caresses my skin.

I can’t do it.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a deep breath and hold it. My lungs expand, and I hold in my breath until dizziness fills my head, making me unsteady.

Only when my body starts swaying do I exhale and then take another sharp inhale, practically thirsting for oxygen.

I cautiously peek down, and the numbers on the scale have me choking back a sob.

No.

How is this possible?

Tears fill my vision, but I keep staring at the numbers until I can’t see them anymore. How did I gain two pounds in a day? I barely even had two bites of food yesterday. I haven’t eaten anything today either.

How? HOW?

Two pounds is too much. No, half a pound is already too many. I’m supposed to lose weight, not gain. I’m supposed to be the perfect weight for the pageant this summer.

My mother always said that people don’t see what’s on the inside.

They only see the outside, the image of us and what we present ourselves to be.

We are heavily analyzed by our words, as well as the shape and size of our bodies. We are judged, scrutinized, and dissected. We’re nothing short of animals in a lab. It’s simply human nature, isn’t it?

What do people see?

The vessel that carries us, the body that breathes, the shell that walks.

That is what they see, and this is my value.

Somewhere in the back of my head, I recognize how wrong this is. But I am consumed with my obsession — to be perfect. To look perfect.

I am my mother’s daughter, after all. People look at me, and they see someone in control. The personification of beauty, and apparently that makes me worthy.

This is my value.

My eyes catch the reflection in the mirror. My reflection — my pale body. Am I bloated? My stomach looks slightly distended. My waist is bigger, and my thighs appear thicker than yesterday.

And my breasts. They are not perky — no , my boobs are too large, too heavy, and the slopes are disproportionate. There’s nothing attractive about my body.

My flaws glare back at me through the mirror, and I fight back a gag as pure disgust courses through me.

What’s wrong with me? Am I not exercising enough? Not purging enough? Am I not controlling my urges enough?

What people see is the perfect facade I’m showing them. A pretty illusion of what Riley Johnson is. In reality, my value is that of a disintegrating butterfly. Worthless and grotesque.

My body is a sinking ship, and I am drowning in the wreckage of it.

I step off the scale, avoiding the mirror. Mechanically, I get dressed and walk back into my bedroom to find a tray of food on my nightstand. A tray of perfect portions of food. With exact calories and proteins that my mother instructed Miss Miller to give me.

My mother controls every bite of food that I take — or so she thinks.

In goading silence, I shove the food in my mouth. Knowing exactly what I will be doing afterward. The laxatives in my nightstand are practically mocking me.

I barely taste the food, barely chew, just forcing everything down my throat with the help of water. Once my tray is clear, I grab the small bottle of pills from my nightstand and find my way to the bathroom.

This is my value.

Worthless and grotesque.