8. Nate
Asher Hartford had been a pain in my ass since I was sixteen.
Not only had he plagued the mind of every girl in my high school, meaning I couldn’tget through a single lunch hour without hearing his name being whispered in every corner of the cafeteria, but he had to take it one step further and steal away the only one of those girls I actually gave a shit about.
And just who is the asshole who ruined my life? Just another one of Hollywood’sleading men. He had been since he was fourteen.
It would have been fine if Asher had stayed as the boy on the billboard I saw everyonce in a while, or the name I heard being giggled at lunch. If he’d remained this figment of a movie star, then things between me and Addy would have probably turned out differently.
That was until they both got cast in a coming-of-age movie where they played loveinterests.
His stupid face had irritated me from that moment onwards, like it’s doing now, as Istare out the window of my car, zeroing in on the bus ad that has that same stupid face, but with more facial hair and less acne, stretched across it.
I avoid looking at his hair because, for whatever reason, it’s always been annoyinglybright and yellow, and I’m afraid I’ll go blind if I look at it for too long. The same goes for his eyes; piercingly blue and slightly horrifying. I bet if he opened his eyes in a pitch-black room, you’d be able to spot him with no problem.
I couldn’t stand the guy. And that rarely happens to me. I rarely meetsomeone who I instantly don’t like. But Asher… I knew he was a different kind of asshole the second Addy invited him to one of our dinners at the tiny taco place we went to every month, and he opened his mouth.
For a moment in time, somewhere between our awkward introductions and scatteredconversations, a part of me thought that he was like me. Shy, anxious, wishing he was as confident as the guys he was on camera. Part of me thought I recognised that mask.
Being the way I am, it takes me a while to get comfortable with people. After thewhirled-up dust of hurried introductions settles down, I’ll warm up, find my groove and slip into that classic Nate that everyone loves so much.
Which is all an act, by the way. That devilishly charming guy is just a side of me I can switch to with ease now, especially because being introduced to new people is a daily thing now. The only time I can be the real version of myself is when I’m around people who know about The Other Nate.
That night, I thought I was in the presence of The Other Asher.
It took until the moment Addy left the table to get our drinks for me to realise thatthere was no Other Asher. He was just a dick.
Part of me hoped that he’d become a forgotten child star. That his career would peakduring that movie with Addy, leaving behind only the memory of the one-hit wonder kid. And that would be that: the end of Asher Hartford and his stupid face, rude mouth and demon eyes.
But the bus ad that’s promoting the new period drama movie he’s starring in should bea giveaway that what I wanted to happen never did.
We’d crossed paths from time to time, at premieres or award shows… but on thetimes he spotted me, I knew he didn’t truly recognise me. He didn’t see the timid teenager who’d sat across the booth from him while he ogled Addy as she ate her soft shell taco. He saw The Other Nate, the famous one. He saw the guy on the screen and then proceeded to swoon over me and shower me with praise for how much he admired me.
“You gotta teach me your way, dude!”I’m sure he’d spoken to me at some point.
I wanted to laugh at how ironic it was that he said he basically wanted to be me. For along time, after his movie with Addy had premiered and I found that Polaroid of them together, I’d wanted to be him too.
I wanted to do a lot of other things to him but…
I swerved my head in the other direction, switching on the blackout effect on thewindows for extra protection.
Ten minutes later, I was back in my apartment, the familiar feel of the place doing itsjob today, the tension in my shoulders melting away as I strode into the kitchen. I was back in the comfort of my living room before I knew it, sitting down with a quick pasta dinner I’d whipped up before switching on the TV and settling into the couch cushions behind me.
“And in entertainment news, three-time Oscar winner, Asher Hartford, has justannounced that he will be joining a star-studded cast and starring in the—”
Get fucked, I think to myself, switching off the TV as I’m mid-bite, several strands ofspaghetti hanging from my mouth, a groan escaping through them.
Why was he everywhere today? I’d avoided seeing his face and hearing his name forat least a few months, but in the space of a day, it was like he was waiting for me everywhere I turned. I didn’t like it.
I ditched the rest of my pasta, quickly washed and dried the bowl, and decided to hitmy gym for a while and work out the stress I could feel slowly building up again. I know if I ignore it, those feelings will double and triple, and before I know it, I’ll be doing my regulated breathing exercises in a light and airy room until my panic attack has passed.
I throw on my black shorts and grey hoodie, slip on some running sneakers, and hitthe elliptical in my gym room. I turn on the speaker, scroll to the workout playlist I made years ago, and get going. But after twenty minutes of letting my eyes go fuzzy while the muscles in my legs, and my back, were all pulled and strained, I realised it was going to take a lot more than basic exercise and a naturally lit room for whatever was creeping its way into my thoughts to disappear.
Those feelings were being stubborn fuckers and staying put.
And I knew why.
I flop down from the elliptical steps and catch my breath, shaking my hair free frommy face while using the towel that’s resting on the handles to swipe at my sweat-ridden face. My feet drag me out of the gym and down the hall, ignoring the slate grey clouds that were starting to roll in over the city through the windows, keeping my eyes laser-focused on the door to my office.
I rarely ever go in here. Unless I have an online meeting or need to fetch somedocumentation, I never step foot across this door, leaving it sitting here, empty and in darkness.
I flick on the lights, ignoring how musty the room smells, and fix my eyes on the boxthat I came in here to get. The light above me flickers, giving me an idea about the last time I came in here, as it casts a dim and dull light over the dust-covered shoebox. I reach up onto the top shelf where it always sits, where it will likely sit for another few months after this, and pull it off, dodging the waterfall of dust that comes with it. My eyes squeeze shut to block it out, being careful as I move back and head out of the office and head for the lounge.
More dust coats my fingers as I place the box down on the coffee table, the sweat thatremains there forcing me to shake it off on the ends of my shorts. The room was just as dull as the office had been, what was clearly a storm starting to shower over the whole city, that pelt from the rain against the windows gradually building speed.
My knuckles graze the wood as I lay it down, before pulling out a stool and sitting with it. Ido this every time I bring this box out of its resting place, stare at it for a while, and contemplate why I even keep a hold of what’s inside it.
It should do me no good, to keep it. If anything, it only makes my heart hurt more. Itbrings up all the pain and suffering I went through and makes me relive it all again.
Sometimes I think it would have been easier if I’d seen it happen in real-time, beenthere to witness what had caused my journal to become filled with the same retelling of the same dream I’d be cursed with. At least then I would have forgotten things. Time would have done its thing and warped the memory until I had to question whether what I‘d seen had been a dream.
But I know I keep it for a reason. I keep it to stop myself from going through that hurtagain. A physical reminder that can’t be forgotten. Something real.
I keep it for days like today, when I catch the girl who broke my heart staring at me from dark corners, which ignites my soul and bubbles up the feelings I still have for her. I keep it for when our conversations become friendly and just one too many pleasant smiles are exchanged.
I keep it to stop myself from falling in love with her all over again.
Inside this box is the Polaroid of Addy and Asher. Kissing. The one I found on a random afternoon at Sunfall. The day she told me she didn’t have feelings for him, and that their relationship was purely platonic and strictly professional.
I believed her until I saw this. I want to believe her every time I dream about it too.
I shake off the lid, minding the cloud of dust that floats off it, and my eyesimmediately lock on to the picture. Unlike if I’d seen them kissing with my own two eyes, the only way time could damage this would be how it’s fading, how the corners have yellowed, ageing it. I could still clearly make the two of them out.
Asher faded into the background easily; he wasn’t a priority. My eyes only wanted tolook at her. I could recognise that ball of wavy flames anywhere, even with the watermarks that were now melted onto it.
She had on a blue cotton dress, which always made her hair pop and little ballet flatsthat had tiny bows on the front. She truly was a firefly. My Firefly.
“I kinda dig that.”is what she said the first time I called her that.
I feel a tightness start to form in my chest the more my eyes stay on her, my nerveendings dipping in rage.Even though I could recognise that face anywhere, pick out that wild hair from anycrowd, somehow I can’t remember her.
As I run my finger along the left side of the photo, where she was sitting, I can recall just how much seeing this for the first time hurt me.My heart sank to a depth I didn’t know was possible. The tears that breached my eyesstung. My arms went weak, like what I was holding weighed the same as the earth.
It was always in the back of my mind that I was crazy for thinking she had feelingsfor a boy like Asher. He was rude, arrogant, and someone who she called a ‘jerk weasel’ the second he left the restaurant that night. I’d casually asked her once or twice whether he was her type, to which she replied with a scoff or ‘hell no’, easing those doubts that had no right to even be in my head.
But seeing this? It took me back. It made me question and second-guess myself into afit of panic. Through the burning in my chest, I asked myself whether I’d been too in love with her to see who she really was, whether she saw me as more of a friend, whether I’d been stupid to assume we could be more friends in the first place—
I slammed the lid back on the box, and without thinking, I stormed out of the room,taking the damned box with me and returning it to its shelf.
And for the first time since moving in here, I locked the office door, lodging the keyunderneath it, forgetting it ever existed.