Second Chance Boyfriend

assumptions are rude. “I can’t afford it.”
    “I’ll pay for it.”
    “Hell, no,” I practically snarl. His offer irritates me more.
    Colin ignores me. “And while you’re at it, you should go see a hairstylist. I’ll pay for that too. There’s too much bleach in your hair and it looks damaged.”
    The nerve. This guy is such an asshole. Why did I agree to work for him again? Oh yeah, the money. Greediness is going to get the best of me, I just know it. It’s led to two really stupid decisions already. “Who are you? The fashion police?”
    “No, but I’m your boss and at The District we have certain criteria that we need to maintain.”
    “So why did you hire me? You knew what you were getting.”
    “I saw your potential,” he said softly. “Do you, Fable? Do you see it?”
    I couldn’t answer him. Because the truth wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
    No.
     
    Drew
     
    I’m in class though I don’t want to be. I took a lighter load after my supreme screwup of the fall semester. Why risk temptation again? I’ll have to make it up over the summer break by taking a few extra courses, but I don’t care. Where else would I go?
    Not home, that’s for damn sure.
    At least while I’m on campus, I feel somewhat normal. I can forget about my dad and Adele and what she told me. I haven’t spoken to her since the last time I called her and made her tell me everything. I barely talk to my dad either. He knows something’s wrong with me, but doesn’t push. I know something’s wrong with him too, and I don’t push either. What’s the point? Do I really want to find out what’s wrong?
    No.
    I move through the day like a robot, checking in and checking out. The longer I’m alone, the more in my head I get. Remembering I promised Jace I would go to Logan’s birthday party this Saturday fills me with a sort of panic I don’t like to focus on. I have to do this. Dr. Harris said I need to make like a real person again and she’s right.
    But it still scares the shit out of me.
    I’m in my communications class, which is huge, and there’s this girl who I sit close to every day. She’s short and petite, her hair is long and blonde and she reminds me so much of Fable, it’s almost painful.
    But I’m a glutton for punishment. I like sitting by her. Pretending she’s someone else, holding my breath when she turns her head in my direction, always ready to be surprised when I find out Fable really is sitting next to me.
    Dealing with the disappointment when the truth is revealed. She isn’t who I want her to be. No one ever will be.
    The professor is droning on but I’m not listening. I take out a sheet of paper and start writing. A letter I will never give a certain someone. But I need to pour my feelings out for her or I’m going to explode. Once my pen meets the paper they just flow and I have no control over them.
     
    Maybe it was a mistake leaving you.
    And I don’t know how to make it right.
    Regret fills me every single day.
    So much of it builds up I
    Hate myself for
    Missing you. Hurting you.
    And I want you to know I…
    Long for you
    Love you
    Others may come and go in our lives but…
    We belong together
     
    I stare at my stupid little poem that the girl I love will never read. I draw little squiggly lines around it. A cursive F , just like I was taught in elementary school. Her name. Fable. A story. A myth. A fairy tale. She’s my story. I want to live and breathe and die for her and she has no idea how much she consumes my thoughts. To the point I think of nothing else. I’d rather sit in class and write her love poems with secret messages in them than pay attention to what’s really going on my life.
    What a fucking mess I am.
     
    For a girl
    As pretty as she deserves the
    Best. No more
    Lies. She is my
    Everything.
     
    But I’m not brave enough to tell her. I stare at this new bit I wrote for her and disgust fills me. I’m not good enough for her. I can’t even tell Fable how I really feel about her to her face.
    “Are you a writer?”
    I glance up to find my pseudo-Fable smiling at me and I frown. Her face is all wrong. She has brown eyes. And she’s not as pretty, though she’s definitely attractive. I don’t know how I thought she looked like Fable. “What did you say?” I ask.
    She nods toward the piece of paper filled with my scribbling. “You’re not paying attention to the lecture. Are you writing a poem? It looks like one.”
    Sliding my hand over the