Rosie Labrun is a lot of things: a college student on the cusp of graduation; an intern for the Portland Pirates, a romance novel connoisseur; and the most recent addition to her resume...the girlfriend of a professional athlete.
She won't let it d...
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I wish I were more loveable.
Like one of those girls you read about that has a hard exterior but once you break through her walls, all you get is a gooey middle center like a Cadbury cream egg. In my case, I prefer the Caramilk ones but I know most people go for Cadbury rather than caramel. And I don't mean those cheap caramel ones that you get in the dollar section at Target; no, I'm talking the brand name, Caramilk ones, horrible packaging and all.
I wish I were like them. Or even like Shrek; I'm like an onion, I have layers. Which I suppose is true - even for me, it's just that someone's more likely to be successful digging a tunnel to the center of the earth than finding out who I really am. Both in taking the time and being accepting of me.
I think Erik loves me. I know he certainly thinks he does. Does he, really, though? Does he know the ugliest parts of me - the ones that would not make my 2022 highlight reel or my self-proclaimed New York Times Bestseller book. And yes, I do say self-proclaimed because there's no way everybody and their dog's book, is a New York Times Bestseller.
Did you know that Indigo puts those sticker's saying Heather's pick because the owner or creator of the company's name is Heather? Neither did I. Well, neither did I, since I didn't face-check myself. But I did Google it and her name came up as either the founder or creator; so, there's that.
Anyway, back on topic - the topic being that I'm a horrible human being and not necessarily loveable. Horrible is a stretch because I'm not a murderer, or someone that would actually commit any sort of crime - unless it was slashing the tires of cheating ex boyfriend or burning their house down, because lord knows I would burn that shit to the ground if someone cheated on me after being inside me.
Like, I'm sorry, were the accommodations not to your liking? Did you not enjoy inserting your flesh into my donut hole and then thrusting in and out. And for the record, I am talking about my front-nether regions and not my back ones. I am not a backdoor player.
"Hey baby." The words sound like that of a frat boy looking to get some; coupled with the fact that someone's now wrapping their arms around my waist from behind. But I can tell from the aforementioned arms (more chiseled and veiny than my brain when I've been worrying for hours); and the smell (alluring and making me want to throw my bra on stage like someone at a rock concert), that it is, in fact, my boyfriend.
I can also see him in the reflection of the framed poster that I've been pretending to stare at for the last twenty minutes; but let's just pretend I'm like a sniffing dog that's just found enough clues to lead them to the culprit.
"I've been looking for you." He informs me, resting his chin on my shoulder and staring at me through the reflection.
I wonder if he can tell that I've been crying, bawling my eyes out in the bathroom like a little bitch. I've put myself back together, like a broken puzzle putting back piece after piece until my makeup looks semi-normal and my hair is about as average as ever. And once it was, I was prepared to conquer the world: talk to the catty girls, make friends with the stereotypical outcast of the group until we were laughing about them together, and kiss my boyfriend at midnight.
