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As he handed me the plate of pizza, my focus shifted on indulging in the savory delight and any mess I made seemed inconsequential. When I immersed myself in food, I couldn’t care less about anything else around me.
“Hmm, this is good,” I moaned, my eyes closing.
“Don’t do that!” I heard that commanding, warning tone again and looked up at him curiously.
“What?” I asked, the pizza halfway to my mouth.
Ethan cleared his throat. “Nothing.” He picked up a slice of pizza and absentmindedly started drumming his fingers on the couch as he ate with his free hand.
“Have you always been this meticulous in your ways?” I felt the need to fill the silence before my mind wandered into dangerous territory.
“Meticulous?” He raised an eye brow as if unfamiliar with the word.
I scoffed, surprised by his reaction. “What? Has no one ever said that to you before?”
He laughed. “Maybe your brother. He has a knack for pointing it out.”
“He would, of course. It doesn’t hurt to follow rigid protocols. Have you ever tried that?” I couldn’t help but make a subtle jab at him. My brother James and I are quite similar, despite our differences. It was easy to see how Ethan’s methodical approach would stand out to James.
“I did try it once and it nearly ruined my life,” he replied in a deadpanned tone. The seriousness in his eyes indicated that whatever had occurred had left a significant impact. “I realized it’s safer to stick to a particular schedule and plan everything meticulously while accounting for any potential mishaps. According to my parents, I’ve been that way since I was little.”
Shaking my head, I realized Ethan’s meticulous nature was deeply ingrained in him, unaffected by external influences. “If it were only that easy for everyone. I didn’t figure out what I wanted to do with my life until two years ago.”
Furrowing his brows, Ethan responded, “But I thought you’ve always wanted to be a reporter.” He cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair appearing slightly embarrassed to admit that he knew this fact about me. “James mentioned it once.”
“Yes, until I was seventeen, and then someone said I’d make the worst reporter ever because my writing was horrible,” I snapped, the memory resurfacing vividly.
I had been so happy to show off my writing that day, even willing to share it with the person I had a crush on, thinking it would make me appear more mature in his eyes. But instead of the praise I had expected, Ethan had harshly criticized my writing, shattering my confidence. At that moment, I concluded that writing could never be my forte.
“What? Who said that?” He asked, his hand balling into a fist. His protective anger flared, ready to defend me. If only he knew.
Feeling a pang of sadness, I said, “My brother’s best friend.”
“Your brother’s best friend?” He gave me a quizzical look that soon turned into confusion. “I’m James’s only best friend, in fact, only friend. It might be hard for you to accept, but your brother isn’t as friendly as you think.”
“I know,” I replied with a bit of boredom.
It took me some time to realize that my brother preferred solitude over spending time with others. He found human interactions problematic and often couldn’t stand being around people. I mistakenly assumed he was outgoing, given the girls who used to call at our house, but it turned out they were only trying to get to him through me.
“You know, so who are you talking about . . .” Ethan trailed off as realization dawned in his eyes. “Wait, was that person me?”
Nonchalantly, I picked up another slice of pizza and nodded. “Yes.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “Me? Did I say that to you? Is that why you hate me so much?”
Ethan appeared genuinely shocked by the revelation, struggling to connect the dots. It was difficult to imagine him asthe person who had said those hurtful words to me years ago. He had changed so much, and it was evident that he had no recollection of that incident.
Well, the perpetrator never remembers the pain they inflict.
“Yes, it’s why I’ve harbored so much resentment toward you.”
8
Ethan
Her words struck me like a dagger in the chest, causing a surge of pain. Instead of the anticipated anger in her tone, all I heard was unmistakable pain in her voice. I had hurt her deeply for her to still carry this burden. If my words had affected her career to the point she was lost for four years, then I had truly wronged her, and her hatred was justified.
“Yes, that’s why I hate you so much,” she confessed.
