The act of hating – no, fucking loathing Dean Collins. (Yes, I’m well aware that’s not the actual definition, but it might as well be...)
It’s been ten years since we've seen each other and the feelings are still as strong.
I’m not going to bore you with all the details of how our love was once intoxicating, consuming, and perfect.
Because it was . . . until it wasn't.
I've been fine without him. I haven’t missed his cruelty, his coldness and his spite.
And after the ugliest breakup in the history of breakups, I forced myself to move on.
Year by year, the feelings I had for him slowly drifted away, but one encounter with him recently changed everything. One encounter made me realize how the heart doesn't forget shit, and how my mind is going to have to work overtime to make sure I never forget my definition of resentment.
“School spirit isn’t really my thing. No offense, but…football isn’t either.”
He laughs, and I suddenly realize that the two of us have never talked about football during our sessions together. In fact, whenever I’ve brought it up, he’s changed the subject to something else.
“Well,” he says, letting my hand go. “You should come for me instead.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“I mean, since you’re not into school spirit or football, but you’re clearly into me, you can make an exception and come tonight.”
“You’re getting quite presumptuous lately.” I put on my best poker face. “Do I need to help you with that definition?”
“Not when I know the true word you’re looking for is cognizant.” He grins, stepping back. “I hope to see you tonight.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I’m sure you always do.” He gives me a look so sexy that I almost melt into the floor.