We were strange in love, her and I; too wild to last, too rare to die.
—Atticus.

When I told Ian to lose my number, I honestly didn't expect him to actually lose it.

I was angry because well, I had the right to be and I was sad because the bastard managed to get some action while I didn't and— ugh, he was just meant to call me a bit, okay?! And maybe text me too! Then I'd pretend to be angry by ignoring his calls and texts a few times and then, when he gets the balls to call again, I'd pick. Then we'd bicker for a while before I tell him to come over and then he will and then we'll do stupid stuff that couples in movies do before he finally helps me hakuna my nonexistent tatas with his bamboo stick.

But no. It's been two days and I haven't heard from the bastard. I've spent these past few days on my bed, eating tons of ice cream whilst ignoring the massive zits that have popped out on my forehead because of my ultimate sugar binge and lack of motivation to shower. I've also spent my time being productive by watching and criticizing episodes of Kaichou Wa Maid Sama!— a funny romcom of an anime that manages to actually make tears prick at my eyes rather than make me burst out in laughter.

I frown as yet again, Misaki Ayuzawa pushes away the sexy popular boy, Usui Takumi, that's been chasing after her. Oh, she keeps pushing him away while it's so obvious that she has deeeeep feelings for him but does she know that most boys don't try this hard? Does she?!

"You fucking princess!" I snap at the screen of my laptop and I shove another spoon of ice cream into my mouth roughly. "Your prince is so determined, no matter the circumstances or consequences! Do you know how lucky you are?! Stop pushing the boy away for fuck's sake! He might just delete your number then who'll be the one chasing, huh?"

A knock comes from my door. I don't look away from the moving fictional characters on my screen. "Go away."

The door opens anyway and the maid I don't like and also don't know her name aka Juliet opens the door. She looks a little bit timid and I bare my teeth at her. "What now? You want me to repeat myself? I said go away!"

She gulps. "There's a young man here to see you, Miss Anderson."

It's almost pathetic how my heart stops beating in my chest for a moment. "Does this 'young man' have tattoos?"

She nods slowly. "Yes–"

"Thanks," I say and I actually mean it. I scramble out of bed and quickly remove my sweatpants to wear a pair of random jeans on the floor. "Tell him I'll be down in like, three minutes."

Juliet blinks. "Oh, of course," she squeaks and then, she runs off leaving the door open.

I don't bother with her. I start to remove my sweat shirt. My face is a mess and my hair probably looks like some kind of bird's nest and— wait. I pause. I quickly pull my sweat shirt over my head again, wearing it.

No. No no no. This is my house. I have the right to look like poop. He can shove his opinions where the sun doesn't shine. And in fact, he can see what he's basically made me do to myself. Breaking out because of all the (smuggled) fat I've been eating and what not.

With a deep breath, I walk out of my room and take my time down the stairs. I finally make it downstairs and spot a bunch of maids running around to get stuff to make Ian more comfortable. Good. It'll give him the illusion that I want him to stick around for a long while. And then, I'll kick him out with his mouth full of éclairs.

I walk into the living room and pause as I catch sight of the person sitting on the large couch with a glass full of juice in his palm. I frown as our eyes connect and well... I'm disappointed. I'm supposed to be looking into wary blue eyes right now, not bright green eyes.

"Beau Eli," I murmur and my voice sounds dull to my ears. "You must have come to the right place at the wrong time and asked for the wrong Anderson. Father is at work."

He smiles slowly and stands up. He's wearing a black long sleeved shirt with black jeans and black combat boots. His neck is exposed, showing the world his infamous tattoo of a pair of guns and I can't help but curse the tattoos for causing my confusion and short moment of hope.

All in all, Beau Eli looks like the male version of me. Just prettier, of course. With dyed silver tips of hair and green eyes. And well, you know. French.

"I did come here to see you Scarlett Rose," he says with his voice sounding like a blender going through auto tune and I frown in distaste at the impromptu nick name. "You ignored my text so I decided to come see you myself."

I frown at him and cross my arms over my chest. "What text?" I pause. "Better yet, how did you get my number?"

His smile falters for a moment. "Um, your father gave it to me a while ago," he averts his gaze for a moment and I raise an eyebrow at the blatant lie. After a moment, he returns his gaze to me. "And I sent you a casual 'hey' about two or three nights ago. You never replied."

Oh. "I didn't know it was you," I offer as an explanation. "But why exactly are you here? Is something wrong? Do you want to personally ask me to model a new clothing line?"

Beau shakes his head. "No, no. Nothing like that. Just..."

I sigh as he trails off. I'm sure he's not feeling quite well. "I don't mean to be rude or anything... but I've got an anime and a bowl of ice cream upstairs that I want to get back to. All official meetings between you and I should be arranged by Father. To be more specific, my father should be the one you meet; not me."

Beau blinks. "But–"

"I'm sorry but you're going to have to leave," I sigh and I hope Father doesn't bite my head off for basically pushing a top designer out of our house. Without another word, I turn to leave and I pause as I see the number of maids behind me.

I raise an eyebrow at them. "Can you all disappear, please? Your services aren't needed."

They obey quickly. Stupid gossips. Father and I really need to have a talk about these maids.

A hand latches onto my arm and I quickly blink myself into reality. "At the opening of my fashion campaign, you asked me out on a date. So why are you pushing me away now?"

I pause and turn around to face Beau. "Sorry, excuse you? How did I ask you out on a date?"

Beau frowns. "You told me you'd like me to take you out for some beer after your 18th birthday cocktail party, never mind the fact that it's illegal. Isn't that code for seeing each other again?"

"It's code for small talk and being friendly," I correct him. "Sorry for giving you the wrong impression."

He eyes me slowly, frown falling slightly. "So... you don't like me?"

I chuckle and finally pull my arm away from his grasp. "Dude, I don't even know you."

He looks bored with my answer. "That's the whole point of a date. Getting to know each other."

I contemplate his words for a moment and take a really good look at him. He's skinnier than most guys but toned in a way that is almost impressive. He has a face with really delicate features and well... he's a pretty boy. Very pretty. He could be the poster model for pretty boys.

The only problem is that I find Ian Ross prettier.

But unlike Ian, Beau Eli is here, laying his heart out on a silver platter and while I won't be able to honestly accept it, I don't want to stomp on it either. I know how to appreciate a heart on a platter. Unlike some other idiots with tattoos for sleeves that I know.

Fuck, having a crush has made me so fucking nice and perceptive, it's almost nauseating.

I take a deep breath and look him in the eyes. "You're serious about this?"

"Well yes," he says. "I am here, aren't I?"

Good point. "Okay, fine," I say with a slight shrug. "Call me any time after I turn eighteen. You know. If you're still interested."

He looks dubious. "And what if by that time, you still aren't interested?"

"I'd still go," I shrug again and I gesture for him to follow me out of the living room and down the corridor so that he can take his leave. "One chance is better than none, right?"

Beau smiles at me and I'm forced to notice that he's just a tad bit taller than I am. Ian is taller than him. And... I shouldn't be thinking about Ian right now.

He's not calling me.

And I think I just have to accept it.

_____

Three hours after Beau and his proposal, I'm lying in bed, thinking. Because I think it's official. Ian is never going to call me. I'm not worth it to him. He said so himself.

I've been angry all these days, taking it out on myself. I have pimples for goodness sake. And he could still be at his place, fucking Brooke or Abril look-a-likes, not giving a damn about me.

...Maybe it's for the best. Our worlds don't really align, do they? He's a twenty two year old tattoo artist and I'm a girl that's about to live under the spotlight as soon as I turn eighteen. I live in Beverly Hills and he lives in Downtown L.A. We have different career paths that seem star crossed. We are star crossed. Maybe not calling me is the right thing to do.

Maybe I really do need to walk out of his life. For good.

Before I can really stop myself, I get up from my bed, pick up my car keys and jam my feet into my favorite pair of combat boots.

I have some things to do. A few loose strings to tie.

______

"Barbara," Jameel breathes as soon as I walk into his shop-gallery-studio. "Long time, no see."

I smile at the fact that he still thinks I'm Barbara Hart, the bartender. "Well, one of us had to reach out to the other," I joke as I pull out my wallet. "But I'm not here for you, unfortunately. I'm here to buy the painting of my dreams."

Jameel laughs. "I honestly thought you'd keep window shopping," he says and then, he stands, walking towards the painting. "It's $500, by the way."

I try not to choke on my saliva. "I thought you were the starving artist type."

Jameel gives me a coy look over his shoulders. "I fast. Not starve," he corrects me. "And would a starving artist be able to pay the rent for a studio this big?"

I shrug lightly. "Well, good for you dude. You made it."

He nods. "I'm no Michelangelo but yeah. I think I've done good for myself," he turns to face me and stares at me like he's about to gauge my reaction. "Ian too."

I try not to let the name get to me. "Think you can wrap up the painting quickly? It's getting late."

Jameel turns to look at the painting again. "Oh sure, of course," he hums. "By the way, are you and Ian still on speaking terms?"

I shrug. "Maybe," I answer, keeping my reply brief.

"Hmm," he drones as he finally lifts the painting away from the wall. "Interesting answer."

I tap my foot against the tiled floor. "I really do have somewhere to be, Jameel."

He nods. "Sorry. I just have to get my sales book. Record the purchase and get wrapping paper for the painting. It won't take long, I promise."

He drops the painting on the counter and disappears through the door to get his sales book and the wrapping paper. I sigh as the door slams shut and someone else opens the door behind me, running into the studio.

"Jameel," a voice says, sounding a bit out of breath. "I need tons of black paint right now."

I freeze because, unfortunately, I'm not deaf and I don't have amnesia. I know the voice. It's been replaying in my head for two days now, saying only cruel things at the back of my mind.

I'm still wearing my black sweat shirt and I didn't bother to try and conceal my pimples. I close my eyes tight. Fuck it, but where's Jameel—?

"Scarlett?"

I wince. Goodness, no. This isn't the right time for him to see me. But then again, not turning around may also make me seem like such a coward. And I'm not a coward.

Bracing myself for the worst, I slowly turn to face Ian Ross. He looks flawless as always; his disheveled dark hair falling into icy blue eyes. He looks delicious in only a pair of jeans and a white sleeveless T shirt and guess what? He doesn't have a single pimple marring his gorgeous face.

"Yeah," I say and my voice sounds huskier than usual. "It's me."

"What are you doing here?" he asks me.

"Buying a painting," I say curtly. "You?"

"Getting some free paint," he replies, shoving his hands into his pocket. "Um. You look good."

My face turns red from embarrassment. I'm wearing an ice cream stained sweatshirt and my face is breaking out, and he's trying to compliment me?

It's so annoying that Ian can make me feel even less about myself with just three simple words.

Jameel walks back into the studio, holding a wrapping sheet. "Okay, I'm b– Ian? Oh, don't tell me you're here to borrow some more cans of paint."

Ian scoffs lightly. "I'm not borrowing. That implies I'm gonna return them."

"I don't expect you to return these particular cans, you cock...erel," Jameel shrugs as he starts to wrap my painting. "You'll buy me new cans. And a new brush set, just because."

Ian breathes out a slight laugh and my heart twists painfully in my chest. "You keep dreaming about that," he says and then, he brushes by me in order to walk to the counter.

Jameel rolls his eyes fondly and squats under the counter, coming up moments later with three small buckets of paint. He bangs them on the counter and Ian quickly picks them up by the handle.

"I don't know why you're painting again," Jameel says. "Who are you even painting for? And how much did they offer you? You specifically told me that you hated painting because you always stain your clothes and you're going to concentrate on drawing from now on."

Ian sighs. "Some people are worth more than a few stained clothes to me," he says. He glances over at me pointedly, almost like he's trying to convey a message and I quickly avert my gaze. My heart is beating loudly in my ears again. I try to ignore it as I eavesdrop.

"I told you that all I wanted for my birthday was a painting from you and you went to someone else's art show and bought a painting for me," Jameel drawls, tone flat.

"The painting did come from me," Ian points out with a slight chuckle. Then he sobers up and turns to walk out the studio, stopping for a moment, directly beside me. "And like I said, some people are worth more than a few stained clothes to me. And then some."

I can feel his gaze on me; heavy and intense but I can't find it in myself to look at him. With a sigh, he finally leaves the studio and my body instantly relaxes. My heartbeat doesn't.

Jameel sighs fondly. "I adopted a complete buttock for a best friend," he says and then gives me a suspicious look. "Barbara. Are you okay?"

The question fuels something in me. With measured steps, I walk towards Jameel and slam $550 on the counter. It's a generous tip. "My name is Scarlett Anderson, not Barbara Hart."

Jameel pauses. "Pardon?"

I grab the painting off the counter. "I'm a seventeen year old high school student. Not a bartender. I don't mix alcohol with anything unless it's at a school dance and I want to spike the punch."

He blinks again. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I'm sorry," I add as a way to comfort him. "Thanks for the painting."

Without a backwards glance, I walk out of Jameel's art gallery slash studio with just one of the only things anchoring me to Ian Ross' life.

To be edited.
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