Harper's Rules 1 & 2

Chapter 2: Harper

Love (n.): an intense feeling of deep affection.

Lust (n.): an intense feeling of deep sexual desire.

Hypothetically speaking, which do I prefer?

Preference is such a strong word. Let's go with which offers me the most amount of emotional self-preservation as a side dish to a main course of happiness?

Going on the first definition alone, my life's story was not a love story. I was no Jane Austen, Sylvia Day, or even Stephanie Meyer. Fuck, Jane Gooddall had a better romance story while she studied ape mating patterns in the middle of fuck knows where.

They say you never forget your first love though...

Giant ape isn't that far off either, but let me back up.

I wasn't even sure who the fuck 'they' were when people tossed out 'They say...' sayings. I always assumed anyone that vague gave their personal opinions without the balls to directly express them.

For 'their sake,' I'd never been told those 'You never forget your first love' bullshit words in person. For the best, since I would've punched - junk or ovaries, my equal-opportunity fists didn't discriminate - anyone who tried to tell me that I'd never forget 'my first.'

One side of my brain assumed that the phrase was contrived by some lackey in Hallmark Cards' creative department who tried to get laid by a girl out of his league. The other side of my brain interjected.

Fair enough. Do you ever forget your first crush?

So far, for me, the answer was a big fat fucking no. I wished with every sexually-charged cell in my body that I forgot my V-card holder. Every fiber of my being also wished he hadn't been my first kiss and every other fucking first that existed.

I hate him.

I hated his stupid face, his stupid shit-eating grin, his stupid muscles that rippled like water when his stupid body flexed and moved, and his stupid, stupid, stupid, cocky, arrogant attitude.

That might not be enough stupids to fully express what I'm aiming for here.

The problem was, I couldn't have walked away from this guy if I tried. Not even flashing my favorite finger gesture. Again.

Believe me, I've tried... to the point of a new phone, changed number, and my ass hauling out of town.

As much as I wanted to, shit as much as I needed to for the sake of all the motivational shit that self-help books and television evangelists preached on about moving forwards, I couldn't...

...because he was my best friend's brother.

How cliché. Like that story hasn't been told over and over ad nauseum.

Jake Fucking Harrison.

The thought of his name flooded mixed emotions through me. Not feelings, no squishy, high school crush pining happened in my body. Hindsight was my best bitch and I had enough baggage as a family that didn't believe in birth control. There was no way in hell I ever admitted the truth to Jake, but he'd done me a solid favor, stripping the junior high school fangirl emotions out of me.

He left me with the more colorful emotions that lingered up to today.

Anger.

Resentment.

Hatred.

Guilt? No, I'd done one thing that I felt guilty about. That was what I did to Jake's sister in high school, not him.