Anyone But You

Chapter 1

There are five things you need to know about me. Well, maybe there are more in the grand scheme of things, but let's go with five for now. It's a nice, round number.

1. My name is Amantha. No, this is not a mistake, my mother did not leave off the 'S' whilst deep in a pethidine-induced, post-birth daze. She honestly thought it was a good name. It is not!

2. I don't like weddings. 'Like' is perhaps a slightly too mild-mannered word for my feelings. Let me rephrase; I hate weddings! The reason for this will become clear soon and has something to do with the 4th and 5th things you need to know about me.

3. I do not, I repeat, do not wear dresses. Not since a rather unfortunate and seriously mentally scarring childhood incident, again, which leads me to the next two things you should know about me. And probably the most important things to know...

4. I loathe and detest Jack Emory. Who I hear you ask? Allow me to say that again...

5. I loathe and detest Jack Emory!

Now, why is it important to mention all these things now? In this moment? Well, allow me to illuminate you. Because here I bloody was! At my sister's wedding, wearing a long pink dress that I kept tripping over, staring at my perfectly written name in curly calligraphy on the flower-laden table next to that other name...

Jack Emory!

Perhaps it's prudent to tell you why I hate Jack Emory so much. Picture this: a snotty, dirty little Kindergarten terror called Jack who teased me relentlessly and chased me around the playground. Who stole my lunch, threw sand in my face and made me cry more times than I can remember. I'll never forget the time we were all learning about the 'S' sound. He ran up to me and pinned an 'S' on my shirt, in front of the whole class because 'he thought I needed it.' The whole class had laughed hysterically, even the teacher. And from that day forward people had called me Samantha without an' S'.

Then there was that time in awkward middle-school when he'd put a lizard in my lunch box, and told the nerdiest guy at school that I had a crush on him. Things just went from bad to worse until high school rolled around and I accidentally tripped in front of him, exposing my entire pantie covered ass. I still feel embarrassed when I think about it.  I stopped wearing skirts that day! 

And then there was our senior year, when we'd gone to a mutual friend's parents' wedding and had accidentally kissed. I know what you're thinking, how can one accidentally kiss? Well, there had been vodka. There had been something that was definitely not a cigarette now that I think back on it, and once more, I'd lost my footing and tripped. I was clumsy back then, before I'd fully grown into my height, all six foot of me. I'd almost fallen on my face but Jack had caught me. I wrapped my arm around his neck to hold myself up and our faces had collided and that's how it had happened. Like I said, total accident. But as soon as I realised what was happening, I'd pushed him off and ran away. But on Monday he told his friend that we'd made out on the weekend. His friend to someone else, someone else, and so forth until it was the talk of the entire school.  I was mortified and needless to say, Jack Emory filled many of the pages of my angst-filled teenage diary, which I still write in today.

And then there was college...

I cringe and shiver and feel hot and sweaty and physically nauseous just thinking about that horrendous moment. Thinking about that night. The sleazy dive bar where I'd bumped into him by accident. The terrible game of pool. The tequila. His hands. His lips. More tequila. His tongue. His mouth. More tequila. Us dancing. Us laughing. Us reminiscing. Us, us, us... fucking in my dorm room all night like we couldn't get enough of each other!

No, here's where I need to get honest with you. Thing is, it hadn't been 'just fucking'. It might have started out like that, but it all changed when he'd looked into my eyes and uttered those words that still repeat in my head over and over and over again to this day...

"Do you know how long I've wanted you?"

And before I knew what I was saying, I said it back to him. Because in some strange way—the kind of way that a serial killer likes to keep a dead body with them, or a female mantis rips the head off her mate and devours him alive—as much as I've hated Jack Emory my whole life, I've loved him too with every painful breath in my body. And that was the part I hated the most, and the reason I hated him so much. No one had ever hurt me the way he'd hurt me the next day. 

Because the next morning when I'd woken up, he was gone. There was no sign of him, other than the handwritten 'S' he'd left on a piece of paper on my pillow. I was all alone in my dorm room with nothing but the memory of him. And then he moved, that very day, all the way across the country. He hadn't even bothered to tell me the night before at the bar. 

He was just gone.  

God I hated him!