Speaking with having to deal with this, I wish I had time to think of a better way to do it. But in the heat of the moment, what I actually do is the first thing that comes to mind, which is to yell out Paul’s name, in case somehow it really isn’t him. Maybe it’s his doppleganger or something. Maybe Sheila found out he had a secret twin and brought him here to prank me instead of further ruin my life.
Yeah, right. When pigs fly.
"Paul?" I exclaim, loudly, vehemently, at the same time he says, "Ella?” in a confused near-whisper, the pussy.
The only good part about me catching them in the act— which was exactly what Sheila had intended, of course— happens right here: when it becomes clear that he’s caught off guard just as much as I am. Sheila was playing us both. That’s why she was flashing me a wicked grin as she continued fucking him when I first walked in.
But the best part of this comedic tragedy is that he starts buttoning his jeans, mid orgasm, which I do hope I interrupted, and says, "Oh shit, I got some on my Armanis!”
That's when I know for sure how much of a douche my boyfriend— make that ex boyfriend— is. Not just because he just fucked my step sister, and not just because it happened in my bedroom.
It’s not even because he didn't wear a condom, since I figure he'll be justly rewarded in a week or two when he breaks out into a rash and who knows what other symptoms he might have caught from whatever my step sister is bound to have. But he’s the world’s biggest douche because he cares more about his Armani jeans than he cares about any of the stuff listed above.
These revelations mix with my continued surprise of finding him here. Humor has always been my immediate defense but of course I’m also upset underneath the comedy I use to mask tragedy. And mostly, I’m still in shock, I suppose.
It's like one part of my brain is surprised, while the other really isn't. I knew there was some reason I was holding back from going all the way with him, and now I'm just so glad I didn’t. I’m so ecstatic that I saw his true colors before it was too late, and that bridge was crossed— or, uh, broken and unable to be repaired— that part of me wants to thank Sheila, even though the other part wants to hit both of them, while simultaneously breaking out into a big crying, blubbering mess.
"What are you doing here?" Paul and I both ask each other at the same time.
Only Sheila is smiling, because she knows exactly what we're both doing here. Her smug, sinister grin has morphed into lips upturned with glee.
Her curly blonde locks— always perfectly styled— sashay from side to side as she taunts me, and her perfect dimples dot her face as if to say, “See? I told you so. I can take— and I have taken— everything you’ve ever had. Even this.”
A quick glance in the mirror above my dresser is enough to remind me— if I didn’t already know— that I’ll never be as perfect as she is. My musty colored brown hair sticks up with humidity-induced static like it always does. My shirt has some mustard smeared on it because I was trying to write down some ideas to improve my dad’s business over lunch, which morphed into writing down story ideas, which it always does— all at the same time as I was eating.
Compared to my svelte step sister, I look like a whale. I’ve always hated my big hips, except when it comes to my amazing ability to balance books on them when walking from one place to another. I cradle them like babies in my arms, since they let me escape to far-off places in my mind, where my miserable real life can’t intrude.
To top it all off, everything about me is imperfect, imbalanced. One of my eyebrows sits up a little higher than the other. One of my arms has a birth mark while the other does not. Even one of my feet is bigger than the other— and that’s probably the most embarrassing thing about me. You can imagine how awkward it makes shoe shopping.
I’m so thankful for online orders these days. As a child, I just wanted to shrivel up and die when we were in a shoe store, even though my mom and dad always told me I was perfect just the way I am. I never believed them though, and I still don’t, although I often try to.
“Umm, Ella?” Paul asks, snapping me back into the here and now.
He seems to realize that asking me what I’m doing here, in my own bedroom, is a stupid question. So, he changes it.
"Why aren't you at the shelter?"
"It's Tuesday," I tell him. "Not Saturday. Why would I be…?"
Oh.
I trail off as I realize a couple things myself. The first thing is that my boyfriend of nearly a year doesn't pay enough attention to me to remember which day of the week I volunteer at a homeless shelter. The second thing is that my obnoxious step sister probably lied to him about where I was, so that she could seduce Paul into this vulnerable state for me to catch them in.
I wave my hand, as if it doesn't matter, when everything, in fact, matters very much. I'm not going to give either of them the satisfaction of knowing that it matters, though. That's exactly the rise Sheila is expecting to get out of me.
"Well, why are you in my bedroom? Having sex with Sheila?" I ask him.
He gives me a sheepish grin as he grabs his shirt and pulls it over his head. His cherub-like face seems to say, “no big deal” but he can’t fool me with that act anymore.
I always knew he wasn’t as perfect as he seemed— doting on me, bringing me a sandwich he’d made, rubbing my feet while I read a book; he had to be hiding something sinister lurking just beneath the surface.
My suspicions are being proven true as I realize that he’s been no better than Sheila this whole time, and at least she’s been pretty open and honest about her vileness. He’s just been being nice to me so that I’d give it up to him, and when I didn’t, he moved onto my step sister.
“Look, Babe,” he says, as he hurries towards the door, obviously wanting to get away from both Sheila and me as quickly as possible. But Sheila is following him like a snake; I bet he had no idea what he was getting himself into, with that crazy bitch. “You and I just grew apart.”
“You mean we didn’t grow close enough together?” I ask him, already knowing the answer. I know I should shut up, but I’m fucking mad… and who wouldn’t be? “Your cock didn’t grow hard enough to fit into my pussy?”
“Woah, babe,” he says, as if he’s scolding a child. “There’s no need for such language.”
He looks at me and shakes his head.
“That’s what I was never able to understand about you,” he says. “You talk like you’re this worldly-wise, feisty, independent woman. You read these smutty romance books and live in your head in this world of passion and fantasy. But in real life, you never even want to have sex.”
With you, I want to finish his sentence for him, but I figure it’s not worth hurling insults.
So instead, I just say, “Yep, I’m a real multi-faceted enigma. Imagine, a woman who knows what she wants. Or at least, what she doesn’t want.”
Sheila snorts from where she’s standing near Paul, straightening out the clothes she’s just thrown back on so that she can chase him on his way out. I can’t help but detect a hint of jealousy in that snort.
“Is it so bad to want to make sure I’m with the perfect person before I have sex for the first time?” I ask Paul, seriously now, because I have a feeling this will be the last time I ever see him and I have a lot to get off my chest. “For some crazy little reason, I had a hunch it wasn’t you.”
The thought occurs to me that this might not have been the first time he and Sheila have banged. It’s just the first time she wanted me to know about it. But I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of asking, or even dwelling on such things. I just want to forget about it all and move on.
“Oh, come on,” Paul shrugs again. “You can’t blame me for taking your step sister up on her offer when you weren’t putting out…”
“Enough,” I tell him, doing my best to restrain the tone of my voice.
I don’t want Sheila to know she’s gotten to me. And I also don’t want my step mom to overhear anything if she’s here. Of course, she’ll just take Sheila’s side as always, and rub it in my face that if I only lost weight and cared a little bit about my looks, then I too could snag someone else’s boyfriend.
“Get out of here,” I tell Paul, grabbing his messenger bag— yes, he actually carries a messenger bag; what the hell was I thinking? — and practically shoving it into his chest.
“And you too,” I hurl at Sheila. “You can both have each other. You deserve each other.”
“Awww, poor little Ella’s a sore loser,” Sheila says, but she follows Paul out of the room, of course—like a fucking puppy dog— and that’s all I want. I’m so glad they’re both gone.
And it doesn’t hurt that Paul looks rather annoyed to see Sheila trailing along after him. They make a funny sight, with her still looking gleeful and undoubtedly thinking, Yes, I fucked her man and stole him as my boyfriend, and him looking like the proverbial deer caught in headlights, probably thinking oh shit, was this even worth the easy lay?
Once they’re gone, I sit down on my bed and allow myself the luxury of crying, now that I’m in private. I finger the necklace I’m wearing: it has a tiny orange pumpkin with a green heart-shaped stem on it.
I know what you’re thinking: What an odd choice in jewelry. Almost as bad of a fashion statement as that mustard on your shirt. But my dad gave it to me, because he always called me his little Pumpkin.
I wear it every day and I become especially fixated on it when I’m going through hard times. Sometimes it feels like not only is this silly yet precious necklace the only thing I have of his, but it’s also the only thing I have in the whole world.
Every fairy tale has a sad beginning, and this is mine. The problem is, though, that this isn't even the worst thing that's ever happened to be, by far.
This is just the part where you joined in, because this is where, hopefully, things start to get good. Now that I’ve gotten rid of the guy willing to hop out of his Armanis at the first chance he gets to shag my step sister.