Page 21 of The Fate Of Us

I avoid looking at his hair because, for whatever reason, it’s always been annoyinglybright and yellow, and I’m afraid I’ll go blind if I look at it for too long. The same goes for his eyes; piercingly blue and slightly horrifying. I bet if he opened his eyes in a pitch-black room, you’d be able to spot him with no problem.

I couldn’t stand the guy. And that rarely happens to me. I rarely meetsomeone who I instantly don’t like. But Asher… I knew he was a different kind of asshole the second Addy invited him to one of our dinners at the tiny taco place we went to every month, and he opened his mouth.

For a moment in time, somewhere between our awkward introductions and scatteredconversations, a part of me thought that he was like me. Shy, anxious, wishing he was as confident as the guys he was on camera. Part of me thought I recognised that mask.

Being the way I am, it takes me a while to get comfortable with people. After thewhirled-up dust of hurried introductions settles down, I’ll warm up, find my groove and slip into that classic Nate that everyone loves so much.

Which is all an act, by the way. That devilishly charming guy is just a side of me I can switch to with ease now, especially because being introduced to new people is a daily thing now. The only time I can be the real version of myself is when I’m around people who know about The Other Nate.

That night, I thought I was in the presence of The Other Asher.

It took until the moment Addy left the table to get our drinks for me to realise thatthere was no Other Asher. He was just a dick.

Part of me hoped that he’d become a forgotten child star. That his career would peakduring that movie with Addy, leaving behind only the memory of the one-hit wonder kid. And that would be that: the end of Asher Hartford and his stupid face, rude mouth and demon eyes.

But the bus ad that’s promoting the new period drama movie he’s starring in should bea giveaway that what I wanted to happen never did.

We’d crossed paths from time to time, at premieres or award shows… but on thetimes he spotted me, I knew he didn’t truly recognise me. He didn’t see the timid teenager who’d sat across the booth from him while he ogled Addy as she ate her soft shell taco. He saw The Other Nate, the famous one. He saw the guy on the screen and then proceeded to swoon over me and shower me with praise for how much he admired me.

“You gotta teach me your way, dude!”I’m sure he’d spoken to me at some point.

I wanted to laugh at how ironic it was that he said he basically wanted to be me. For along time, after his movie with Addy had premiered and I found that Polaroid of them together, I’d wanted to be him too.

I wanted to do a lot of other things to him but…

I swerved my head in the other direction, switching on the blackout effect on thewindows for extra protection.

Ten minutes later, I was back in my apartment, the familiar feel of the place doing itsjob today, the tension in my shoulders melting away as I strode into the kitchen. I was back in the comfort of my living room before I knew it, sitting down with a quick pasta dinner I’d whipped up before switching on the TV and settling into the couch cushions behind me.

“And in entertainment news, three-time Oscar winner, Asher Hartford, has justannounced that he will be joining a star-studded cast and starring in the—”

Get fucked, I think to myself, switching off the TV as I’m mid-bite, several strands ofspaghetti hanging from my mouth, a groan escaping through them.

Why was he everywhere today? I’d avoided seeing his face and hearing his name forat least a few months, but in the space of a day, it was like he was waiting for me everywhere I turned. I didn’t like it.

I ditched the rest of my pasta, quickly washed and dried the bowl, and decided to hitmy gym for a while and work out the stress I could feel slowly building up again. I know if I ignore it, those feelings will double and triple, and before I know it, I’ll be doing my regulated breathing exercises in a light and airy room until my panic attack has passed.

I throw on my black shorts and grey hoodie, slip on some running sneakers, and hitthe elliptical in my gym room. I turn on the speaker, scroll to the workout playlist I made years ago, and get going. But after twenty minutes of letting my eyes go fuzzy while the muscles in my legs, and my back, were all pulled and strained, I realised it was going to take a lot more than basic exercise and a naturally lit room for whatever was creeping its way into my thoughts to disappear.

Those feelings were being stubborn fuckers and staying put.

And I knew why.

I flop down from the elliptical steps and catch my breath, shaking my hair free frommy face while using the towel that’s resting on the handles to swipe at my sweat-ridden face. My feet drag me out of the gym and down the hall, ignoring the slate grey clouds that were starting to roll in over the city through the windows, keeping my eyes laser-focused on the door to my office.

I rarely ever go in here. Unless I have an online meeting or need to fetch somedocumentation, I never step foot across this door, leaving it sitting here, empty and in darkness.

I flick on the lights, ignoring how musty the room smells, and fix my eyes on the boxthat I came in here to get. The light above me flickers, giving me an idea about the last time I came in here, as it casts a dim and dull light over the dust-covered shoebox. I reach up onto the top shelf where it always sits, where it will likely sit for another few months after this, and pull it off, dodging the waterfall of dust that comes with it. My eyes squeeze shut to block it out, being careful as I move back and head out of the office and head for the lounge.

More dust coats my fingers as I place the box down on the coffee table, the sweat thatremains there forcing me to shake it off on the ends of my shorts. The room was just as dull as the office had been, what was clearly a storm starting to shower over the whole city, that pelt from the rain against the windows gradually building speed.

My knuckles graze the wood as I lay it down, before pulling out a stool and sitting with it. Ido this every time I bring this box out of its resting place, stare at it for a while, and contemplate why I even keep a hold of what’s inside it.

It should do me no good, to keep it. If anything, it only makes my heart hurt more. Itbrings up all the pain and suffering I went through and makes me relive it all again.

Sometimes I think it would have been easier if I’d seen it happen in real-time, beenthere to witness what had caused my journal to become filled with the same retelling of the same dream I’d be cursed with. At least then I would have forgotten things. Time would have done its thing and warped the memory until I had to question whether what I‘d seenhadbeen a dream.

But I know I keep it for a reason. I keep it to stop myself from going through that hurtagain. A physical reminder that can’t be forgotten. Something real.

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