Chapter 1

Hi.

I’m Ella.

I’ll just get this out of the way first - I’m not the writer. I’m talking to you now because it wouldn’t make much sense, otherwise, what happens later - I was the one who made things “complicated”. You’ll see, I guess.

I’ve never been very happy with my body; Nature, that giant bitch, saw fit to give me the strangest collection of spare parts she had lying around when my number came up. I’m just a little over five feet; I have what most guys refer to as a “cute” face - which, after you’re not a teenager anymore, is incredibly irritating - and on a good day with my hair pulled back I pass for thirteen, if I’m lucky.

When my hair isn’t pulled back, I look like your fucking Grannie, because it’s pure white. Not platinum blonde, not silver - pure white. I don’t have any freaky trauma that I know of in my past, I’m not an albino - my eyes are a muddy shade of green or hazel, depending on who you ask - but it’s white and it’s been that way since I was born, according to my Mom. I don’t dye it very often because it’s expensive, awkward, and a pain. Besides, who would I dye it for? It’s not like I attract male attention; I’ve got boobs - if A cups that barely fill out a bra count - and I certainly like guys (I could watch old Paul Newman movies until I die of starvation) but between being a virtual twig (in both size and general shape) and having not exactly the most, ah ... outgoing personality ... I’ve had a grand total of two boyfriends, and I’m twenty fucking three.

Both of those were disasters, for the record. The first was in eleventh grade, and his name was Peter Rolt; he was a soccer player and I was smitten from the moment I saw him. I got up the courage to ask him out; I still don’t know what possessed me.

Three lovely dates later, he confessed to me that he was gay. Not that I have a problem with that, mind you ... but, well, that sort of threw a wrench in those fantasies I’d been having when he dropped me off late at night.

The second was Brett Yardley in college, and I don’t even know that you can consider what we had a relationship; he took my virginity and turned me on to porn. We fucked like mindless little bunnies for three months. Did I mention he turned me on to porn? Like, really turned me on to porn? Which turned out to be a good thing, coincidentally, because I found him cheating on me right before Christmas break when I was going to take him to meet my Mom. Not only did he cheat on me, he cheated on me with this dumb bitch from his Economics course that was ‘really just a friend’ and had tits the size of my head. Way to amplify my insecurities, there, Brett.

I mean, you know it’s bad when you’re a girl and your favorite asset is your lips. Seriously. The only sexual compliments I have ever gotten (and believed) is that I have dick sucking lips. Like, the kind of lips that look like someone did a silkscreen transfer of the Rolling Stone logo onto my face.

I also sort of barely have a gag reflex; while Brett wasn’t exactly a pornstar in the genitalia department, he did tell me frequently that I gave the best head of any girl he’d ever been with or heard of. I could deepthroat him with ease after about a week; while it didn’t do much for me, during that first rush of chemical romance we had I probably blew him daily and I discovered that I do, in fact, have dick sucking lips.

The dumbass wanted me to give him a blowjob after I broke up with him. Said he felt like it would remind him of why he shouldn’t cheat. I very patiently explained to him that if he needed more than a daily reminder that it wasn’t going to help, and that he’d already blown (heh, blown) that particular chance.

All of which brings me to Ian.

Ian is my best friend. He’s tall, he’s dark, he’s got cheekbones that could have been carved by Michael-fucking-angelo. We’ve known each other since the third grade, when he lived down the street from my Mom and I. We’d ride bikes, swim, do pretty much everything that kids can do together. It was great when we were younger; I was taller than him until we turned twelve. Ian was a late bloomer; he was 5’5” as a sophomore in high school (and yes, he’d already gotten taller than me, but at least it wasn’t obscene) and then by the time we graduated he was like an oak tree at 6’4”! He had to bend over just to hug me. It sucked.