Our journey leads us to… Malibu.
Our vacation. Our low-budget, Europe-based, Fleetwood Mac fueled getaway. Boy was I wrong.
I feel like a teenager again. Carefree and with an intact heart. But then again, the whole feel of this relationship is of a summer love. It feels fleeting.
Going back to the States after just settling in Paris felt oddly like going home, even though LA is neither my home nor my favorite place in the world. The thing is that I’m madly in love so I decided to go along with my boy’s idea of a vacation before taking us to Mallorca. And I’m a romantic fuck so he had me at “long walks on the beach”.
Malibu is incredible. He is incredibly handsome. You’d think everything was perfect, but…
We go out one night with a bunch of his model friends and we’re in this packed club for 5 minutes when I lock eyes with a familiar face. The Hot Waiter Guy. Oh boy, he’s still very hot. He chooses to come over because he cannot resist it and Fleetwood Mac is playing so you know the mood is set for some drama.
“Nothing much, on vacation.”
“Yeah? Heard you left New York.”
“Who’d you hear that from?”
“You know. Fancy a drink?”
“I’m with… friends.”
He looks at my rather perplexed boyfriend. I’m pretty sure he saw us kissing.
“How come you’re out of the city?”
“What you think you’re the only one fucking a rich boy?”
“I fucked you, didn’t I? I just thought I’d be more memorable, but he’ll find out soon enough about your severe case of amnesia. Players only love you when they’re playing, eh?”
Small. The world is just that.
I find myself transported into a new dimension. In this one I keep telling my love that he’s the only one and he keeps listening to Chantaje on a loop.