Time of Your Life (Time of Your Life #1)

by Jessa Hastings

I know no one’s said it, but I can feel it pressing in around me that people don’t necessarily believe that we are—you know, actually in love. That they think it’s just infatuation or a momentary fixation,

Lala told me that you should never break up with someone in their home or your home—half so you can get out of there quick smart when the time comes, but also so it’s not tainted. You don’t want to ruin a place you love,

Kisses don’t mean anything—just ask Jesus.

I quite hate hating him—even though I did it only ever so briefly and barely at all.

“How many…notches—do you have?” Immediately, he’s shaking his head. “I’m not telling you—you don’t want my answer—”

I wouldn’t

And that—I’ll realise in eventual time—will be the first time that he lies to me.

“I didn’t think it’d please you—” “Oh—” I scoff. “And you live to fucking please me now, do you—? Since when?” Pouts a little, crosses her arms. “Well, I was right—look how displeased you are.”

I don’t love it when men drink, actually. Don’t care when I drink—I know that’s a double standard, but I don’t care. I like my men strong and in control and sound of mind.

This is a terrible part of loving someone, isn’t it? That they become your heart that lives outside of your body and they exist in the world, and the world we live in tries to beat everyone and everything down, and today it picked him, and it’s working.

“Something can be great and scary at the same time, you know…” She elbows me gently. “Most worthwhile things are.”

I’m kind of fuckin’ pissed at her, I dunno why—know I shouldn’t be. I know it’s probably stupid and fucked-up, but she’s in my head, and I can’t fucking get her out of it, and, you know what? I hate it sometimes.

she’s in my mind, under my skin, in my blood for fuck’s sake. I feel how much I love her like fuckin’ coursing through me, all the fuckin’ time, and I don’t like how it makes me feel. I don’t like thinkin’ about her more than I think about me fuckin’ self.

Can’t shag a girl like that and walk away.

“Is that why you’ve been so weird?” Jo scowls at me. “I ain’t been weird, piss off—”

WEIRD? I am not weird

We’re both reading the same book at the minute—we started doing that a few months ago.

He’s ahead of me because every time I try to read, Joah plucks it out of my hands and tosses it away.

“If you’ve got time to read, you’ve got time for snogging.”—Which is honestly really, really hard to argue

I don’t have a type. Just “girl,”

“She tall?” Pip asked. I nodded once. She scrunched up her face. “Yuck.” Didn’t like that—summat about it had sat weird in me chest.

“You’ve changed.”

Girl…

I’m standing out there—teeth chattering—probably not cold enough for that, if I’m honest, but I’ve always been colder than everyone else.

“Hey,” says that other ex-boyfriend of mine. The good one. The one I probably shouldn’t have broken up with in the first place.

kissing Fletch is like a blanket being thrown around your shoulders on a cool night. Immediate warmth; immediately, I’m comfortable; immediately, I’m okay.

Did I think we’d last? I’m such a fucking twat—nothing lasts.

I get tricked. I fall in love too quickly, and it doesn’t just burn out—it burns through me. I don’t like how that feels—that gaping hole in the centre of me—And

I think probably every time up until now I’ve thought okay, I think that boy is the one, but this time, with Joah, I don’t know—I suppose a tiny bit of me believed it in a different way. I think we just felt different.

But this just proves my sad little point…feelings are shit and liars.

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nothing’s ever worse with Fletch. At best, it’s fantastic, at not-best, it’s neutral.

Do you know, I think afterwards, after we did it, that’s one of my favourite nights of my entire life. Still now even (and I’ve had some pretty good nights since),

Jo is all passion, all-consuming, everything-all-at-once intense, his hands are busy-busy everywhere. I’m usually quite tossed about—and don’t get me wrong, I actually love it—it’s very fun. The funnest sex I have ever had in my life I have had with Joah. But I wonder—how many other people is he having fun sex with?

“Are you sad?”

Dunno why that pisses me off—Heddie calling her that girl. Maybe cos she’s not just that girl, is she? She’s the only girl on the fuckin’ planet who’s ever mattered.

I miss her. Don’t miss people, do I—? But I miss her. Wish she was here, wish she was backstage waiting for me or at side of the stage watchin’ me—and

Fuck it, I’ll say it—I am scared of her. The way she stares at me—holds my fuckin’ gaze—makes me feel like a wee lad again. In the worst fuckin’ ways, like she can see straight through me and I’m about two-foot-fuck-all, you get me?

I yell, voice cracking with how mad I sound. She rolls her eyes, and the way she does it… She’s baitin’ me—she’s fuckin’ baiting me! That’s new, innit? Ain’t seen this side of her before. Did I break her or just push her too far—I dunno?

“Be nice,” whispers the greatest footballer alive, way too close to the ear of the girl I’m fuckin’ wrecked over. “No,” she says, lockin’ eyes with me, all defiant and shit.

“They’re my guests.” I freeze. Turn ’round, slow. “What?” He shrugs, all casual-like. “I invited them.”

Real

“I invited your ex-girlfriend to my show…”

“You’re a fuckin’ headcase,” Richie pants. “And you’re a cunt,”

“YOU DO NOT TALK TO HER LIKE THAT!”

😛

“You don’t get to fuck ’round with her, Rich. You don’t get to use her against me—” “Why not?” Rich quips, brows up, darin’. “You use everyone else, don’t ya?” “Cos she is the fuckin’ love of my life, isn’t she!?”

“You’re a prick who frequently deserves to be yelled at.

My heart starts poundin’ in my chest again, don’t it—? Fuck, I love her.

slingin’ an arm ’round Ysolde. She shoves it off her straightaway and I don’t miss a beat when I put it straight back there where it fuckin’ belongs. She fights off a smile, but know she likes this shit.

I’m in the back of the car with the hottest boy in the world who accidentally just declared to an entire hallway of people that I’m the love of his life—and

Joah doesn’t smell like anything you could buy in a bottle—as though he’d ever wear anything like that anyway. He just smells like him—which is kind of hard to describe. Maybe a little bit leathery, even though he really doesn’t wear leather all that often. I suppose, truthfully, the thing he smells most of is—ever so faintly—cigarettes and probably less faintly, alcohol.

I take a couple of breaths, watching him. It makes him nervous. I like making him nervous.

“I don’t know—? Perhaps that you’re sorry?” His head pulls back. “For what?” “For hooking up with your rancid ex!”