The Story Of Us(Original)

2

Sometimes I think too much. This is probably why my room looks like it's been raided, but I digress. Sometimes I think too much. It's just how I am. I've come to terms.

It's never the big preponderances, like the meaning of life or what's at the end of the universe. It's little random things, like did I leave the water running? Who specifically invented the toilet? Or, most important, why does everyone I love leave me?

I could never bring myself to ask but, my parents, my husband, and all the men I've ever loved before him, all seem to see something in me that no matter how long I stand in front of the mirror and despite years of therapy, I can't find.

I haven't been to therapy in years. I only attend to be the guinea pig in my father's research, and he hooks me up with medical grade. It's fair trade. They ask me questions, I give them shallow answers and let them use my DNA in his research. Now that they're in phase two they don't need me anymore and that's great because I fucking hate therapy.

It's always the same. The problem is something you've made up in your head. If not, sometimes the problem is you. Or my favorite, my issues are somewhere in my past.

I get told that every time I sit in one of those fucking chairs. They don't get the past is really not a place I like to dwell but I remember a therapist telling me once that writing things down sometimes help things makes sense and I'm desperate so, fuck it, dear journal, let's begin.

I was fifteen. A little over five years into my new life in New York City when I met future MMA champion Kellen 'Kayo' Riaz. Back then I called him Kelly.

Kelly was this brooding bad boy type who went to a rough school a few blocks from my own. I was a pantomime. I had a few friends and I played for the school basketball team but before him, I was just existing.

I attended West View High School, a prestigious non-denominational in Tribeca with unflattering blue and gray uniforms. A school that likes to brag about being the home of some of our country's great innovators, as if our state wasn't ground zero for the New Gen boom.

Even to this day, they boast success stories like my brother Wren, who at only twenty-four, is one of our state's youngest and most formidable panel lawyers; and Jamal Miller, who brought home the first championship ring for the Brooklyn Nets since the seventies.

It was Jamal that introduced me to Kellen. It's a little known fact that the half Colombian, half Middle Eastern phenom with his olive complexion and sharp facial features is related to the young baller.

The two haven't spoken since I had revenge sex with Jamal, but when I was fifteen, we had no idea that a simple introduction would change the rest of our lives.

"Hey Rue," Jamal called, bounding over to me as Brielle, Emily and I cleared out from an emergency basketball practice.

"Hey, I thought only girls had practice today?" I smiled up at the then already five-foot-eleven fifteen-year-old boy.

Jamal was my first crush. He has smooth, brown skin, full lips and predominant brown eyes with a playful half-smile.

"Yeah, I was waiting for you," he said with that swoon-worthy gleam.

"For what?" Brielle narrowed her eyes.

Brielle never liked Jamal. She was adopted by her mothers from a small town in Puerto Rico when she was old enough to remember her old life. Hood boys like Jamal gave my best friend hives.

Jamal was a STARS kid; a program in the school that allowed talented kids from around the city to attend at no charge.

In the aftermath of The Hudson Project, our city was met with an influx of excellence. Brilliant minds and powerful bodies springing from all walks of life. Someone in the school's administration decided to capitalize; openly searching for kids like Jamal who came from this rough part of Lower Manhattan that tourists don't know exists.