After six years of chasing him, James “Jamie” Dawson finally agreed to be with me. I was over the moon. That is, until the day I overheard him talking to his mates. “You mean Mari Bennett? She’s just been my little lapdog for six years.” “She’s not bad looking, though. That’s why I didn’t ditch her. Kept her around to make Nate feel a bit jealous, remind her not to pick fights with me all the time.” The “Mari Bennett” he mentioned was me. And Nate—Natalie “Nate” Carter—was his ex-girlfriend of three years. Jamie had clearly had a few too many drinks; his words were slurred. “If you fancy Mari, mate, you should’ve said earlier. I’d have let you have a go.” Jamie transferred to our class in our final year of A-levels, causing a massive stir in school. With his high cheekbones, sharp brows, 6’1” height, and short, slightly tousled hair, he stood out from the rest of the stressed, pale-faced students. There was something about him—cool, detached—that made him hard to ignore. My best mate, Chloe Mitchell, said at least six out of every ten girls fancied him. I was no exception. I’d liked Jamie since I was 18. Six years had passed since then. I had always thought he liked me too. Back then, I was going through an awkward phase—teenage weight gain, spots, the works. Not exactly ugly, but definitely not the prettiest. Still, whenever some of the boys teased me about being too fat to ever get married, Jamie would step in. “If losing weight means marrying someone like you, better to stay as I am,” he’d quip. When they complained that I was blocking their phone signals with my size, Jamie would just laugh, “Maybe it’s time for you to upgrade your phone.” Rumours about me and Jamie started to spread in the class. Of course, they were all about how I was a toad lusting after a swan, thinking too highly of myself, or how I was desperate. So I started keeping my distance from Jamie on purpose. Then, during our New Year’s party, there was a game that required boys and girls to team up. I was sure no one would pick me, and the others were probably waiting to laugh at me when Jamie, to everyone’s surprise, took my hand. He leaned in and whispered softly, “Mari, why have you been avoiding me lately? Did I do something wrong?” “When you ignore me like that, it feels like there’s something missing.” I kept telling myself that his words didn’t mean anything. Jamie couldn’t possibly like me. Yet, I still couldn’t stop my face from turning bright red. In our final term, when we were all cramming for exams, I did two things: studied and tutored Jamie. Jamie was smart, but it’s harder to improve your score the higher you already are. It’s like how a student scoring 200 marks can easily improve to 300, but getting from 600 to 700 is nearly impossible. But in our three mock exams, I watched as Jamie went from 550 to 590, then to 620. Our teachers and classmates couldn’t believe it. And as Jamie’s compliments and encouragement came pouring in, I started to feel more confident too. The snide comments from our classmates faded, replaced by talk of how we made a good match, a “power couple,” as they called it. “Do you think Jamie’s working so hard because he wants to go to the University of London with Mari?” someone joked. “Definitely. With his family’s money, why bother studying this hard unless he’s got a reason?” “He’s improved by 70 points in one term! Mari, help me too! I’m shipping you two!” After six months of studying together and pushing each other to succeed, I was sure there was something between us. So, the night after our A-level exams, I gathered the courage to confess. I filled the hotel entrance with roses and launched dozens of drones over the Thames, spelling out Jamie’s initials in the sky. I was young then, too young to realise that a confession should be a declaration of victory, not the start of an attack. Jamie’s friends seemed more excited than he was when they saw the scene, shoving him towards me. But instead of the classic “yes” you’d expect in a romantic movie, I heard, “Whoa, mate, this is that girl you mentioned, isn’t it?” “Go on, Jamie. She’s pulled out all the stops for you.” Their faces were lit up with a strange excitement I didn’t quite understand. Later, one of Jamie’s mates accidentally forwarded their group chat messages to our class group. That’s when I found out they had been calling me names like “tank” and “sumo wrestler,” teasing Jamie for being so desperate that he’d go for anything. They’d even shared photos of random women in high heels and stockings, telling Jamie to go after something “better.” Jamie, to his credit, had calmly explained that there was nothing romantic between us. His polite, dignified tone stood out in that cesspit of filthy jokes. That’s when I convinced myself: Jamie wasn’t a bad guy; he just didn’t like me.
Knowing romance wasn’t my strong suit, I barely kept in touch with Jamie during university. Even though we were studying in the same city. From mutual friends, I heard he had dated four different girls in his first two years. I could only shake my head at that. Jamie was a bit of a heartthrob, although not a cheater. He just never posted about his relationships on social media, and he always had someone lined up when a breakup happened. With his good looks, Russell Group degree, and upper-middle-class background, no one ever questioned his behaviour. The lads around him would just say, “If I had his looks and money, I’d play the field even more.” Then, in our third year, Jamie met Natalie “Nate” Carter. He started posting notes about her all the time: “Birthday: 19th February. Loves beef, cherries, and ice cream. Hates coriander!” “Make sure to prepare 45°C ginger tea during her time of the month.” They’d complete all the couples’ bucket-list challenges and post about it on TikTok, racking up thousands of likes. Every milestone in their relationship was full of rituals. The comments joked that his “six-month breakup curse” had finally been broken. I thought to myself, Jamie must’ve found “the one” this time. Meanwhile, during my four years of university, with no distractions from men, I focused entirely on my studies. I won two National Scholarships, got three certifications, and was accepted for a master’s programme at the same university. By the summer of my first year as a postgrad, I had co-authored papers published in top scientific journals and helped launch a company with my senior that made over £3 million in its first year. On one lazy afternoon, feeling proud of my accomplishments yet realising I was still missing someone special, I decided it was time to start dating.
Jamie and I must be fated, somehow. I had just told Chloe to keep an eye out for any potential matches when Jamie called me out of the blue. I hadn’t heard his voice in ages. When I answered, it felt awkward and unfamiliar, maybe because I hadn’t completely moved on. There was still a flicker of something there. Jamie, however, didn’t beat around the bush. “Mari, I heard you’re looking to start dating?” I didn’t deny it. “Then date me,” he said, laughing on the other end of the line. “I think I’m a decent enough match for you.” My mind went blank. “Don’t you have a girlfriend?” “Broke up,” he replied nonchalantly. “So, what do you think? Care to consider?” There’s an old saying: if you wouldn’t tell your best friend about a decision, you probably shouldn’t do it. Looking back, I think there’s some truth to that. If Chloe had known I got together with the guy who had rejected me and gone on to date four other girls, she’d have killed me. But for some reason, I didn’t say no. Being with Jamie, my old teenage crush, wasn’t as romantic as I had imagined. There were no roses, no dates, no gifts. It felt like we were just online chat buddies rather than a real couple. Compared to how he treated his last girlfriend, I couldn’t help but feel the gap. For example, one day after I finished a conference in the city, it started pouring outside, and I wanted Jamie to come pick me up. I called him, and he said, “I just got out of the shower, don’t want to get wet.” I had him on speakerphone, and when the others heard his refusal, they all gave me sympathetic looks. In the end, my flatmate, Sophie, came to pick me up instead. On the way back, Sophie tried to reassure me. “Maybe your boyfriend’s just the cool and distant type. Don’t take it to heart.” But I knew better. Back when Nate was at her dance studio every evening, Jamie would drive her to and from practice without fail, even when it was raining. He didn’t just drive her—he joined the gym next door to keep an eye on her, worried some handsome dancer might catch her attention. Maybe it was because this relationship didn’t feel worth showing off, but I still hadn’t told Chloe that the “hot boyfriend” I’d been vaguely mentioning was actually Jamie.
Jamie and I rarely had dinner together, especially when his friends were around. I could tell he didn’t want me too involved with his circle, and he didn’t try to integrate into mine either. But one day, out of the blue, he asked me to join him. “Mari, my uni mates are back in town. We’re getting together. Want to come along?” “Oh, and by the way, you won’t be able to get back to your dorm tonight. So think about it before you say yes.” I was taken aback. Jamie had never taken me out before, and the first time he did, he was hinting at staying overnight. Maybe this was normal for someone as experienced as him, but it left me feeling cold. I was about to make up an excuse to avoid going when I overheard voices in the background. “Mate, you’ve still got it. Top-tier postgrad and you’ve got her wrapped around your finger. Teach me your ways!” “Forget smart girls. My girlfriend would never agree to this. She’d go on about ‘respect’ and ‘women’s rights.’ Blah, blah, blah.” I could hear Jamie try to muffle the phone, clearly not wanting me to hear the conversation. “Mari? You still there?” At that moment, I realised the version of Jamie I had admired—the one with his halo of charm—was about to shatter. “Of course, I’m coming. You guys start without me,” I said sweetly. I wouldn’t feel satisfied unless I turned up and saw this through. Jamie sighed in relief. “Great. See you soon.”
When I arrived outside the private dining room, the conversation inside was in full swing. The guys were discussing Jamie’s ex-girlfriends, ranking them by looks, personality, and how “fun” they were. I stood outside for a while, listening. They seemed to make a point of not mentioning Nate. Finally, it was my turn. “To be fair, the one he’s with now is actually solid. Smart, reliable, and she’s got a good head on her shoulders. Jamie, if you’re thinking of settling down, she’s a good option.” Another chimed in, “And she can cook, yeah? That’s a bonus.” “Some girls are just for fun, but not for marriage.” I couldn’t help but smirk at the irony. My 620 A-level score and top academic performance across the university apparently only earned me the title of “decent” and a potential candidate for Jamie’s wife. As the conversation continued, Jamie seemed to grow uncomfortable. He sneered, “Mari Bennett? She’s just been chasing after me for six years, like a lovesick puppy.” “She’s not bad looking, and she’s got decent qualifications, so I’ve kept her around. She’s useful, you know? Keeps Nate on her toes, stops her from picking fights with me.” Jamie had definitely been drinking, his words a little slurred, but clear enough for everyone to understand. The room fell silent for a second, his mates drawing in sharp breaths. “Come on, Jamie. You’re still hung up on Nate? She’s moved on, mate. You need to let it go,” one of the guys said, frustrated. Jamie slammed his fist on the table. “She didn’t cheat on me! Nate just got confused after our breakup. She thought someone else was better suited for her, but she’s realised her mistake.” “You’re the one who’s confused, mate,” another said, shaking his head. Then, I heard a voice I recognised, hesitant but familiar. “Jamie, if you’re really that set on getting Nate back, why not let me have Mari once you’re done with her?” The room went quiet again. It took me a moment to place the voice. It was one of Jamie’s old flatmates, a guy I’d met when I’d once brought Jamie an umbrella on a rainy day. He came from money too and loved flaunting it. “Mate, I’ll make it worth your while. I just got the new Croxx C. You can have it if you want.” “That mountain bike? The one that cost 80 grand? And it’s a limited edition? You’d seriously give that up?” someone asked, astonished. Jamie paused, then chuckled. “You’ve got a thing for Mari? Should’ve told me earlier. I’d have let you have a go.” “But just to be clear, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Mari might seem quiet, but she’s got her tricks. Back in school, loads of girls fancied me, but she was the only one bold enough to confess. You know why?” The others egged him on, eager for more gossip. “Because she saw my family’s wealth. She caught a glimpse of my mum’s car once. It’s the only reason she tutored me through A-levels. You think she’d have done it otherwise?” The guys nodded, clearly impressed by Jamie’s “insight.” “And look at her now. Every day she’s carrying designer bags, wearing high-end shoes. She’s just a student—there’s no way she’s paying for all of that herself. Must have maxed out her credit cards.” I stood outside, fuming. What did they think—that a girl like me couldn’t possibly afford those things without a man’s help? And for the record, I didn’t need to touch my family’s money. My scholarships covered everything. One of his mates chimed in, “Jamie, you’re right. Besides Nate, there’s no other girl who could ever fool you.” Jamie spat out, “You lot are full of it.” I was caught between storming in to confront them or quietly walking away when a passing waiter accidentally spilled soup all over my bag. I let out a small yelp. Jamie rushed out from the dining room, clearly panicking when he saw me.
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