All That He Wants

By: Olivia Thorne

1





I’m writing this because I’m heartbroken.

I’m writing this because I’m in love.

I’m writing this because more amazing, astounding, mind-blowing things have happened to me in the last two months than in my whole life before I met him, combined.

I’m writing this because I’ve lost more than I ever thought I would be able to bear.

And even though I hate myself for doing it, I pray to God I can hold him…

…kiss him…

…make love to him…

…just one last time.



• • •



Okay, enough of mopey beginnings. I’m really not that kind of girl, I swear.

I guess I should say ‘woman,’ not ‘girl.’ I am 24, after all, and, well, you know – ‘yay feminism,’ right?

It’s just that I never really felt like I was an adult. In a lot of ancient societies, they had some sort of ritual that women go through where you know you’re a woman afterwards. ‘You passed the ritual? Congratulations, you’re a woman by definition!’

In the 21st Century United States of America, getting married or having a baby probably qualifies. Although I’ve never been married or had a baby, so… problem not solved.

I guess the other closest possibility for a single woman is losing your virginity… but that happened for me when I was 17, and I sure as hell didn’t feel like a woman with my high school boyfriend. Or my two college boyfriends. Or any ‘boyfriend,’ really.

He was the first one that made me feel like a woman. Entirely. Through and through.

But we’ll get to that soon enough.





2





My name is Lily Ross. Born in Charlotte, North Carolina, went to the University of Georgia, got a business degree with a psychology minor, had a horrible time getting a job after college, finally moved out to Los Angeles because my best friend Anh got hired at a prestigious consulting firm and promised me she could get me in, too. She did… although in a terrible position for next to no pay.

But I’m not complaining, mind you! (Not much, anyway.) It was a job, I had my foot in the door, and – Los Angeles! Come on! One of the most glamorous cities in the world!

That much is true, though I never saw the glamorous side of it until waaaaay after I arrived.

Also, Anh had an apartment in Hollywood! Land of movie stars, the silver screen, the place where dreams come true! Right?

Wrong.

Hollywood as an idea – the ‘dream factory’ – I guess that’s still valid. But Hollywood the ‘place’? The geographic location you’ll find on Google Maps? All the film studios and movie stars bolted over 50 years ago. Except Paramount Pictures, but they’re right next to a graveyard, so let that tell you something.

Our Hollyweird apartment is down the street from a tattoo parlor and a skeezy-as-hell ‘Thai massage’ parlor.

That was my first introduction to reality versus fantasy.

I know these are all boring details to you, but I guess I bring it up for a couple of reasons.

One: as you’ll see very shortly, my version of fantasy and reality began to blur together quickly and very dangerously.

Two: I was intimidated as hell by the women in Los Angeles when I got out here. It’s like the best skin/hair/boob gene pool dumping ground in the country. (And if you want some extra help in the boob department, the plastic surgeons in Beverly Hills will gladly sell it to you.) Sometimes it feels like every good-looking girl from every town in America comes out here to try to make it… and when you’re not in that crowd, it can be rough on your self-esteem.

However, as my dad used to say, sometimes even a blind squirrel finds a nut.

In case you missed it, I’m the blind squirrel in that analogy.

Nothing that happened to me happened because I’m gorgeous. I’m not. In Los Angeles, I’d almost say I’m plain.

At 5’4”, I’m fairly short by LA standards. I could stand to lose 10 pounds (maybe even 15… that’s it, I’m cutting off speculation at 15). I’m not even in the same zip code (okay, not even the same state) as Sofia Vergara or Jennifer Lopez in terms of, um, assets. Not exactly Victoria’s Secret model material.

Guys I’ve dated tell me I have pretty eyes. My hair’s good. I like my cheekbones. I have nice calves, and they look even better in heels. (We’re not going to talk about my thighs.)

I’m fairly smart, I think I’m funny (you may beg to differ after you’ve spent enough time with me), and I have a few interesting quirks.

The point is, none of this happened because I look like a pin-up model. Because I don’t.

Hell, I’m still not sure how it happened.


Top Books