What If I Told You That I Love You

Isabella

It's a normal Tuesday afternoon and my last class of the day is slowly drawing to a close.

The professor -- a short, stocky man with graying hair and thin spectacles -- has been rambling on about an abysmally boring topic called "prospect theory" for the last hour. One quick glance around the room tells me I'm not the only one failing to share his interest in the subject.

I click my pen against my chin and cross one leg over the other. My eyes dart towards the small clock hanging on the opposite wall.

5:55.

Five minutes seems like an extremely short amount of time, that is when you're not watching the clock, hoping that staring at it obsessively will somehow make the hands move faster.

I sigh through my nose and try to ignore the exhaustion creeping into my bones as I lean forward to jot a quick note down at the bottom of my page.

I'm tired, but not too tired to notice the pair of wandering eyes creeping over my shoulder, following my pen's every movement.

I stop writing and turn to glare at the tall boy sitting next to me. "Sam," I say slowly, narrowing my eyes at him. "Are you copying my notes?"

"Word for word," he replies shamelessly, not bothering to tear his eyes from my paper as he continues scribbling. "But I think your elbow is covering the section about utility theory," he says, craning his neck slightly.

"Oh, my bad," I say sarcastically. "Why don't I just photocopy my notebook for you?"

He drops his pen and looks at me. "You would do that?"

I roll my eyes and pretend to ignore him, flipping to a blank page as the professor switches PowerPoint slides.

"Can anyone tell me the four behavioral portfolio construction models as described in your textbook?" Professor Newsom asks loudly as he strides to the front of the room. "Those who did their reading will know this answer right away," he tells us, as if that had any effect on this group.

I look around as an uncomfortable silence falls upon the small lecture hall. Though there were nearly fifty students in the room, it seemed not one person planned to answer his question.

"I'll wait," he continues, sliding his glasses down his nose. He peers over his spectacles, his beady eyes narrowing slightly. "Some of you must have done the reading."

Oh how wrong you are, I think to myself as my hand slowly slides into the air.

The professor glances up, his thin lips stretching into a small smile. "Miss Porter?" He nods at me.

I clear my throat. "The four behavioral portfolio construction models. Behavioral life cycle model. Behavioral asset pricing model. Behavioral portfolio theory. And adaptive markets hypothesis," I list them off one-by-one.

The professor nods appreciatively. "Correct. Thank you, Miss Porter. Good to know someone around here is paying attention," he says loudly, emphasizing the last part.

"Kiss ass," Sam mutters, a smile gracing his lips as he taps my notebook with his pen.

"Someone has to answer," I tell him without looking up from my notes. "And I know it's not gonna be you, Sam," I say with a smile.

"Never me," he grins. "I haven't read one chapter yet this semester," he tells me, holding up a finger.

"That doesn't surprise me," I say because it doesn't.

Sam Mathers is likely more concerned about how many cases of beer he needs to buy for his frat party this weekend.

What did surprise me, however, was the fact that he hadn't completely flunked out yet.

"What are you doing this weekend?" He asks me then, almost like he's trying to prove my point.

"Not sure," I answer with a shrug. "Probably doing something with Macey," I say, referring to my best friend.

He clears his throat. "You guys should come to my party this weekend. It's at my house," he informs me. "Eighties themed."

I bite back a smile. "Eighties themed? Who came up with that?"

"I did," he says defensively. "It's going to be fun. You can even bring that boyfriend of yours," he adds quickly. "Josh, right?"

"Yes," I nod, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks. "How about I let you know?" I say, closing my notebook as the professor begins to wrap up class.

"Fine," he smirks. "But actually let me know this time?" He asks gently.

There's a hint of hopefulness to his voice that I try to ignore. Sam's always inviting me to parties. And ninety-nine percent of the time, I don't actually attend these parties.

"Deal," I nod once and bend forward to zip my backpack closed.

"Midterm reports are due next week!" Professor Newsom calls out as students begin to rise from their seats. "I will not accept late submissions!"

"Have you started yet?" I ask Sam, glancing sideways at him as we walk up the long aisle towards the door.

He shakes his head. "Not even close. You?"

"Guess."

He smirks. "That's an easy yes. Wanna write mine? I'll give you fifty bucks."

I can't help but laugh at this. "Fifty bucks? For a ten-page report?"

"That's five dollars a page," he points at me.

I snort. "You can't afford my rates, Sam," I inform him as I spot a tall, raven-haired girl lingering near the doorway. "There's Macey," I say, nodding in her direction.

"Alright, I'm this way," he says, jerking his thumb in the opposite direction. "I'll see you later, Bella."

"Bye, Sam," I wave him off as Macey comes to a stop in front of me.

"Hey," she greets me. "Was that Sam?" She asks curiously, glancing over my shoulder.

I nod. "Yeah. Didn't I tell you he was in this class with me?"

Macey shrugs as we start walking towards the building's side entrance. "He's cute," she murmurs thoughtfully.

I nod. "If you're into the whole frat thing."

"Which I am most definitely not," she giggles as we push through the side doors.

It's nearly six o'clock, which means the sun is already well on its descent, casting a dim glow across the campus.

I shiver as the cool afternoon air hits my face. Even though I've lived in New York my entire life and survived through twenty-one awful winters and counting, I was still never fully prepared for the cold.

I zip my jacket to my chin as we continue walking towards the campus's main intersection.

"How was class?" I ask her.

She shrugs again. "Boring, like always," she says with a half-smile. "Although, there is this hottie who sits in the back row I like to stare at to pass time," she adds thoughtfully. "He's got a lip ring."

I raise my eyebrows slightly. "Is he single?"

"Haven't gotten that far yet," she admits. "Maybe I'll talk to him next month."

I roll my eyes. "You should talk to him now and stop being a pussy."

She smirks. "I'm not a pussy, okay?"

"No," I smile. "Just someone who can't get over her ex."

"Hey!" She giggles and whacks me lightly on the arm. "Not true."

"Very true."

"Somewhat true," she narrows her eyes at me.

"Whatever you say, Mace," I shrug, not even pretending to believe her.

Even though Macey and her ex-boyfriend have been broken up for almost six months now, I know she still loves him -- she just won't admit it.

"It looks like it's going to rain," she says as she cranes her neck to look at the sky. A large, gray storm cloud was quickly forming directly above our heads, accompanied by the low rumble of thunder.

"Good," I say as we cross the sidewalk. "I like the rain."

"I don't," Macey whines. "It makes me lazy. And it makes my hair really frizzy," she adds, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

I smile to myself as we pass the campus coffee shop. "That reminds me. I need to stop by Josh's apartment to grab a textbook I left there last week," I say as the wind begins to pick up.

She nods, glancing at the sky again as the thunder grows louder. "Okay. I'd come with but I really need to get back and start this bio midterm before I completely screw myself," she frowns.

I wave my hand in the air. "Don't worry. I should be quick. I think Josh has night class today anyways," I say.

She nods again. "Meet back at the apartment?"

"Yeah. I'll text you if anything changes," I tell her as we part ways at the intersection.

Thankfully, Josh's apartment is only a five-minute walk from campus. If it wasn't, I probably wouldn't even bother making the trip right now when it's about to rain.

He lives in one of the newly-constructed apartment buildings right next to campus with his best friend Aidan. Even though we'd talked about moving in together this semester numerous times, it never panned out.

And maybe it's for the best. Josh isn't exactly the cleanest or most organized roommate, that's for sure. And I can't stand clutter. Not to mention, the volume at which he snores should be considered a crime.

I feel a stray drop of rain against my cheek and pull my hood over my head, quickening my pace slightly. I may have liked the rain but I sure as hell didn't want to be caught walking in it. I make a mental note to ask Josh for a ride home as I approach his building.

A few more raindrops hit the pavement as a large flash of lightning strikes.

One, two, three, four, five.

I stop counting as the flash disappears, followed by another loud rumble of thunder.

When I was little, my brother told me that if you count the number of seconds between the flash of lightning and the sound of thunder, and then divide by five, you'll get the distance in miles to the lightning.

5 seconds divided by five was one, which meant the lightning was one mile away.

Pretty close if you ask me.

I wrap my fingers tightly around the straps of my backpack as I approach the front of Josh's building.

As I reach the front door, a girl around my age pushes through, holding it briefly for me as she passes. She must assume that I live here, which is good luck because it means I don't have to buzz Josh to let me in.

I glance down at my phone as I make my way through the lobby and towards the elevators. I hadn't bothered letting Josh know I was stopping by, hoping he isn't too busy to spend some time with me. I haven't seen him in a couple of days and was sort of looking forward to surprising him.

I step into one of the open elevators and press the small button marked "3" on the control panel, leaning back against the railing as the doors slide closed.

I feel an anxious tug in the pit of my stomach as the elevator shudders to a stop on the third floor a moment later. I do my best to ignore it as I step out of the elevator and turn left towards Josh's unit at the end.

As I approach, I raise my left hand and tap my knuckles loudly against the door, pressing my ear against the wood as I listen for the sound of his footsteps.

Instead, I'm met with silence.

Weird, I think to myself. Maybe he's in the shower.

I try the handle, slightly surprised when it gives way. I push the door open and step into the apartment, closing the door quietly behind me.

"Josh!" I call out as I take a few steps forward.

No answer.

"Where is he?" I mutter under my breath as I set my backpack down on the counter.

And that's when I hear it.

Music.

I spin around quickly, my heart dropping straight to my stomach as I realize the music is coming from down the hallway, where Josh's bedroom is.

That's even weirder, I think to myself as my palms moisten with sweat.

I lick my lips nervously, suddenly finding it impossible to swallow. Why would Josh have music coming from his bedroom?

I feel my mind begin to race as I force myself down the hallway towards his bedroom.

"Josh?" I call out weakly as I get closer.

The music grows louder as I come to a stop in front of his bedroom door. Blood pounds in my ears as I hear what sounds like a female voice coming from the other side.

My heart seizes in my chest as my fingers wrap around the door handle. My vision blurs. I swing the door open and feel the air leave my lungs.

The first thing I see is black hair. Long, black hair from a girl that is not me. A girl that is currently naked and perched atop my boyfriend of two years, her bare legs curled around his waist.

"What the fuck!" I'm screaming before I can stop myself. Panic-filled rage shoots through my veins as I gawk at the scene before me.

They both freeze immediately, a string of slurs dropping from Josh's lips as the girl lifts her head slightly to meet my gaze.

My blood runs cold as I get a good look at her face, and suddenly I feel every last ounce of dignity crumble before my feet.

I know her.

Brooke Manus. My fucking sorority sister.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I scream, although, at this point, I'm not sure who I'm screaming at.

Josh's head snaps up, his mouth dropping open slightly as a look of pure shock crosses his face. "No, no, no," he shakes his head quickly as Brooke scrambles off him and tumbles over the edge of the bed. "Isabella, no–"

Tears collect at the corners of my eyes as he rises from the bed, wrapping the comforter around his naked lower half.

"Do not come near me," I spit at him as he takes a step forward. "How could you do this to me?" I cry as the tears begin to spill down my cheeks. "Josh? How could you–"

"I can explain, Bella, please," he begs, clasping his hands together. "Please. Y-you have to understand–"

"Understand what?" I snarl, feeling the overwhelming urge to slap him across the face.

"It's not..." he trails off, his dark eyes filled with a panic I'd never seen before. "It's not what it looks like," he chokes out. "Please. I love you, Isabella–"

"You're disgusting," I whisper, my voice trembling slightly as I turn around and dart back into the hallway.

I hear his footsteps behind me. "Let me explain!" Josh calls after me. "Let me explain, Bella!"

Against my better judgment, I stop walking and turn around. "Explain what? That you're a dirty, lying cheater? What the fuck else is there for me to understand, Josh?" I spit at him in disgust.

"I made a mistake," he says quickly, his voice pleading. "I'm sorry, baby, please–"

My skin involuntarily crawls at the nickname. "Two years," I say as tears continue to streak down my face at a steady pace. "Two years for nothing. How could you do this to me?" I ask, my voice breaking slightly.

"I..." he trails off again, his forehead creasing as he tries to figure out what to say next.

It's the first time I can honestly say I've seen Josh Abrams at a loss for words.

"You're disgusting," I repeat, grabbing my backpack off the table. "We're done, Josh," I add, forcing the words from my lips.

Bile rises in the back of my throat as I turn away from the person I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with.

Suddenly, I realize that the world I woke up to this morning no longer exists. Instead, it was crumbling around me, bit by bit, as the seconds ticked by.

"Isabella," he lunges forward to grab my arm before I can make a move towards the door. "Stop. Please. We need to talk about this–"

"There's nothing to talk about," I sniffle and try to pry my arm from his grasp, which is quickly growing tighter. "Josh–"

"You can't just leave," he pleads with me, taking my other arm in his hand. "I made a mistake," he repeats, his eyebrows drawing together as I struggle against him.

"I can't forgive you for this!" I cry, shaking my head as the image of Brooke on top of him flashes through my mind. "Let go of me," I scream at him, shoving at his chest hard enough to force his hands from my arms. "There's nothing you can say to justify this. Nothing."

"Bella–"

"You piece of shit," I spit at him. "I've given you everything! For two fucking years, Josh!" I scream.

His eyes harden with familiar anger. He presses his lips into a hard line as I feel the energy in the room suddenly shift.

"Right, Bella. You're always the fucking angel, aren't you?"

And there it is.

My lips curl in disgust. "Are you seriously trying to imply that anyone here is to blame for this besides you?" I ask in disbelief.

He runs his hands tiredly through his hair, looking everywhere but me as he asks his next question.

"When's the last time we had sex, Bella?" His voice is quiet, but his tone is accusatory.

Josh is doing exactly what Josh does best -- avoiding accountability at all costs.

I fight the urge to lunge forward and claw his eyes out of his head. "Oh, you've gotta be fucking kidding me, Josh–"

"Seriously, Bell," he cuts me off, his voice much firmer this time.

It sounds like Josh is about to start playing the Blame Game.

"You have to admit it. We haven't had sex in weeks. Maybe months. We're always fighting–"

"Two seconds ago, Josh, you were practically on your knees begging me to stay," I say slowly, trying to calm the angry storm brewing within me. "And now you're trying to paint me as the bad guy who drove you to cheat on me? Are you serious?"

"Bella–"

"No!" I scream, grinding my teeth together. "No! I don't want to hear any of your shit excuses, Josh. I won't let you try to blame me for this. If you were that unhappy, you should've just broken up with me," I say, my voice breaking at the end.

"I..." he opens his mouth and then closes it again, a long moment of silence passing between us before he speaks. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

A new wave of sadness crashes over me as I look back at him. I'm no longer looking at the person I thought I loved.

No, I was looking at a stranger.

"Not good enough," I say as I turn around and start towards the door.

This time, he doesn't try to stop me.

And I don't bother looking back.