[00] Spending Another Christmas with the Hot Emo Delinquent? (Sequel to 50 Ways To Spend Your Christmas)

For the past years I went back to NJ, I didn't see Nathan Bradley anywhere. I later on discovered that he moved after the successfuly trial.

Back to California.

The first time I was back for summer vacation, I walked into the empty guest room with apprehension. I knew he wasn't there. Why would he be? But I've walked into that room so many times, expecting to see Nathan lay on the bed. And when he saw me, he would smirk and practically bully me.

And when I was so angry with him, he apologized profusely and tried to make me laugh. I say tried, because sometimes he failed. Quite horribly I might add.

The last time I was there, I swung open the doors and my vision focused on the bed.

It was empty.

* * *

I fiddle with my silver and turqoise bracelet. It's what I always do when I'm nervous. Beside me, Scott sit still and stiff. But unlike me, this guy doesn't have any courtesy to hide what he feels. So his eyes pop out of his sockets.

I know I shouldn't have bring him along with me. But he's a fashion designer now and has his own company. I feel a burst of pride when I see the shops around London with the name TScott sprawled on the building. He's gaining popularity...and fast.

Even after all these years we are still the best of friends, yes.

Keira on the other hand, is working as an air-stewardess. We haven't seen her for weeks since she's currently in Cape Town right now. And when she's back, she usually go back home to our apartment (we decided to share a flat) and snore 24 hours long.

In other words when she's back she's basically a snoring koala.

Me? I'm a 24 years old journalist for London's leading fashion magazine (er, or at least one of the leading fashion magazines) Mode Couture. And becaose of ModeC, sitting right in front of me is the second runner up of a fashion designing competition, Flaviana Prideux.

My editor didn't warn me about this.

She was 6 foot tall of a woman with artificial nail, overly-straightened blond hair, artificial...well everything. Scott is actually taken aback just by looking at her. She is, without doubt, what a broken Barbie would look like.

And how big are those plastic boobs?

She smiles politely at me...or at least I think she was smiling. Underneath all of those Botox, I really have no idea if she's smiling or crying or trying to look like a fish with her huge, red lips. "I think I'm gunna be sick," Scott whispers to me and I kick his foot.

"Hi, my name is Charlotte Cassity," I introduce myself. "And this is my friend--"

Who decided to tag along with no apparent reason.

"--Scott Terrence."

"I notice who you are," Flaviana says in a high pitched voice that could shatter our wine glasses. I click my pen nervously. This is going to be a long interview. "How many times do you have plastic surgery?" Scott blurt out.

Or not.

I glare at Scott and he gives me one of his innocent looks. But Flaviana doesn't seem to mind. "3 times in each body part."

Holy mother of...

"Although, I don't think I like my new titties anymore," she says, pushing out her chest towards us. Scott takes a sharp intake of air as he backs off. My eyes averts to other places uncomfortably. "Well yes er..." I trail off.

And grimace.

Who is that guy?

"Thanks," he says in a deep voice that kind of sent shivers down my spine. He is tall and broad with black hair and -- I silently wish he would see here so I can get a closer look...just in case...just to be sure...

A flash of familiar blue eyes.

I can't mistake that. Even after all these years I just cannot mistake those eyes. But he is on his way out of the restaurant, fiddling with his phone with a sandwhich he just bought on another hand. Oh god. It can't be.

Maybe it's someone else, you know?

Ah sod it. Won't kill me to try.

I stand up quickly, ignoring the questions flying out from Flaviana and Scott's mouths, and run after him outside. The street is busy with people and I take a moment or two to search for the back of his head.

Shit...shit he's so far away.

Without thinking it through, I yell out "NATHAN!"

Oh damn it. I just have to make a fool of myself by screaming out a name to that man who is probably just a stranger anyway and--

He's turning around, stares confusedly at his surroundings first before his eyes met mine. My heart skips a beat. He doesn't seem to recognize me though, I realize with a pang of sadness.

But just as a flicker of recognition pass through his eyes, someone ushers him into a black Mercedes. A chauffeur I pressume. I stare at the rushing vehicle in deep thoughts before Scott catch up to me and curse loudly, making a mother pressing her hands on her daughter's ears before shooting us a disgusted glance.

"Don't leave me with that...p-person!" he stammers, dragging me back inside where I try as hard as I can to focus on my work.