Vincent

The Finest Point of Betrayal

You know those stories where the leading woman meets another woman (that most likely stole her man) and she couldn't help but bubble with jealousy? When the women are such a direct contrast of each other that she felt played because she thought his type was her? Like in Confessions of a Shopaholic or Mean Girls? Cruel Intentions or Legally Blonde?

This wasn't like that. At that moment, I realized Vincent had a type. Fuck, did he have a type.

Everyone else stood up to shake his hand and Dante grabbed my arm to pull me up from my seat.

There wasn't much of a difference between us. She was about two inches taller than me. "Vincent has a thing for women in heels." Her skin was about a shade or two darker. "You got tanner? Your skin looks darker?" She wasn't even wearing a lot of makeup. "You don't need it." Her hair was about three inches longer than mine. "You do something different to your hair?" But the thing that really stood out was her eyes. Intense Sicilian eyes. From Italy. "She doesn't speak it well."

Right on her chest, hanging from her neck, was a little diamond heart pendant.

My throat felt tight.

I was never really the insecure type, I've made that pretty clear. Maybe when I was younger but I loved myself now. However, at this very moment, I felt like vermin from the deepest sewer in New York. I felt little. Not like the cute-little that people wanted to be for whatever reason, no, I felt small and disgusting. I hated myself. I hated who I was and where I came from. I hated that I had to live in America and be born here. Why couldn't I be born in Italy? Why couldn't I be Italian like her?

My eyes stung.

I didn't even know what I was thinking. I love America- the land of opportunity. But right now? That didn't matter. It didn't matter because it didn't make me Italian. I wasn't her.

Jealousy.

I hated her, too. I hated that she had her hand on him and I hated that he was here with her and I hated that she was wearing that necklace and I hated her glowing skin and I hated that she was invited and I hated that she was from Italy and I hated that she was in America and I hated that she was right in front of me and I JUST HATED HER!.

Hate.

Hate.

Hate.

HATE.

HATE.

In front of all my embarrassment and everything was hatred. I hated everything. I hated every atom on Earth. I hated that I was here. I hated how I felt and I hated how I couldn't control it and I hated that I was reacting.

She moved her hand to mine to shake. My eyes couldn't leave it. I felt so disgusted. Did this fucking wop of a bitch think I'd shake her hand? THE AUDACITY! Give me a knife! I'll stab your fucking hand!

Instead, my eyes wandered back up to her face. Around her eyes were faint smile lines. I hated them. Did she get them from laughing and smiling with Vincent? Her eyelashes were shorter than mine and her eyebrows were thinner. Suddenly, I felt disgusted with myself. I wanted to sprint like Forrest Gump back home to remove my makeup as if this was a competition. It was petty. She had nothing on me but one thing and she had her stupid arm around it. My eyes went back to Vincent. He shook hands with Andy. Right when they let go, his eyes flickered to mine. Although it was brief, I felt like I exposed too much. All my hurt and anger. I was betrayed. He was a fucking traitor. I hated him.

Hate him, hate him, hate him!

But I still loved him.

I wanted to die. Where's the knife? I'd kill myself.