Until I Met You (America x Chubby!Reader x Yandere!2P!America)

Guilty People

Hey Mom,

I am so stupid.

I met a boy from a party. But before we get to the nitty-gritty let me set the scene:

It's Sunday, Arin pulls me out of my bed after she dragged her brother away from the library. They force me out of my sweats and into a snug pair of jeans that have been with me since. . .since Torrington. Arin slaps makeup on me, then next thing I know we're driving west towards the Prescotts' estate.

"If it sucks we can just go home" Allen said in a reassuring tone. If it sucks—and it did, but I'll get to that later—I'd still stay because the Rosewaters have stuck with me for so long and even though neither of the twins show it I'm positive that they want to get out of the house, because when I'm not at school I'm always in the guest bedroom (Jennifer insisted that I could call it my room since the twins decorated it for me, but I already know I'm a leech and claiming such an enormous space mine would be a douchebag thing to do).

It's almost ten and Arin is gone. Allen stops talking with The Observer's (the school newspaper) editor-in-chief and we split up to search for Arin. After five minutes I decide to check outside to see if maybe she's making out with some guy there.

She's not in the front yard so I check the back. That's when I saw him.

He is every—sorry, most girls' wet dream: sandy blonde hair, summer blue eyes, broad shoulders and strong arms built for a swimmer (I don't know why a swimmer when he's clearly a football player). He has good looks but I'm not swooning, you know he isn't my type. Far from it. But I digress.

Get this: I caught him throwing up. At first I thought he was drunk as a lot of the kids in a high school party are (I'm not one of them, cross my heart), but nope, he stuck out a finger and shoved it down his throat.

I caught him again in the bathroom downstairs. Oh, I forgot to tell you that he's Arin's tutor now (poor guy). Anyway, against what my superego shouted at me, I spoke with him. He thought I was blackmailing him. Like I could do something like that.

Cue the sarcastic eye-roll from the audience, right, ma?

Ugh.

What was I thinking approaching Alfred like that? And not just Alfred, mind you, the Alfred—Alfred F. Jones. (I have asked five people, two from my class and three from random corners, but no one knew what the F stood for)

I don't know why I'm sharing this with you. This kind of thing. . .I've been there. We all know that, and I know I already told Alfred I wouldn't tell a soul, but I couldn't keep it to myself. I just couldn't. Why do I even care?

Dammit.

I shouldn't be talking to people anymore, not since what happened back in freaking Torrington.

I wish dad would forgive me. I miss you both.

xxx,

[Name]

*

Arin wasn't budging, and even though tonight was his second session with her so far Alfred had a feeling she didn't plan on making things easier for him. Of course, he had realized that he could just pretend to actually do things and still get paid. Easy money. But Alfred wasn't raised like that. It was no different from whoring himself out in the streets—an act his parents would never understand. Honor before pragmatism.

Arin opened a Vogue and seemed to have completely blocked out Alfred's existence.

You need this job. You need this job. He repeated inside his head, twirling the number two pencil between his fingers lest he'd snap it in half.