Jovie & Bash

One || Mesmeric

|CHAPTER ONE|

There's a fine line between knowing what you need and what you want. I learned that sometime ago, long before anyone else had separated these two essential facts of life.

I always balanced my life accordingly, pushing aside what I didn't need at the moment and putting my mind to building a sturdy foundation for my life. My mother's friends called me a poster child—the kind of kid they dreamed of raising.

That's just the thing, you can only teach what you know, and my mother was a professional at sorting out her priorities.

Call it what you will, murmur under your breath about how the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, because you're exactly right. My mother buried herself in work, wasted no time with mindless tasks, spent most of her time elbow deep in some city project or volunteer assignment—ended up being the most hardworking, involved mayor Ashwood Creek has ever seen.

 No dilly-dally, straight up, blunt, and unnaturally good—that's how she operated. I think the only crazy thing she ever did in her life was get knocked up. And, well, that began the story of me: Jovie Underwood—unexpected, somewhat embarrassing result of a one night stand with my mother's assistant.

Now, of course, she had years to come to terms with the fact that a dedicated, otherwise hardworking woman like herself, made a mistake one night in a moment of weakness. My father—or Henry as I refer to him as—on the other hand, couldn't be prouder of the fact he hooked up with my mother and ended up with me.

 You see, his mad crush on her still lives on to this day, but she doesn't ever acknowledge their previous engagement unless it boils down to me.

I liked to think off them as a tragic love story—my mother: a headstrong woman entirely devoted to her work fell for the charm of her secretary, a carefree man who was madly in love with her, and gave in to what she thought would be a harmless night of fun only to discover herself pregnant and forever bound to him by the ties of their daughter despite her efforts to forget their rendezvous.

And, while the tragic love story idea is attractive, it's called tragic for a reason. The thing I learned from my parents was to distinguish between need and want. What's necessary, what's luxury, and how  that choice would ultimately affect me.

Because I am so much like my mother, I always chose need and spent most of my life throwing myself into education and friendships I only deemed beneficial. I didn't have time for drama, I didn't have time for distractions. I was a spinning wheel, and nothing could slow me down or sway me off my course.

When I met Bash, however, my wheel began to teeter.  I suddenly understood what weakness felt like. I started losing control, became reckless in my own way. It seemed the only thing I could get a good grasp on was the idea of graduation looming over my shoulder.

 That was our expiration date. Like a one night stand, Bash and I needed to know our limitations. We knew it would end—and it did.

Tragic.

I didn't want him to go. I didn't want him to understand how I operated. I didn't want to be so much like my mother. But, I needed to be.

 Drama, distractions, no way. I couldn't. So, we said goodbye.

I don't regret it, though. Being with him let me experience what a relief letting go was, how closing my eyes and blindly choosing want was exhilarating, nearly trance inducing.

 I didn't need him. I never needed him. He was always pure want, pure heart-pounding, gut-wrenching desire. Not like that passionate stuff they make up in the movies, a real friendship, true excitement, magnetic. He made me happy. He taught me things. Some were trivial like big words, but mostly sensations: spontaneity, craving.