One Chance

Noelle was not one to believe in love.

She didn’t buy into fairy tales or Prince Charming sweeping girls off their feet, or living happily-ever-after. She didn’t believe in love at first sight, or in the sickly sweet “I love you’s” exchanged at sunset in the movies. Romantic dinners didn’t happen. There were no flowers, heart-shaped boxes of chocolate or bouquets of red roses. The only reason a boy wanted to take you to the movies was because he hoped to make out in the back of the theatre. As far as Noelle was concerned, love was just something adults made up as an excuse for lust.

Lust, however was something Noelle was familiar with. She knew what it felt like to be physically attracted to a boy, to want him for the night, only to toss him aside in the morning. She knew how the alcohol affected the boys she partied with –even though she’d never touched a drop of it. She partied stone-cold sober, remembered every dance, kiss, and hurried run down dark hallways. She remembered how the boys truly believed her when she said she’d see them in the morning. She knew how they’d react when they found she was gone. She knew they wouldn’t remember her face clearly; though she’d surely remember theirs.

But by no means did Noelle sleep around. Sure, she took advantage of the boys she slept with. But it was only once in a while and only if the boy was exceptionally cute and even more drunk. She preferred to dance and tease, and laugh when boys got frustrated that she wouldn’t follow them to an empty bedroom. She loved the look on their faces, how they begged her and slurred the three simple words Noelle knew weren’t true.

To put it simply, Noelle was a heartbreaker.

She was gorgeous. Not in the traditional super model way, though, as everyone would have expected. She had hips, a small chest, a flat stomach with just a bit of curve. She was tanned, and had slight acne and the scars to match. Her skin was sort of oily and shiny, and her eyeliner was always messed up and smudgy by the end of the day. She dressed in ripped flare jeans, ratty sneakers or flip flops, and her brother’s old tee shirts or tight tank tops. Her hair was messy, long and curly, and her bangs were always in her face, just a bit. But that’s what made her attractive. She had a wild side, one that didn’t need alcohol to surface, and was completely care free. At school, she was rather reserved, turning down any boy who dared to ask her out with a quiet apology and a blush.

There was, however, one boy who saw right through her, who was determined to call her out.

Alex Gaskarth knew love existed; he just hadn’t found it yet.

He had had his share of girlfriends, his share of meaningless sex at parties, and often a combination of the two all in one night. He went to parties, headed straight for the hard liquor, and let the alcohol work its charm. He didn’t care how hung-over he’d be the next morning, or what he’d say to the poor girl he slept with if he she was awake when he left. None of it mattered, because he was determined to find the One. He knew that somewhere out there, preferably somewhere relatively close to where he lived, was the one girl he was meant to be with. Alex knew there was a girl made just for him, and him alone. They’d fall in love, she’d come to his shows, and she’d tour with the band or stay home and take care of their house, and they’d get married and he’d have his wife and two kids and a house with a dog and a white picket fence to come home to after tours.

But Alex hadn’t found her yet.

There were plenty of girls he had said he’d loved. But that was only because they had said it first. Because as much as Alex went through and used girls, he wasn’t heartless enough to break it off with them just because they thought they loved him. So he’d stick it out for a week or so, whispering it back to them, and then call them up and end it. He still hadn’t perfected the art of breaking up. He was a sucker for tears, and when the girls cried, which he learned was inevitable, it was almost enough for him to laugh and claim he was kidding. But not quite enough.

Because Alex, too, was a heartbreaker. But not by choice.

Alex was the boy of every girl’s dreams. He was skinny, but still had a little muscle. He was toned just enough so it showed he cared about his appearance, but not so much that he seemed obsessive. He was relatively pale, but not completely white. It was obvious he didn’t go out of his way to sit in the sun. Alex was one of the few boys in the grade who could pull of his hairstyle: long and messy, medium brown, and streaked with small chunks of blonde throughout. Occasionally, he’d throw in a bandana tied around his head, just because he was Alex and could get away with it. He wore tight pants, sort of looser tee shirts, and beat up Nike high-tops. His only good subject was English, and even with that, he didn’t care all that much about school. To him, music and his band were more important. And if none of that was enough, if you listened closely when he spoke, he had the faintest hint of a British accent, barely there, but not quite gone completely.

But there was still one girl who wouldn’t fall for his charm, whether he was drunk or not.