AN: This is written for the November/December prompt on Towers of Alicante. Tense change in last scene is deliberate.
Prompt: "'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." - Alfred Lord Tennyson
Jordan had always known that he was a selfish creature. As long as he was happy, who the fuck cared about anyone else?
The first time Jordan talked to her, she was sitting stiffly next to her brother's grave. He had been visiting his stepmother's grave—because God knows his biological mother was never really a mom—and she had been visiting her brother's. All he knew about her, from school gossip, was that her brother had died the previous year. He'd always thought that Daniel was a bit of a bully, but maybe that wasn't the best thing to say to someone who was mourning his death. Maia was pretty, he noted. Curly hair, nice ass.
"Were you two close?" he asked. His naturally curious side had won over the logical side that warned him that interrupting a crying lady in distress was a fucking bad idea. She nearly jumped when she heard his voice.
Her countenance turned almost expressionless with the slightest hint of annoyance. She stood up hastily. "I don't see why that's any business of yours," she responded acidly. Her hand subconsciously tightened into a fist around a blade of grass, and she broke it off violently.
He held his hands up in a whoa there gesture. "I was just wondering. You don't have to bite my head off."
"No."
"Wha—"
"That's my reply to your question. We weren't close." She nearly spat the words out.
"Is that why you've been staring at his gravestone for the past hour?" Jordan said sarcastically. In retrospect, it probably wasn't a good idea to be a sarcastic asshat to a girl who had already expressed her dislike of him, but Jordan had never been well-known for being able to think things through properly.
She reddened immediately. "Don't speak a word about my brother and my relationship. You don't know shit about us, and I sure as hell don't know why you're talking to me like you actually know something about me."
She grabbed her bag and stalked off, making sure to give him a withering glare on her way past him just for good measure.
She was everywhere.
A throwaway conversation in a cemetery should not have been able to make Jordan this interested in a girl. It turned out that he had algebra II with Maia. It took a lapse in common sense and a healthy dose of overconfidence to get him to take a leap and sit next to her. A minute or two passed as she tried to remember where she had seen him before, but when she did, she proceeded to turn away huffily, ignoring him.
Thus began Jordan's ridiculous pursuit of Maia Roberts. His friends called him a stalker. He preferred to call it "knowing what he wanted." Asking a girl out relentlessly had its perks, and Jordan's biggest perk came in the form of a frustrated sigh and a hissed "yes" given over a stack of algebra II notes. Two weeks later, they were officially boyfriend and girlfriend.
The day when Maia told him about Daniel was the day Jordan had least been expecting it. They had been at the beach, and the fact that Jordan had even attempted to cook them a meal marked it as a very good day indeed. He remembered grabbing her hand to drag her into the surf. He was feeling especially bold that day, and he unwittingly asked her about a scar on her arm that he had always been curious about.
She ran off immediately, leaving him to wonder what the hell he had done wrong.
He found her on a secluded part of the beach. Her face was stony as she fingered the scar pensively, not even looking up as he approached. "Maia?" he called out. "You okay?" He stood a few feet away from her, afraid to go any closer for fear of her running away again.
"Do you remember the day you met me?" she asked suddenly. He nodded, wondering what she was getting at. "I was at my brother's grave."
"I remember," he said softly.
"My brother—he wasn't a good person. Not at all," she whispered. And then the story came pouring out, like breaking a dam that had been held back for too long. The sneaky pinches, the kicks under the table, the bruises, the lies to their parents, the broken arm…
By the end of her monologue, his arms were wrapped around her, and her head was on his shoulder. "He can't hurt you anymore. I'm here. I'll never hurt you," Jordan vowed.
When the realization hit, he had been highly intoxicated. Perhaps the fact that it had taken an abnormal amount of alcohol to make him contemplate the idea that he loved her said something about their relationship. But as soon as it hit him, it hit him. One minute he was a teenager with at least a vestige of control over his emotions and the next, he was head-over-heels in love.
He called her that night. A few slurred ramblings had her berating him in a no-nonsense tone—a tone he didn't even know she had before he began dating her. "You're drunk, Jordan. Say that to me again when you're sober." He could practically hear her roll her eyes over the phone.
"But I do mean it. I love you more than…more than…" After a few more minutes of searching for an adequate comparison, he gave up. "Well, I don't actually know, but I love you more than a lot of things," he slurred.
Maia laughed. "Goodnight, Jordan," she said firmly.
The next morning, after a shitload of coffee and an actual attempt to tame his forever-tousled hair, he repeated the sentiment. Apparently, he was even more of a romantic than he originally thought, because she enveloped him into an embrace immediately.
Best sex he ever had.
When he looked back on that night, he was always grateful for the fact that he had something to blame. People did bad things all the time, and he was just one of many bastards who had hurt the girl he loved.
But he would always, always remember her struggle, how her flailing arms didn't even manage to bruise him, how he couldn't stop himself as he pulled on her long hair, how he pinned her body down as he brushed his teeth against her smooth skin.
She'd cried that night.
Jordan could count on one hand how many times he'd seen her cry. It had been an almost disturbing experience for him, seeing Maia break down like that.
Before his sharp teeth broke skin, she had accidentally called him Daniel. A shrill scream pierced the night air as she looked at him with an expression she had never used on him before.
Fear.
I'll never hurt you.
Blood spilled from the wound, marking his body.
It was everywhere.
Even though Jordan had fucked-up werewolf urges to blame, he always wound up blaming himself.
"Sometimes, I wish I'd never met you at all!" Maia's words ring in his ears, effectively ending another groveling session. She shakes off the hand wrapped around her wrist, which is urging her to sit back down and hear him out. "I look at you and I can't help but be reminded that this is your fault, Jordan." She shakes her head. "I'm sorry."
As he watches her drift farther and farther away from him (and closer to that insufferable Simon), he cannot help but think about her words.
He really is the most selfish bastard ever.
Because he knows that even if he can turn back the clock, he wouldn't—couldn't—change the words that had come out of his mouth that day he had seen a lonely girl in a cemetery.