Third Suitor

                                    

                                          
Jasmine

                          
Weakness. I hate this feeling. It is defined as the lack of strength, something I've built up for many years, only to crumble in ruins.
                          
It is Thursday night. I'm standing in front of Allan, who is standing in his doorway.
                          
"Jasmine?" He stares at me quizzically, his gray eyes half-open from sleepiness. "What are you doing here? It's almost eleven."
                          
"I like you," I confess, my gaze on his shocked face. 

                          
Allan blinks profusely at my admission. I let the three words hang in the air for a generous moment, knowing the profession, from me nonetheless, had taken him by surprise.
                          
"You heard me right," I assure him, not once breaking eye-contact. "I like you, Allan," I repeat with more conviction. 

                          
He looks at me hopelessly. "Jasmine.."
                          
I hold up one palm while saying, "Let me finish. I'm not expecting you to return my feelings. I just wanted to let you know of mine." I pause, surveying his handsome albeit sleep-deprived face. "I know you haven't moved on from Isabelle, I understand and respect that. I also know you've broken up with Rebecca.."
                          
I trail off, waiting for him to deny my claim, and when remains quiet, I clear my throat before I continue tactfully, "So I get it if you're not ready for another relationship, not with me, but with someone else. 

                          
Although if you choose to date again, don't feel obligated to pick me, especially out of pity and guilt. I want to be the first choice. I don't deserve to be with someone who is still in love with someone else. I have more self-worth than that."
                          
"Are you done?" asks Allan, his lips twitching. 
                          
My violet eyes glance at him wonderingly. "More or less."
                          
He's searching my face, I notice, but for what exactly? 

                          
"Truth be told, I didn't develop any serious feelings for Rebecca," he admits frankly, and I can see the honesty etched in his expression. "She was keen on becoming my girlfriend, tenacious even. She asked if we could try being a couple, see how it works out." He shakes his head lightly. "But it didn't."
                          
I listen to him attentively, tucking my hands into the pockets of my peach short shorts that match my sleeveless top.
                          
He meets my eyes as he goes on. "Isabelle.. She and I both knew, even before we became official, that we wouldn't last forever. She lives in Japan and I live here. Neither of us was at fault. Some things just aren't meant to be."
                          
 His voice is tinged with mild pain. "And you're right, I'm still not over her. How can I forget someone who gave me so much to remember? Yes, we fought, yes, we had our differences, but we worked through it. We communicated. But that wasn't enough to maintain a relationship. We always needed more, wanted more, and we tried to ignore that fact as much as we could, but it caught up to us eventually.. so we split up."
                          
I'm not sure if I should say something, anything, but I opt to remain silent.
                          
"So.. that's it," he finishes morosely with a somber expression. 

                          
When I meet his gray eyes, he looks as sullen as I feel. "I like you," I repeat sincerely, uncertain of what else to say.
                          
Allan stares at me. "Thank you."
                          
"..Good night," I tell him before I retreat into my own unit.
                          
"You're even prettier in person," says Damon Sandoval from across the square, white-clothed table.

                          
It is Friday evening. I am in one of the most elegant restaurants in Manila, having my third marriage interview. 

                          
Thank God it's my last.
                          
For this "meeting," I primped myself more delicately.
                          
 My luscious black hair is up, styled into a messy but captivating bun, with loose locks to frame the sides of my face in a sexy, alluring manner, but still demure, of course. I am wearing a sleeveless black maxi dress with knee-high slits on either side of my legs. My feet are encased in three-inch ebony Grecian heels, while my neck is adorned with a simple silver necklace.
                          
"The appropriate term is 'gorgeous,'" I inform him haughtily, a smirk on my ruby lips.
                          
"R-right. My mistake," he stammers, looking nervous.
                          
Contrary to my expectation, Damon Sandoval isn't a rude, obnoxious, pig-headed man whose arrogance knows no bounds.
                          
Evidently, he is the complete opposite of the image I've concocted in my mind. He's shy, bashful, soft-spoken, and most importantly, he's head over heels in love with me even though he hasn't spent any time knowing me better.
                          
What a lovesick fool. He's just like the others, admiring me, lusting after me, liking me for what I am and not for who I truly am. They don't love me. They love my title, my fame, my wealth. Certain things catch their eyes, but they never pursue what catches their hearts.
                          
While Damon and I wordlessly peruse our menus, I am discreetly stealing glances in his direction, appraising him in critical silence.
                          
For someone so timid, he has the body of a football player. Tall, but not too tall--six feet, most likely, with a buff physique and toned muscles. His cat-like eyes are the color of dark chocolate, his black hair is short and neat, his features annoyingly asymmetrical.
                          
If his face was cut in half, it would be perfectly separated.
                          
I try to stifle a giggle at my morbid thoughts, but Damon raises his chin to look at me quizzically as he stutters, "I-is.. is s-something wrong?"
                          
"You should be grateful that I decided to give you the time of day," I tell him loftily, infusing arrogance into my words, effortlessly showing him how conceited I can be. "Millions of people would kill to have me talk to them, you know?"
                          
"Right, yes, of course." Damon shakes his head vigorously, agreeing with my complacency  completely.
                          
I clench my teeth at his taciturn attitude. "Be honest, Damon, do you like me?"
                          
"Yes!" He say fiercely, staring into my eyes obsessively.
                          
"How much?" I challenge him, leaning forward to study his reaction.
                          
"So much," he replies almost feverishly, his cheeks turning pink. "I like you so much."
                          
"Why?" I demand, slamming my fists on the table, fixing him with a glare. 

                          
"I.. I just do.." Damon's face is red as a tomato. 

                          
The waiter shows up, takes our orders and menus, and leaves to serve another table.
                          
Sighing heavily, I cross my arms in front of my chest, then I lean back, feeling displeased with his answer. 

                          
Damon continues to praise me, complimenting my hair and face and outfit and achievements. Out of boredom, my violet eyes surreptitiously scan the restaurant, drinking in the sight of men in suits dining with women in tight dresses and expensive jewelry.
                          
My heart freezes over when I spot two familiar faces in the room.
                          
Sitting at a table against a maroon wall is a tall young man with black hair, gray eyes, and charcoal gray blazer over a black shirt and slacks.
                          
Keeping him company, babbling cheerfully as usual, is a young girl with long brown hair, yellow eyes that shine like topazes, and casual black dress with short sleeves and knee-length skirt and black flats.
                          
Allan and Jolene?

                          
What in the hell..?