Cheaters.
I've dealt with my fair share of them in the past and although it hurt knowing that I had invested so much time in someone whilst they were practically bedding half of the student population behind my back, I'd gotten over those break-ups fairly quickly. I wasn't one to dwell, especially over guys who had wandering eyes and in turn, wandering dicks.
But, this—this was a whole new level of fucked up.
Standing in the doorway of my boyfriend's flat, I drop my things on the wooden floor, glancing around the eerily quiet room. The lights were all off, save for the illumination of light peeking through the bottom crack of a door down the hallway. My eyes squint in the unusual darkness, searching around for the familiar switch and I nearly head-butt the wall during my endeavours as the room finally springs to life.
I scowl at the ground, searching for the culprit that had almost caused a probable concussion and find a cascade of shoes lying messily around my feet. This place was always a pigsty—that's what happened when you allowed college boys to live together. Clean wasn't a word in their vocabulary; they had no idea what it even meant.
Kicking the shoes out of my way, I grunt, still noticing the empty presence in the flat, but I make my way down the hall to his closed door anyway.
I knew he was here. I had spotted the familiar black truck in the student reserve parking the moment I had driven up to the building, his stupid custom license plate staring back at me. D Rock.
It was short for Derek; a horrible nickname if you were to ask me. One of his teammates had bought it for him as a birthday gift a few months ago and he hadn't taken it off since. He knew how much I despised the piece of metal, but insisted that he only used it in favour of not hurting his friends feelings. I, on the other hand, was not so convinced that this was the only reason. I'm sure he secretly loved the hideous plate, though I wasn't sure why.
The soft lyrics of an unknown song grows louder and louder as I trudge down the corridor towards his room and I eye the bright light peaking through the cracks of the door.
I knew it. He could ignore all of my texts if he wanted, but he wasn't going to get out of talking to me that easily. I knew that in about twenty seconds Derek was about to extremely regret giving me a key to his flat last month because I was about to rip him a new one. I was about to give him a piece of my mind and make him wish he—
The second I shove the door open, I stop dead in my tracks, losing all train of thought as if my brain had just been unplugged and shut down for the night. The image in front of me makes my heart drop to the pit of my stomach and I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry or both.
Despite the sheets covering their bodies, I can faintly see the golden locks of Derek's hair accompanied by the stark platinum blonde bun laying against his pillows. Their bodies shift back and forth against the bed, their moans synchronized to the beat of the music playing softly, the headboard rattling with every movement.
I stand still at the door, my face a mixture of every horrified expression. What the actual fuck was going on? Despite the picture in front of me, I still had a hard time grasping it. It had to be some sort of sick joke because there was no way that my boyfriend was actually cheating on me. There was no way he was listening to Let's Get it On whilst quite literally getting it on. There was no way that this situation could possibly be happening to me for a third time in my life, right?
I knew the saying—cheat on me once, shame on you. Cheat on me twice— okay, maybe I should have spotted the red flags after the first time, but still shame on you. Cheat on me three times—was there something clearly wrong with my vagina that I didn't know about?
Derek's loud moans interrupt my thoughts and I decide that I've probably stood there unnoticed long enough.
"You two having fun?" I ask bitterly, an obvious rhetorical question; although I'm sure Derek's low brain capacity will not understand this. He has the IQ and awareness of a bloody turtle.
Derek yelps, all but jumping out of the bed, causing the crisp white sheets to fall into a messy heap on the ground. His familiar blue eyes find mine instantly; a look of panic meeting a look rage, like he'd just seen an actual ghost and like I... well, had just found out my boyfriend was cheating on me.
I cross my hands under my armpits, an attempt to hold me back from the urge to jump across the room and strangle him. I'd kill him if it weren't for the fact that I would end up in jail. I've marathoned enough of How to Get Away with Murder to know that I would most definitely not get away with it. Derek's bed buddy over there would be a witness, unless I killed her too.
I genuinely interest the idea for a moment before Derek mutters my name. He's still sitting in front of his accomplice, but now has the decency to cover his naked body with the fallen sheets. Such a pure gentleman.
"Let me guess, it's not what it looks like?" I recite the most clichéd phrase known to mankind (well, despite the phrase: it's not you, it's me), but it's really not what it looks like. As if the universe wanted to rub a little more salt into the wound, the girl shoots up from behind Derek and I finally get a good like at her.
Well, him.
Because sitting in front of me is none other than Reece Matthews, captain of the softball team and Derek's teammate, whose gift shines brightly on Derek's truck. His man bun and stark naked body fill my vision, as if taunting me and I can physically feel all of the colour drain from my face. It didn't take a genius to put two and two together, but still, for some reason I stand there racking my brain for an explanation that could possibly make sense.
Derek quickly shoves the sheets to Reece upon realizing he's sprung up from the shadows. He glances back at me wearily, like I'm about to physically combust at any moment and his eyes search mine in a panic. "Rory—"
I don't let him finish. A loud laugh erupts from my throat instead, although I'm not humoured in the slightest. "Oh, my god." My heart drops at the words that are about to come out of my mouth. "Are you gay?"
He doesn't say no. He doesn't say he's experimenting or that he likes women and men or that he's not sure yet. He doesn't say anything that solidifies the fact that yes, he likes me and maybe he likes him too, but he's trying to figure things out. Not that I'm sure it would make me feel any better, not that it would change the fact that he was still cheating on me, but at the very least it would put the thought swimming in my head that this relationship was all a big lie to bed. That the relationship wasn't all one sided, that the relationship was never really real for him because for me it was, it really was.
He doesn't say no. Instead, he looks at me with so much guilt and hesitantly nods.
"Oh my god."
"Just— please let me explain."
His words light a fire inside me, the heat rising from my stomach, fighting its way to my mouth like bubbling acid. I was livid, my jaw so tense that it felt like it could break in half any minute. "Explain? What can you possibly explain that I can't see with my own two eyes? You're in bed naked with him— I think that explains enough."
It takes everything in me not to imagine all the times that Reece and Derek were probably intimate in the locker room behind my back or in his bed that I'd slept in. Just the thought of it made me want to run into a scolding hot shower and scrub my body of every memory we'd made for hours on end.
"Rory—"
"How long?" I interrupt, my voice raw and hoarse, holding back the pain and tears that are begging to fall. I don't really want to know the answer, I know it'll only make it worse, but the words escape me before I even have a chance to think it over.
"Four months," he whispers so quietly that I almost don't hear it. I wish I hadn't heard it.
4 fucking months. 16 weeks. 124 days spent together, 124 days he was cheating on me, 124 days I spent living a lie. My stomach twists in an all too familiar feeling.
I stand in silence, waiting—I wasn't sure for what, but Derek doesn't say anything, doesn't even look at me, so I turn on my heels, deciding that I had grasped enough of the situation in front of me and practically run for the front door. The sounds of shuffling and small whispers accompany the silence and I'm in the middle of grabbing my things from the floor before Derek's scummy voice calls out from the bedroom.
"Rory, wait."
I look up in time to see him rushing out of the door despite Reece's protests. He at least now has the decency to put on a pair of boxers, but I don't stay long enough to listen to what he has to say. It didn't matter.
I try not to cry whilst I'm alone in the lift, which seems like the longest ride of my life, though it's really only a minute.
Breathe, I tell myself as the doors open to the lobby. Just breathe. You've got a bottle of red wine and pint of ice cream with your name on it waiting for you at home. All you have to do is breathe.
I'm two seconds away from opening the big glass doors of the complex and never seeing Derek's now extremely punchable face again when I hear a door slam shut loudly behind me and feel a pair of hands reach for my shoulders. I'm forcefully turned around and met with Derek's wild eyes, silently pleading for me to stay and listen.
It takes everything in me not to kick him where the sun doesn't shine as I push my hands forcefully against his chest. He stumbles back, his hands losing contact from me instantly.
"Don't fucking touch me, Derek."
"Rory, please! Please, just listen—I-I love you. This isn't... this wasn't-" he stumbles over his words, trying to catch his breath, but the next few ones are like radio silence. His lips are moving, but I don't process any of it.
Instead I'm focusing on those three words that did make it to my ears. Those three unfair, thoughtless words. I'd imagined him saying those words to me so many times — maybe we'd be walking in the park and he'd just let it slip out on accident or maybe he'd take me out for dinner and say it like he'd rehearsed a dozen times nervously before, but I don't ever imagine it like this.
I'm seething, saliva almost spilling out of my mouth as adrenaline and hate pumps through my veins. He went there. He seriously fucking went there. All I can do is laugh, manically. "You love me? You're joking, right? Please, please tell me you did not just say that to me right now."
He runs a hand through his already messy hair before sporting an expression I knew too well. Sad, tearful eyes, deep frown and furrowed brows— something he'd usually do in order to get me to forgive him quickly whenever we argued and it truly disgusts me.
What did he think this was? Just some little dispute where I'd accept his apology and suddenly everything would be okay again? That he could not only cheat one me, but lie to me throughout our whole relationship and suddenly I would be okay with being his beard again? Knowingly, this time? No chance in hell.
"You've got to understand that—"
"Understand what? That this has all been just one big fucking joke to you? Playing with my feelings, pretending to be my boyfriend, pretending to even like me, for what? To hide the fact that you're gay? You didn't need to fucking use me to do that," I spit out, venomously. "Holy shit, even saying it out loud, I'm like what the fuck? Do you hear how messed up that is?"
"Rory, just listen—"
"No, I'm done."
"Rory, please."
"Save it, Derek," I interrupt, knowing full well that he was probably going to shoot out another poor, laughable excuse and I just didn't have the energy to listen anymore. Not only was he a lying prick, but he was a lying prick who severely underestimated me and it was offensive. "If it wasn't already clear, we're over. I'm serious— I don't ever want to talk to you or see you ever again."
I turn around on my heels for the second time that day and am halfway out the door when Derek shouts my name again desperately. I'd had enough of his whiny voice saying my name. Truth be told, I never wanted to hear him utter it again, so I look back at him for what I decide is the last time, my angry gaze burning holes into his solemn features.
"What?!"
Derek looks back timidly, like he's about to cry— like I'm the one who cheated on him, like I'm the one who lied throughout our whole relationship, like I'm the one who broke his heart and trust.
He shifts, his eyes averting down to the ground. His voice is barely above a whisper when he says, "please, I know you're mad and you probably hate me and you have every single right to—but please... please don't tell anyone. You- you can't tell anyone."
My heart drops at his words. It's the first time I had felt the slightest bit sorry for him since I walked in and out of his flat, but as soon as those feelings are introduced, I swallow them back down, anger now subsiding. I could feel tears threatening to fall because out of every fucked up thing that had just happened, this statement hurts the most. That he could ever think that I was capable of doing something like that; that I would ever intentionally hurt someone I loved or thought I loved.
It sprung on me then that even after spending eight months together, even if those eight months were all based on deception, that maybe he didn't truly know me just like I didn't truly know him and I try to hold onto the fact, telling myself that maybe it'll help ease the hurt. If I hadn't known he was gay, then I assumed that no one knew—it was a secret and definitely not mine to tell and I wasn't about to upend someone's life despite the endless amounts of animosity I now harboured for Derek.
"I won't." His head shoots up in surprise, but I shake my head at his reaction. "But not because I'm doing it for you. I'd feel like a shitty person if I did that and I don't deserve to feel that way, you do."
Not waiting for a response, I finally walk out of the building and as soon as I'm met with the outside air, rain droplets fall from the sky, hitting me roughly on my bare arms as if it were a sign from the cosmos. The sky is dark and grey and I know exactly how it feels.
I'm grabbing the keys from my purse and am halfway to my car before I notice Derek's black truck from the corner of my eye, the white license plate staring back at me mockingly as my path changes towards it instead. Derek stands against the door, watching me with eyes full of confusion and then horror.
Before my mind can even tell me not to, I lift my leg up, kicking the lettered plate with my heel. I kick and kick the frustration out of my body and onto the metal before I'm content. The plate is bent in half, revealing only the top part of the letters that spell out D-Rock and I stare down at my work with a proud smile.
I always knew there was a reason why I hated that license plate.
11 months later.
I hated a lot things; slow walkers, people who chewed with their mouths open, and those weird balloon animals.
But there was nothing I hated more than obnoxious customers. (Other than the universal hate for any film starring Nicholas Cage, but that was a given.)
I had just started my shift at The Grind, the local coffee shop located on campus and I had already dealt with my fair share of spoilt college girls to last a lifetime. It was all the same orders; the girls wanting their annual Pumpkin Spice lattes, extra whip.
I wasn't a judgemental person— well, I tried not to be at the very least, but when it came to coffee; sacred, sweet coffee, I was as judgemental as they could come. The idea of Pumpkin Spice lattes made me shake my head in revulsion. I couldn't understand the craze for poisoning good ol' coffee with things like pumpkin or peppermint or the absolute worse, salted caramel and if that made me a coffee snob, then so be it. I would gladly die on that caffeine hill.
I'm in the middle of making an espresso for whom I had assumed was a professor, judging from his science themed tie, when a shrill shriek fills the shop. My hands tremble at the sudden noise, the hot coffee spilling over my knuckles in an attempt to save it from dropping to the floor. I hiss at the sudden contact, rushing over to the sink to shove my burning hand under the flow of cold water.
"Um, excuse me," the voice rings out again, annoyance evidently laced through her words.
I look over my shoulder, noticing the platinum blonde I had just served a minute ago standing in front of the till, arms crossed over her chest as she stares back impatiently.
"Just one minute," I breathe out, waiting till I'm turned away to roll my eyes—clearly patience was neither her strong suit or mine this morning. It wasn't even 10 a.m. yet and my tolerance was already wearing incredibly thin.
Shutting off the tap, I grab the hot espresso from the table before handing it to the customer, immediately noticing the peppered red marks that lay across the top of my hand now. Add that to the many list of battle wounds I had accommodated since working here.
The man mutters out a quick thank-you before walking off, briefcase in hand as he exits through the cafe's glass double doors and into the busy school hallway. I reluctantly turn towards the blonde girl, instantly noticing the furrow between her perfectly shaped brows as she holds the logoed white coffee cup in her hand.
I take a deep breath through my nose before turning my lips up into a fake, customer service smile. "How can I help you?"
I barely have time to finish the sentence before the customer is shoving the cup in front of my face. "I ordered a Pumpkin Spice latte and this is not a Pumpkin Spice latte."
I stare at the girl dumbfounded before reluctantly grabbing the cup from her grasp and inspecting it, although I really didn't have to. I could practically smell the conjoined aroma of pumpkin, cinnamon and nutmeg from a mile away. Not to mention the fact that I had distinctly remembered making the drink only a minute ago and was fairly certain that I hadn't developed short-term memory loss in that time.
I pop open the lid anyways, eyeing the familiar orange liquid I had poured at least ten times that half hour before dryly stating, "this is a Pumpkin Spice latte."
The customer scoffs, placing her hands on her hips as some sort of emphasis. "I'm pretty sure I know what a PSL is and that's not it."
PSL? God, these people even had an abbreviation for it.
Noticing the now small line forming behind the till, I eye the girl in front of me, unsure of what to say. The blonde was still wearing a scowl; it was probably permanently etched onto her face. She seemed like one of those people, someone who was never satisfied. Case in point: non-PSL that was actually a PSL.
"Uh, I'm pretty sure this is it."
"Pretty sure doesn't sound like you're certain, does it?" the girl spits out, her taunting voice mocking me as if I were a child.
I grit my teeth, doing everything in my power to hold back from throwing the drink in her face right then and there.
It was a bloody Pumpkin Spice latte. Anybody in their right mind could tell it was a Pumpkin Spice latte. And I swear, if I had to say or hear the words Pumpkin Spice latte one more time, I was going to lose it.
"Look, I can make you a new one if you'd like, but it's going to taste the exact same."
Observing the growing queue behind the irritating customer, I count a line of at least six people waiting, staring at me as I feel my insides start to warm. Stacy had left me alone fifteen minutes ago to take a break, despite my desperate claims for her not leave during the morning rush. We hadn't even been open for two hours yet, but 'she just had to call her boyfriend'. They were still in the honeymoon stage, having to keep in constant contact with each other morning through night. I couldn't really blame her, anyways—I knew that if I had just declined Harriet's pleas to cover her shift this morning that I could be lying peacefully in bed right now instead of having to deal with this customer and her first world problems.
She should be worried about important things like world hunger or global warming or even the fact that the clearly fresh nail varnish on her index finger had already chipped.
"It just doesn't taste good. It doesn't taste like the Starbucks one— this one is bitter."
"That's probably because this isn't Starbucks," I shoot back. "Look, I can make you another drink instead if you don't like it. Our white hot chocolate is very popular."
To be honest, I really just wanted to get her out of my hair because our white hot chocolate actually tasted like watered down chalk, but I wasn't about to tell her that.
"No," the girl whines, her blonde hair almost hitting the customer behind her as she whips it back. "I said I want a Pumpkin Spice latte!"
My insides broil. I could feel the redness of my anger spreading up my neck and to my cheeks. I forced myself to take a breath, to just breathe before I did anything I was going to regret, but I'd had enough. Even giving her plenty of choices and trying to be helpful wasn't working; nothing was working and I was tired of this conversation that was clearly going nowhere.
Whoever made the rule that the customer is always right clearly never had to deal with someone like blondie over here.
"You want what you ordered? Here." I slam the cup on the counter, pushing it down across the black marble forcefully. The blonde gasps, catching it before it falls over the edge. "Take your bitter, non-Starbucks latte and leave if you're not going to order anything else. You're holding up the damn line."
The girl stares back at me in shock, her eyes wide and mouth ajar. I can practically see the anger radiating through her as she clenches her jaw. By the look on her face, I was certain that this was probably the first time she had ever been told no in her life and I half expect the girl to drop down to the floor and have a tantrum, but all she does is mutter a few words to herself before snatching the drink and walking away. The only noise heard in the shop were the clicks of her Valentino pumps on the hardwood floor as she opens and slams the entrance door shut.
The store stays silent as I let out a shaky breath. I try to compose myself as I focus on the wooden floor instead of all of the eyes on me, patting down the red apron that's tied around my waist before plastering a fake smile to greet the next customer.
"Welcome to The Grind. What can I get you today?" My sickly-sweet voice makes me cringe, as I try my best to pretend that that interaction didn't just happen and that I'm not going to get an angry call from my boss the second my shift is over.
I finally look up at the customer now in front of the till; a student. I'd recognized him almost instantly.
The boys lips twitch into a devious smirk upon hearing my greeting and his green eyes sparkle playfully as he leans over the counter to speak. "I know it's only half nine, but I think that's probably going to be the best thing I've seen today."
A snort escapes me. "Well, I'm glad you think so. However, my ass is grass the second my boss finds out," I blurt out before I can stop myself. Nice going, Rory. Swear in front of the customers too. As if your boss won't hate you enough.
I clear my throat awkwardly before asking, "uh, what would you like to order?"
"I'll just have what she had."
My face instantly drops at his request. I search for any recognition of mischief on his face, something to tell me that he was just taking the piss, but his expression stays as stiff as a board.
Well, there's another to add to my hit list.
I breathe out a sigh, trying in vain to hide the annoyance laced in my words. "What size would you like?"
He glances towards the cups on top of the food case, pursing his lips as he holds a finger to them as if in deep thought. Because choosing a size of drink is such a tall task apparently. I fight the urge to roll my eyes when he takes a second too long to decide, but before I have the chance to repeat the question, a loud boisterous laugh fills the air.
The boy's eyes are crinkled almost shut and a full-on grin is covering his face, deep dimples prominent on either side of his cheeks as he finally catches my glance. "Sorry, but you should 'a seen the look on your face. It was brilliant," he states coolly, confidently running a hand through his thick hair.
I would've laughed if it were any other given day, but annoyance seemed to be the only emotion I was able to produce at the moment. Still, I couldn't help the small pull of my lips as I shake my head in quasi-amusement. "Funny. Hasn't anyone ever told you not to mess with people who handle your food and drink?"
The boy chuckles, his long chocolate brown hair moving along with the sound. The familiar face stares back at me with gleeful eyes, evidently proud of his little stint. "Reckon it's good I didn't actually order it then. I'll just have a large black tea. Whatever you've got is fine."
I nod, ringing him up on the till. "That'll be 1 pound 50."
I finally get a chance to properly look at him as he fishes the wallet out of his pocket— how it fit in those too-tight-for-anyone jeans was a mystery I'd probably never solve. I'm not sure what I notice first; the thick lashes that blink around his emerald eyes, the crimson plump of his lips that he bites into as he rummages for change, his black blouse that had one too many buttons open, proudly displaying his chest and an array of intricate tattoos, but I notice it all. Maybe notice too much. Too much that I get distracted by the two sparrows that surround his collarbones and the start of the tattoo on his stomach hidden by the rest of the black fabric. Distracted by the two fine chains and gold pendants around his neck that tilt back and forth as his hand searches his wallet and the rings on his fingers, the mixed metals shining bright beneath the fluorescent lights above us. I wouldn't like to admit it, but everything about him seemed to peak my attention. He was intriguing, to put it lightly.
I had seen him around campus before and was almost certain he'd been in one of my classes last semester, but this was the first time I'd ever talking to him, actually payed attention to him. I couldn't quite remember his name, but I didn't dwell on it for too long— I knew that he probably didn't even know the first letter of mine.
What I did know was that he had quite the reputation around school, not that I ever chose to actively listen to campus gossip, but it was hard not to when it was all people talked about for the majority of last year. The big rumour was that he'd had an affair with one of the Electives professors. Apparently, he'd been bragging about it to one of his mates and a TA had overheard; there wasn't really much proof besides word-of-mouth, but Professor Binks was still put on leave for the rest of the semester. Niall had told me that there was a big investigation over the summer break. I wasn't sure if it was still ongoing, but the second I'd walked back onto campus this semester, all people were talking about was the continued absence of Professor Binks. Some people say she got fired, some people say that her husband made her quit; I didn't care what the truth actually was. All I cared about was the fact that I'd never have to take one of Binks' classes again because after almost failing one my first year, knowing I'd never have to experience that again was a win all in itself.
"1 pound 50," he repeats, cupping the change in his ring-clad fingers before dumping it into my palm. I thank him, putting the change in the till before turning to make his order.
I knew how stereotypical it was to say that all Brits enjoyed their tea, but if there was one thing I'd learned since moving here from New York, it was that it was almost 100% true. Grabbing a bag of Yorkshire tea, I sit it in the cardboard cup before pouring the hot water in, using extra caution not to burn my hand this time around. I double cup the drink and hand it to him, watching as his long fingers slide out of his pocket and wrap fully around it. He wore a lopsided grin, his green eyes still sharing that amused look from earlier and I can't help but notice how good looking he was.
Okay, I lied; good looking was an understatement. He was gorgeous.
Gorgeous in all the ways that made girls think and do stupid things. Even from behind the counter I could tell he had to be at least a good five inches taller than me and I couldn't help but eye his broad shoulders and chiselled jaw or the way his—
He clears his throat and I immediately tear my gaze away from his torso, eyes shooting towards his face as a full-fledged smirk greets me. I try my best not to feel embarrassed knowing he had definitely caught me checking him out. It was fine— I was sure someone as good looking as him had been used to it, but despite the fact, my cheeks still flush pink.
What was he on the spectrum of guys? The cheater? Maybe the confident, cheeky serial dater? The player? I didn't know exactly what he was, all I knew was that he was definitely trouble.
"Uh, enjoy the tea," I hurriedly mutter out, forcing a tight-lipped smile.
His confident gaze shifts down towards my breasts and just as I'm about to tell him off for returning the favour and checking me out too, he glances back up at me. "I will. Thanks, Rory."
And with that, he turns around and walks away. I watch as his black patterned shirt disappears into the crowd of students, free to look him over one last time without getting caught by that stupid, shit-eating grin.
Wait. He said my name. How the fuck did he know my name?
Glancing down at my chest, the familiar bright red name-tag stares back at me and I thank whatever higher power is up there, knowing that for once in my life they'd let me have the upper hand because telling him off for checking me out when he'd just been looking at my name tag would've probably been the final nail in the coffin of my shitty morning.
I continue down the line of customers, serving them hot drinks and occasionally the rare food item. It was when a young brunette walked up to the counter that I notice Stacy had finally come back from her excessive, now 35 minute break. Thankful that I could finally take a little rest, I greet the customer with a more enthusiastic welcome.
The bubbly brunette smiles before skimming over the menu, her eyes dancing back and forth between the boards before they light up in recognition.
"Oh! I'll have a Pumpkin Spice latte. A large one, please."
I really hated a lot of things in life; slow walkers, people who chewed with their mouths open, weird balloon animals, absolutely any film starring Nicholas Cage, and obnoxious customers.
But there was now nothing I hated more than Pumpkin Spice Lattes.
A/N: Hey guys! This is the first time I've put a story on Wattpad. I'm really excited to be posting this on here! I'd love to hear any feedback or comments from anyone reading. Hope you enjoy x