The Misunderstanding of Fate

Chapter 4 - Shopping Trips

That's the last of our communication for the rest of the week. Thankfully. Now, that's not to say I don't see him because I do. George seems to be everywhere and anywhere. In the corridors, leaving classrooms I'm waiting to enter, and especially outside near my bench. What makes his constant presence worse is that he stares, unmoving and unashamed, even when I catch his eye. There's no embarrassment there. Nothing wavering or doubtful. One afternoon, he even came to sit on the bench again. Although this time he didn't look at me once. Nothing was said between us and, as soon as the bell went, we soon went our separate ways. Throughout the week, I had noticed his friends would sometimes be looking my way when he failed to do so. There was literally no escaping him.

By Saturday, Im beyond thankful to be far, far away from that place. From him. My dad and I have decided to take a trip to the shops since we had been surviving on basically nothing all week. There was only so much toast I could enjoy. Once upon a time my mother would take me to do the shopping with her. She was the one that managed the money and knew how to use it to get the things we all would like. She was clever like that.

My dad is pushing the trolley through the aisles, making lame jokes, as I follow by his side. Without thinking too much about what he's saying, I laugh anyway. Truthfully, I had missed him recently. This was how I remembered him to be: funny, awkward, but completely adorable. My arm loops with his as we stroll almost aimlessly. Before we arrived here, we had got in to a heated exchange over my attire. I couldn't see what was wrong with my short dungarees but my dad thought dungarees were "supposed to be long like trousers" and "couldn't understand why they would do that". I had personally found it funny but kept my laughter inside to respect his stern look. Years ago, the comments would have ended up in a real argument. Being a teenager meant that any comments made by parents felt like a challenge. Now I knew better.

"I should have made a list," my dad sighs, "Next time, we will bring a list."

Giggling, I shake my head, "We definitely won't."

"Don't argue with me," he scoffs, "but you're probably right."

"Princess?"

The voice, the pet name and the hidden emotion in that greeting has me shivering and coming to a stop. I fail to miss the amused look dad throws at me while I turn to face George. Of course, he's with his friends who all smile warmly at my father. How come they were all so welcoming to him while I was scared out of my life? That doesn't seem fair. What had I done to them? George's eyes scan the scene, taking in our looped arms and my outfit, before settling on a small smile. I hope the amusement in his face is due to the paint splats scattered over my dungarees and not because of the outfit itself.

"Uh," my dad interrupts while nudging my side, "I'm going to find something. Catch up with me, Luna."

As he walks away with the trolley down the aisle and around the corner, I make a mental note to run over him with it when I have the chance. At the absence of my only barrier, I fold my arms over one another across my chest. George makes a quick motion with his head, with no other communication, and they all quickly exit the aisle to leave us alone. Great. Had he seemingly found his voice after a week of not using it and was following me to showcase that? Was he here to avenge himself after the slap?

"You're a daddy's girl then."

No feelings of anger rush through me at his comment. Keeping my face blank, I reply as bluntly as I can, "When you don't have the option of both, you kind of have to pick."

Instantly, he catches on. The knowing smirk falls from his face as quickly as it arrived. He didn't expect that, probably, and he definitely didn't expect the bluntness of my sharing. We stand in silence for moment as though it could act as an eraser for the previous conversation.

"No skirt for me today?"

My eyes look down at my outfit. Rather than ignoring the statement completely, I decide to humour him, "Apparently not."

That smirk is back, "I'm sure you told me you got it and yet you continue to be rude to me..."

The want, or need, to inform him how much of an asshole he is overwhelms me at this point. However, my desire to stay out of his way and off his radar overpowers any anger. Taking the defeat and the high road, I let the word slip out, "Sorry."

His reaction is almost laughable. George looks so taken back for a second before tilting his head at my obedience. Obedience? Like a pet. After digesting my response, he changes the subject,"What's your opinion on pizza?"

My eyebrows furrow at the completely normal topic. How did I feel about pizza? Who didn't love pizza? "I mean, as long as it doesn't have pineapple on then it's pretty much the perfect food. Why d-"

"Seven it is then." George is nodding. He sounds so sure of himself. What?

"Seven what?" I question, "Pizzas? That's kind of a lot for one person."

His deep chuckle throws me off yet again. Now that we had experienced more than one encounter, I found his laughter and any soft smiles to be more concerning than the anger. The furrowed eyebrows and even the smirks were expected. The laughter is not.

"Seven o'clock. It's a time. The time I'm picking you up."

If I could pause this moment and rewind the tape. Go back and predict how this encounter would go, this conversation wouldn't be on any of my guesses. Instead, I would have gone with anger. An angry encounter. Either George would have been angry about the slap or I could have chosen to be angry about the closet incident.

"Excuse me?" Even I can recognise that my voice sounds strained. Hopefully, that allows him to understand that I'm almost offended at the suggestion. (Not that it was a suggestion. Rather, a command.)

He has the cheek to let out another chuckle while looking highly amused. "See you at seven, sweetheart."

My eyes narrow into slits, "No princess now?" George instantly picks up on my mocking tone. Since we're in public and my dad is in the areas, I assume he wouldn't try anything... invasive. Once again, I was wrong. I let out a little yelp as his fingers loop through the belt holes either side of my hips. With this new found power, the infuriating boy yanks our bodies together. Honestly, I had never spent so much time so close to someone. Especially someone I barely knew. Our faces are close, the smell of smoke is less prominent today, as we watch each other. For the first time, I notice that he's got a little birth mark directly next to his eye. It's almost hidden by his eyelashes.

When he speaks, his voice is low, "I can admit when I'm wrong about someone. Can you?

In an attempt to give myself space, I place my hands on his upper arms to push our faces apart. I want to tell him that I had no prejudgments of him and that I had no idea who he was. I want to tell him that I had dismissed any rumours I had heard. But that's not the truth. What is true is that he proved every single thing I had heard the moment he sat on my bench. Although, I couldn't personally describe him as violence. Invasive? absolutely. Arrogant? definitely. An utter control freak? yes. But not violent. Not yet.

At the thought of violence, our last encounter flashes through my mind as a reminder. "The slap..." I stubbornly do not want to apologise. I don't want to use the word 'sorry' again in our conversation. Instead, I simply pluck at the conversation and hope he takes care of the rest. Hopefully, he says something to stop me from feeling any slither of guilt.

Looking completely unbothered as his eyes scan over the top I'm currently wearing, George replies, "It was pretty weak. I expected more from a city girl."

The arrogant glint in his eyes, as well as how he attempted to brush the whole thing off, instantly makes me feel less at fault. Besides, I think I was heavily influenced by his aura. I was, in no way, a violent person. Even thinking of slapping him now seems ridiculous.

Another highly influencing factor was probably the mention of my mother. It had taken me by surprise, as the whole encounter had, but even her name had sparked something inside me. That was the first time I had heard someone else use her name in... maybe a year. Perhaps that's why he is brushing it off. Perhaps it's pity. He's just learnt I don't have a mother and he's remembered how he mentioned her name just before I hit him.

Gosh, I hit him.

Ridiculous.

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