The Stepbrother // Luke Hemmings

"do i know you?"

this picture is really cute ok

also I couldn't be bothered to reread all of this over, so please excuse typos.

32 | "do I know you?"

"Anastasia, do you think you can stop sitting around staring at that computer for just a second and actually do something! Mrs. Báringer needs the color cards, they're in the truck." With her arms full of tablecloths and her hair messily hanging around her face, my mom shoots an aggravated glance at me over her glasses, and disappears into the banquet hall.

Looking up from my laptop, I turn to look out the window at her and shout, "I'll be there in a second!"

All day, my mom has been in crazy "my wedding needs to be perfect" mode and we, meaning our entire house have all been running around, finalizing the order of the wedding ceremony and reception, tasting several different samples of wedding cake, and designing color pallets with the florist, for her.

I am incredibly tired to say the least, I'm freaking starving and my shoulder is killing me. With a quiet groan, I shut my computer screen, tuck it back into the back pocket of the drivers seat and twist around in the car to look for the book of color arrangements we picked up earlier.

It's wedged underneath crates full of other wedding binders, and I lean over further to grab it. Wrapping my fingers around the corner, I pull it out and rest it in my lap before sighing and popping the car door open.

Quickly heading into the banquet hall, I shuffle into the main room where my mom and Andrew are following a small woman around. She's loud, and boisterous with long, flowing blonde hair, "Are those the palettes de couleurs?"

My mom looks back at me, nods, and literally snatches the book from my hands. The force yanks my arm forward, and I let out an involuntarily yelp.

Pain seeps through my shoulder, I hurriedly reach up with my free hand and clutch it, "Oh my God, my arm!" Something sharp shoots through my arm, and I swallow hard, trying not to cry, "Ah!"

Mrs. Báringer narrows her eyebrows looking from me to my mom, "What is wrong ... avec la jeune fille?"

My mom rolls her eyes, "Rien, she's dramatic."

"I am not being dramatic, Mom! My arm, it really hurts." I say, through gritted teeth. "I think I'm gonna need to go to the hospital."

Her eyes roll, like she's mad at me that I hurt my arm, and she blinks, "What do you want me to do, Anastasia? I can't take you and I need Andrew here. Go to the bar and see if they have ice or something."

Then she looks back at the wedding planner, shakes her head with an apologetic smile, and motions for her to continue.

For a brief second, I almost wish that she wasn't my mother because according to the few choice words that are floating around my head it wouldn't exactly be respectful of me to say to her. Looking away, I choose to busy myself with trying not to cry at how much my shoulder actually hurts, than to actually get mad at her. Whatever the hell fell on me a few days ago in that fucking closet, really did damage, because it honestly feels like hell.

Andrew shakes his head, and then he's pulling out his phone and handing it to me, "Call Luke, he'll take you."

"What?" I mumble, my voice cracking.