How To Get The Girl

Chapter Eight

☾ S O P H I A ☽

"Dinner tastes amazing, Soph," Brayden says sweetly beside me, flashing me the perfect white toothed smile that I fell for years ago.

I smile back, but mine is tight and more forced. He notices this as his smile falters, but it's only for a second before he grins and looks at my mother as he asks about her day. I knew that Brayden was only kissing up to me because he knew I was still furious about what had happened earlier at his apartment. But even though I was still mad, my anger was slowly fading.

I half expected him to cancel dinner with my parents, as he'd done countless times before, but he actually showed up with flowers at my doorstep. I had accepted them with a smile and let him peck me on the lips, but that was just so my parents didn't know we were arguing. But since the moment he has stepped foot in my apartment, Brayden has done nothing but compliment me.

And, even though I was well aware it was just so my anger toward him simmers down, I still appreciated the effort he was putting in to making things okay. Usually when we fight, we have a sort of stand off before I cave and apologize- even if it wasn't my fault- and he does the same. It happened every time. But not this time.

That's why I was more than surprised when my parents shut the door behind them on their way out, Brayden turned to me and dropped his smile. "Sophie, I'm so sorry."

I tried not to let my surprise show at his willingness to be the first to admit he'd been wrong, and instead kept an impassive expression glued to my face. I walked over to the table and began picking the dishes up, and he trailed behind me desperately, taking the dishes from my hand and bringing them to the sink.

"I know you're pissed," Brayden continues, stepping out from the kitchen and blocking my route, which had been to go to the sink. "I know I was being a dick earlier. And I'm sorry. I'm happy for you that your boss recognizes that you're amazing at art."

I remain suspicious as I appraise him with my eyes. Despite his words, I struggled to hear anything genuine in his tone— instead, the words seemed almost rehearsed.

"It's okay if you're still mad at me," Brayden adds. "But go think about what I said while I take care of the dishes here."

Even more surprise bites at me, but I don't let it interfere with his proposition. Instead I look at him for a long moment, searching his eyes to capture how he really felt, but couldn't find any proof that refuted my notion of his ingenuity. When I can't prove my gut theory correct, I turn and walk down the hall toward my bedroom and let him handle the dishes.

While I'm showering, I think of Brayden's half assed apology, Mr. Bates commission, and the questions my parents had questioned us during dinner earlier. It had been the usual, when are you moving in together? Sophia, did you apply for the manager position? Brayden, when are you going to pop the question?

Brayden became more similar to my parents as he gets older. While he used to be more laidback and carefree, his new job has made Brayden more rigid and traditional, which is where his concerns about my art are born from. My parents are the same way: traditional, low-risk individuals.

By the time I exit the shower, I've forgiven Brayden, almost exclusively because he washed the dishes. He's aware of the fact that I must've forgiven him, too, because he's waiting for me on my bed when I enter my bedroom.

"Hey," He says softly from the bed, and sits up a little to watch me walk toward my closet.

"Hey," I mumble quietly.