The Wrong Choices

3. Did my mother just bat her eyelashes?

Chapter three:

I wake before my alarm because of the rain rattling on the panes of my window. I guess I should be used to it, but we Irish always seem to be shocked when bad weather comes our way.

Fucking Irish weather.

It's pitch black outside, 7:02, I see when I glance at my clock. In another three minutes that dreadful alarm will flood my ears and I'll have to get up just to shut up that darned song. One piece of advice, don't set a song that you like as your alarm. You'll just end up shuddering every time you hear it.

7:03.

There's a muffled burst of laughter downstairs which sounds like my mother, I frown. She doesn't usually get up until nine because she works part time in a beautician's.

Another muffled laugh and this time a male voice joins it.

Hunter. I almost forgot that he was coming to school with me this morning.

7:04, I wrap the duvet around me like a cocoon, trying to get my last minute of comfort before-

"Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy-"

"Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew!" I scramble out of my bed, the coldness shocking my bare arms, I trip over the rug, the thud of my fall echoing through the floorboards and hop over to my dressing table on one foot (very graciously, may I add), I touch the screen of my phone, stopping the alarm, relieving my poor ears.

I let out a loud groan, rubbing my knee where it hit the ground with my hand.

Well this day has already started off well. Not.

~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

I smooth down my bottle green school jumper, straighten my plaid skirt and run my hand over the fishtail that I've braided in my hair over my shoulder. Grabbing my beanie, I pull it down on my head and take one last look in the mirror.

I try to convince myself that I'm not making any more effort than usual, that I'm not trying any harder because of the hottie sitting on one of the colourful chairs in my kitchen, but I can't even kid myself.

I sigh, picking up my school bag and I make my way downstairs.

"Morning, love!" my mother calls as I'm entering the kitchen.

Love? Vomit.

"Morning," I mumble flatly.

"G'morning, Lilli." Hunter says, his mouth full of food.

"Morning." I repeat, looking Hunter up and down. His hair is in a mess, as if he ruffled his hands through it and left it there. His tanned skin stands out against the crisp white school shirt he wears open with the grey trousers.

He's sitting on the orange chair, by-the-way.

I eye the selection of food on the table. I cant remember the last time my mother made breakfast. It looks so good. . . . . .

Get in my face.

"Go on, have some," my mother mumbles, seeing me ogling at the food.

I grab a plate, planting scrambled eggs, white pudding, sausages, mushrooms, hash browns and toast on it. I take a seat on the pink chair, pulling myself closer to the table.

"This-" Hunter gulps down some orange juice, "This food is good, Mrs Evans."

"Oh please, call me Lydia."

Did my mother just bat her eyelashes?

I snort, unsuccessfully disguising it as a cough and choking on my food in the process. Hunter jumps up and slaps me on the back, effectively making me cough up the crumb that went down the wrong way oh-so-attractively. I mutter a thanks and drink some tea in attempt to soothe my throat.