Stranger // [Justin Bieber]

Chapter 15

It was my fault too. I raised my walls and blocked him out in every possible way. I could have told him how I felt the moment I felt uncomfortable.

"What' you mean?" he asks with furrowed brows.

Normally this is the part where I'd make up a lie or mutter something short and sweet to drop the topic. I fight the urge and tell Will.

"My date with Justin went horrible," I admit.

He doesn't say anything so I push myself to explain further.

"Justin tried to impress me with stuff you know I don't care about. Expensive restaurants, fancy wine and celebrities." I sigh and shake my head, "It didn't impress me one bit. In fact, I felt uncomfortable, but now that I think of it, I could have at least tried to talk more about myself when he asked me questions. I could have said what I felt, but I didn't."

"No surprise there," Will pouts.

"I'm trying alright?" I huff, "I didn't want to spoil the mood, so I kept quiet. Which made it so much worse. Will, it was so awkward."

For once, Will is not mocking me and he pulls me in for a sideways hug, "I'm sorry your date went south boo," he says and then looks at me with pursed lips, "do you think you'll see him again?"

I shrug, "I don't know, probably not. I basically told him I'm not the girl for him."

"Are you okay at least?" he asks.

That question makes me shift in my seat and I grunt, "No!" I blurt out. I don't know whether or not I want to laugh, cry or kick the table over.

Will tried to console me by making us tea. He was ready for an explanation and I knew I couldn't go to bed just yet. So I changed into something more comfortable and waited for his questions to start.

It didn't take long.

"So I couldn't hear everything what you and that Mr. Leigh talked about, but it sounded to me like your parents are alive somewhere, hiding maybe?" Will cuts right to the chase.

"Yes," I nod, taking the cup of tea from his hands, "we're not sure if it's them, but there might be a possibility that they're still alive," I shrug.

"Might? You don't know for sure?"

"No, Will you have no idea what is happening back in my country," I admit for the first time, a mixture of relief and anxiety infiltrates my insides, "but I'm not suppose to talk about it."

"What do you mean?" he looks at me in confusion.

"I mean every person that tries to talk about it, gets silenced." I take a deep breath.

"Silenced how?"

"Do I really need to answer that for you?" I ask back. He shakes his head and I take the opportunity to look around the apartment. It's stupid, I know, but I need to assure myself mentally that no one is eavesdropping. I look back at him, "Don't ask me too many questions, because you might not like the answers."

He is about to say something, but stops and shuts his mouth again. He purses his lips together and finally says, "Tell me what you can."

I nod, "It's a long story and probably our own fault."

"Whose?"

"White people," I say, "Back in the Apartheid years, white supremacists treated blacks like slaves. The whole segregation thing instilled a hate in black people's hearts for us. It was our own fault because we mistreated them."

I take a sip and continue, "When Nelson Mandela came into the picture, everything changed. For a while, everyone thought the change was for the better. We seemed to reconcile with all races and tribes. We knew as white people, it would be an uphill battle to correct our wrongs, but..."