The Aristocrat

They call it catching up at home

November. Thursday 12th

London entered the eleventh month of the year with rain upon rain. It had been showering non-stop since the 1st, the sky having been painted a permanent moody grey. It had meant for me finally pulling my tights and scarfs out of my drawer and buying a restock of new winter clothes.

Through the reflective window of the small French coffee shop I sat in, I peered down at the puddles that flooded the roads and pavements of the city. Glad to be wrapped up in the warmth of the coffee shop and not outside, I sipped on my boiling hot drink.

The pen in my other hand, clicked repeatedly against the wooden table Chester and I sat on. Heaving a sigh, I tore myself away from the rainy street and back to the stack of English papers in front of me, "I really hate back to school work."

Chester threw me an unimpressed stare from his spot opposite me. Snug in a black knitted jumper and school shirt beneath, like me he had finally started to opt for a winter wardrobe. The sleeves of his jumper had now been pushed up as he leant down on a school book placed in front of him also.

Arching his brows, he waggled the end of his pen in my direction, "You're dodging the question Andra."

"I'm dodging nothing," I said, chewing down on the inside of my mouth. Wanting to avoid his piercing glare I ducked my head, my hair falling to blanket my face as I squiggled something down on a sheet of paper.

"Then answer me," He said, dropping his pen to the table and leaning back in his chair. From beneath my lashes, I peered up him to see his arms crossed intimidatingly over his chest.

"Fine, my answer is that I don't when I'm going to tell her," I shrugged, picking myself up from my worksheets, "I don't understand why I even have to."

"Because she's your best friend," Chester reminded me, "And best friends usually tell each other when they're dating new people."

I'd spoken very little about Asher to Chester these past two weeks since the party. But in the brief conversations in which we had discussed it, I remember having primarily exaggerating the fact that Ash and I were merely friends. Nothing more. At times, even less than that.

But Chester had been refusing to believe me.

"I'm not dating Asher," I restated for what felt like the hundredth time, "We're friends."

Chester rolled his tongue, a clicking sound leaving his mouth as he shook his head in scepticism, "He sure wasn't looking at you like you were just his friend."

"He was drunk and in a good mood," I explained, feeling the need to down stage how well Asher and I had got on that night, "And plus, I haven't even seen him in two weeks."

"Maybe you haven't seen him," Chester commented just as his hand reached across the table and tapped a finger to the side of my phone, "But don't try to tell me it's not him who you're texting and calling all the time."

That was something I couldn't deny. I couldn't not only because it was true but because I'd caught Chester checking the screen the past few times it rang. He knew that we talked more than I'd let on but thankfully he'd kept it all to himself. I was initially worried he might tell one of our friends or even worse my brother. But he'd stuck to his promise and not slipped up once.

"Yeah, because we're friends and friends text each other," I reasoned in between taking innocent sips of my cooling coffee, "You're making this into a bigger deal than it is. I bet you in a couple of weeks me and him won't even be talking. We don't get on enough to take it any further."

"You've got to be getting on if you're talking as much as you are," Chester noted, once again cocking his shaped brows towards me.

Dropping my pen onto the table, I held my hands up defensively, "Ok, I'll admit that recently we've getting on but we're bound fall out soon."