G E O R G E

Nineteen: Home

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George:

STEPPING OUT through the hospital doors I let out a long, heavy breath finally able to look at the scenery and not through the window.

My mom steps beside me, grabbing hold to my arm as she kissed my hand. I hugged her, grateful that she was here, that I was here finally after everything. After Genevieve, I felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, as if I felt so heavy because of her.

We got home about ten minutes later, Jack greeting me at the door with a 'sup' and my dad with a smile. I collapsed on the couch relaxing, finally able to be in the comfort of my own home. There was a random show playing on the TV that no one was watching, and the typing sound effect coming from Jack's phone as my mom came into the room.

After a while Jack threw his phone down turning to me and glaring.

"Fuck you," he said in all seriousness. I raised my hands in surrender. I just got home, what the hell did I do?

"Hey! Watch your mouth, Jackson." My father scolded from the kitchen. Jack ignored him still staring at me.

"Don't you fucking pull that shit on me again," he cursed again earning a smack upside the head as my mum walked by us. I stifled a laugh. "Hey! I'm serious, George Conrad Littleton."

He did not just fucking use my middle name.

"What a dickhead!" I scream whipping a pillow at him, ignoring my parents requesting to stop swearing. "You don't see me throwing your middle name all over, huh, Barton?"

"Oh, you did not."

"Yeah, I did, whatcha gonna do?" I taunt as i felt my phone buzzed in my pocket.  I pulled it out, smiling when I saw who it was from.

Mila
10:20am— Mila: hey, wanna get coffee?
10:20am— Me: Starbucks?
10:22am— Mila: of course:))

I stood up from the couch again, flipping Jack off, as I went upstairs to my room. I opened the door to see it nice and organized. Mum must've cleaned it, last time I was here there were clothes and junk and school stuff everywhere. I pulled off my old sweats and tee and ripped open a drawer from my dresser only to be met with underwear.

My mom has a different way of organizing than me, that is when I want to be organized. When she puts clean clothes away she always put them in the wrong drawer. Closing the drawer, I go to the bottom drawer, sighing when I found some jeans, and them going to the middle drawer to find a shirt.

Pulling my shirt over my head just as I stepped off the last step of the stairs, I turned the corner, walking into the kitchen, spotting my mom at the stove.

"I'm going out for a while," I say, stopping at the doorway of the kitchen. She turned to look at me and raised her eyebrows. I flicked my lip ring. "I'm meeting someone for coffee."

"Who?"

I don't know why I didn't expect her to ask that, she always asks, always.

"Uh, well, I...um... well she's... er– a... friend?" Unprepared, I stumbled over my words not knowing what to call Mila. I mean what do you call a person like Mila? Technically, she is a friend... that I've kissed... Yeah, that conversation is not happening. "I promise it's just coffee."