After fifteen minutes, I start to recognise certain street names. From my estimates, we should be about five minutes away from my house. More specially, my shower. George hasn't spoken during the entire drive and, for once, I'm not thankful. If he had spoken, he would have annoyed me and that would have erased Walter's smile from my mind. I let out another sigh as I watch the different neighbourhoods float past the window. There! That was my street. Wait, that was my street. Frowning, I twist my head away from the window and towards the driver. George's face remains blank, at first, and I consider that he may have accidentally missed my stop. As I continue to stare, I notice the hint of a smirk appear on his lips. Ugh, he knew I was looking at him. From the look in his eyes, I conclude that he definitely knew where we were going.
I open my mouth to begin the argument but pause. My interest in his life reappears at the thought of getting a peak inside George's personal space. Would it be dark and broody, like him? Would it have clutter and mess all around? Or would it be blank? And who did he live with? Friends? He's old enough to have moved out. Perhaps he lives alone... the thought unnerves me as I mentally imagine George and me in a random kitchen. To keep my composure, I remain silent. George makes a left turn into a similar looking neighbourhood to mine about ten minutes away from where I should be. I watch as he pulls into a familiar driveway, parks in a familiar position and gives me a familiar smirk. My eyes take in the image of him sitting comfortably in his car in front of his house. Until now, I hadn't imagined him as a person with a life. He was just the scary stranger that people talked about.
We make our way inside the house with George's hand around my waist, pulling me along the path and through the front door. As we climb the stares, with my eyes jumping around the surroundings, he insists that this way I could shower and change before returning home to my dad. It was quite the considerate excuse as I would now possibly avoid the unwanted questioning. Yes, it was considerate but I also knew better than to believe that was his only reasoning.
When we reach his bedroom, I notice I have yet to hear anyone moving around in the house.
"So, uh, where are your parents?"
George scoffs at the question, "Not here."
My thoughts are confirmed, "Where are they?"
He shrugs, "Doesn't matter." My eyebrows furrow at that. If he kept confusing me, I'd need botox by the time I'm twenty one. He catches on to my confusion and, after a few moments of silence, he elaborates, "I don't live with them, Luna."
That only encourages more questions, "Wh-"
"Enough."
His tone is similar to the one he used at my front door and it silences me instantly. Not from fear, I didn't think, but perhaps from intimidation. Besides, if he didn't want to talk about it then that was his decision. Like my decision to not acknowledge my mother.
George goes into the ensuite, leaving me to take in the surroundings. The house was simple, not plain, and very much like him. Surprisingly, there's not much black used (I'm being stereotypical, I know, but he did like that colour). Instead, he has a mostly white and grey room with dashes of blue. I thought seeing his home would settle some of the questions in my mind but they seem to inspire more. How did he afford this? Did he have a job as well as going to sixth form? Did he cook for himself everyday? What did he like to cook? Was he lonely in this house by himself? How many bedrooms did he have? Did he have a spare room? If so, what does he used it for? Did he decorate and paint this whole place? Who helped?
When he reappears, George seems to have calmed down quite a bit. While the image of Walter replays in my mind, I'm no longer shivering or even worried about the stickiness. No, I was too preoccupied with this house. I notice a few red marks on his hand as he places a towel on the bed and remember how violent he became. He looked so calm, relaxed even, while he was hurting someone and that bothered me. How could he be so comfortable causing someone that much pain? I think back to the rumours in school about him chasing fights, enjoying them, and I know now that it's true. Perhaps he didn't start or go looking for them but George was more than happy to finish them.
"It's a shame," his voice is teasing and I feel myself blush slightly, "I like the dungarees."
At the comment, I look down at the damage. There was a light stain visible on the denim but it was nothing that wouldn't come out in the wash. They weren't ruined, thankfully. Although, that fact didn't take away the sting of embarrassment that lingered.
And, speaking of embarrassment, was that towel for me?
Sending my gaze, George explains, "For you. I figured you needed to wash your hair."
The idea of showering in his house, in his shower, is startling. What if he walked in? Wasn't he bothered about me using his shower? Without waiting for an answer, he returns to the bathroom. My nerves only increase as I hear water hitting glass. Glass? See through. Was I really going to shower in, basically, a stranger's house?... Was I overthinking this?
When George returns, there's no missing the smug look on his face. His eyes scan my body, again, and I see the amusement increase.
"Are you frozen? Has the ice melted into your bones?"
He's enjoying this too much, "Shut up."
Smirking, he places the towel in my hands, "Just go and shower. I'll leave clothes on my bed," a pause, "or..."
"Oh, shut up," Am I going red in frustration or embarrassment? "Actually, I don't think I need to shower."
George's smirk grows into a smile, almost a grin, as he tilts his head, "No offence, princess, but have you seen yourself?" Okay, he had a point, "I promise to behave. I'll grab some clothes and head downstairs."
For a moment, I nod as I come to terms with the fact I will be showering here. Then, my head shakes. Did he really think I would walk around his house in just a towel? That wasn't going to happen. Besides, what would I do with my dungarees? I couldn't keep them here. Wouldn't that cause more questions, anyway, if my dad saw me in new clothes?
"What now?" He sighs but I know he's enjoying this. He's enjoying seeing me uncomfortable.
"No, thank you, I'll put these clothes back on."
His eyes roll quickly, "Then what's the point in the shower?"
My eyes narrow, "You just said I should wash my hair not change my clothes. I think that's reason enough."
"Listen," he begins, "I can stand here all night and argue with you. I like the view. Your clothes sticking to your body? It's doing it for me. Plus, I've actually got you in my room which makes me a very happy guy. So, let's go back and forth all night," is he serious? "Maybe, you'll get tired and actually sleep here. Then, I'm sure you won't care about wearing some old t-shirt and shorts of mine."
Am I 80% sure he's just winding me up? Yes. However, I haven't known him long and I can't image he jokes around often. My stubborn side wants to stand my ground and see how far he's willing to take this. Would we stand here all night? However, I am beginning to feel cold again and I don't really want to argue with him anymore. He had stood up for me and is now letting me clean up before I go home so I couldn't be completely horrible to him. Avoiding his eye, I take the towel and enter the bathroom. Luckily, there's a lock on the door.
I spend five minutes stood in silence inside his bathroom. George's towel is surprisingly soft and engulfs my whole body into a comfortable warmth. One of my ears is pressed against the door, listening for any movement. So far I hadn't heard a thing apart from voices in the street. Sighing, I unlock the door and slowly edge it open before sticking my head out to scan the area. As promised, George has left a black t-shirt with matching shorts on his bed and is no where to be found.
Quicker than I ever have, I change into the clothes he left. The shorts aren't too bad of a fit but the top reaches half way down my thighs. I tuck one edge of the top into the shorts so that everyone is aware that I'm not just wearing a boy's t-shirt with nothing underneath.
As I'm unwrapping my hair from the towel, the door opens and George enters. His eyes search my whole body before a triumphant smirk is drawn on his lips. If I were to describe his gaze, it would be one similar to a predator eyeing its prey. When I drop the damp towel on the bed, George makes his way over to me. Absentmindedly, my feet take one step back for every step forward he takes. I reach a problem when my back comes into contact with the bathroom door. Crap. George's eyes light with amusement, laughing at my failed escape, and it's a look I'm becoming familiar with.
How did we get here? He has somehow wormed his way into my life. Keeping an eye on his smirk, I feel a slight tug on my hips which results in my bottom half meeting his body while my head rests against the door. While I watch, the smirk becomes a boyish smile that makes him look younger and less intimidating than I've seen before. Right now, I wonder how this person could have gone as far as he did in the pizza place. Which person was he? This boy standing in front of me with a cheeky smile or the stranger banging someone's head on our food. More importantly, which person did he want to be? Which did he enjoy most?
"You smell like me," he says smugly as his face moves closer and closer, "Do you know how attractive that is?"
Stupidly, I shake my head before wincing at the action. "Um, can you take me home now?"
The question seems to wake him up as the boyish facade melts away until a blank look reappears. It's almost as good as my own. After a few seconds, George nods, knowing there's no other option for us.
In the car, there's no conversation exchanged.
At my door, there's no goodbyes or well wishes or future plans made.
Exhaustion seeps through my bones at the dramatic turn this night took. Drama - something i'd wanted to avoid. Something that followed that strange boy around. As I climb the stairs, my dad pops his head from the inside of his bedroom. A smile plays on his lips until he spots my attire.
"Uh, Luna...Oh, uhm..."
I can't help but giggle, "I spilled my drink all over my dungarees. I've just put them in the wash."
Dad offers me another smile, "Panic over."
We stand in silence, the day has apparently overwhelmed us both, before he reaches a hand out to push a strand of hair from my face. After the night I've had, I lean into the touch. This is what I knew. This is what I could rely on. My dad. A warm feeling of safety and comfort rushes over me, something I haven't felt in a few weeks, as I cover his hand with one of my own.
"Luna," dad begins. My eyes fly open at the emotion in his tone, "I'm so proud of you. I just wish..."
Wish... What? That I hadn't left him on our night? That I wasn't hanging around some boy? That I hadn't just lied to him?
My thoughts are interrupted as I watch a tear spill from his eye. For the first time since my mother left us, my father is crying.
----------------------
:)