"So you met online?" My mother asked me, her face a mix between confusion and disgust.
"Yes, mom." I said again. She took a sip of her tea.
"And you've been talking for three years?" She asked.
I nodded. She looked at Alexander, who was asleep on the couch.
"What's with is sleep schedule?" She asked. "I thought he was from Arizona."
"He was, but he's been in London for two years, he studied abroad." I said. I really wanted her to like him. "I swear he would talk your ear off."
"Really?" She asked, taking another sip of her tea.
"Yes!" I said, "He always has something to say!"
"Doesn't that get annoying?" She asked me. God she was so stubborn.
"No! There's never a dull moment with him. He's just well spoken."
"You're getting really defensive," she teased me.
"Mom," I groaned, "you sound like Aaron."
"He is cute." She said.
"Ew, mom, Aaron's like my brother." I said making a gross face.
"No! I'm talking about Alexander." She said.
"Mom, no, we're friends." I said.
She laughed, "John your face is bright red."
"Mom, stop." I groaned.
"You like him." She said simply.
"No, mom," I stood up, "I'm leaving, this is stupid." I left the room and stormed quietly up to my room. I pulled out my paints and continued to work on my latest painting. I mixed together browns and white to create the caramel color I needed to paint Alex's face. I brushed the paint onto the canvas, and felt my anger die down. My mom can aggravate me so easily.
I heard a soft knock on my door.
I hummed a response.
"Hey," Alex said opening the door a bit.
My heart leapt into my throat and I quickly turned my easel around, facing away from the door. I laughed nervously, "H-hey, Alex." I said rubbing my arm.
"Are you alright?" He asked, furrowing his eyebrows.
"Yea-yeah," I mumbled. It would be embarrassing for him to find out I was painting him.
"Can I see your painting?" He asked.
Crap.
"Oh, um actually," I quickly tried to think of something, "I uh, have a thing for people seeing an unfinished piece." I cringed at the crappy excuse.
"Oh, I get it." He said. He stepped into my room and carefully closed the door. He looked around the small room, taking in the paintings and drawings covering the walls. "You're really good." He said.
"Thanks," I said, blushing.
He looked at me and smiled, "I still can't believe I'm here." He said.
"Me either," I said, "are you okay?" I asked.
"What?" He asked. He looked like he just shook himself out of a daze. "Yeah, why do you ask?"
"Oh, well I just figured you'd still have jet lag."
"I do," he said. "I just got up to use the bathroom. Then I heard you singing."
Double crap.
I forgot that I sang when I painted, it just happened. "Uh," I felt my face flush red.
"You're really good." He said again.
"Oh I uh, no, it's nothing, just a silly habit." I said.
"Are you okay?" He asked me.
"Yeah," I said quickly, nodding my head.
"You're tripping over your words." He said.
"I just can't believe you're here." I said. God he made me nervous.
"Oh," he said.
I smiled at him, "You're probably tired." I said.
"Yeah, I am," he said.
"Okay, night." I said.
"Night," he said. He hesitated before leaving my room.
I let out a deep breath. Well that could have gone worse.