29/08/12: This chapter has been edited.

Thanks so much to ShayMay13 for the banner on the side! :D

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“Mom, I’m ill.”

I’m standing in the middle of my bedroom, trying my best to master the expression of a genuinely sick person, instead of just someone who wants to avoid a humiliatingly awkward dinner with their ex-best friend.

If there’s one thing I’m determined to achieve today, it’s getting out of this meal. However, with a mother like mine, that’s going to be nothing short of a challenge.

“Really?” Her voice contains undertones of sarcasm, due to which I suspect she’s not falling for my visibly transparent lie. “What’s wrong, then?”

In hindsight, it probably would’ve been better to come up with an incredibly convincing and incurable illness beforehand. At least that would’ve avoided me standing here floundering like a complete idiot. But, as usual, I’m not exactly the definition of well-prepared and for that reason, I have to rack my brains quickly for an answer that will entitle me to spend the rest of the evening in bed.

Oh God, why didn’t I Google it?

“Uh... cramps?”

“I’ll get you some Tylenol.”

“Sore throat.”

“Don’t talk so much.”

“I feel sick.”

Mom gives me a flat look, obviously getting bored. I probably should’ve been a little more discreet about it, seeing as I want to keep her under the illusion that Connor didn’t act like a complete jerk to me yesterday, but I kind of got a little bit carried away.

And as the clock edges gradually closer to the five o’clock mark, my desperation only increases.

“I don’t care if you go to the trouble of making fake vomit,” she states, “you’re still having dinner with us.”

Fake vomit? Damn, why didn’t I think of that? Oh, brilliant. My own mother’s outsmarted me in coming up with excuses. Maybe I should start consulting her on ways to get out of gym class.

“Why are you so desperate to get out of it, anyway?” she asks, studying my expression intently. “Don’t you want to see Connor again?”

I want to tell her truthfully that I’d rather endure ten consecutive hours of algebra homework – which, I’ll add, is a class I’m currently flunking – than suffer a conversation with my former friend, but I can’t really find the words to. Instead, my weak response is, “Uh... I don’t know. I’m just thinking it’ll be kind of awkward...”

Understatement of the century.

If Connor recognizes me as the clumsy girl who tackled him in the street yesterday – and undoubtedly he will – I’m kind of screwed. I’ll probably suffer a painful death through awkwardness and harsh glares. I can only hope the presence of our parents will tone down his attitude a little.

“It’ll be fine,” Mom assures me. “You haven’t seen each other in eight years, so obviously it’s going to be slightly weird. But I’m sure you’ll get talking soon enough. And hey, a little bit of reacquainting and who knows? Maybe the marriage plans will be back on.” Her sentence is punctuated by a wink.

“Mom!” I interject, internally cringing. “We were kids, okay? We didn’t know any better.”

“Sure...”

“And please don’t say anything embarrassing when Julie and Connor are here.”

“Why would I do that?” she asks, a glimmer of mischief crossing her blue irises. I resist the urge to roll my own eyes. Sometimes she acts more like a teenager than I do – and those are the times when I wish I had a more normal mom. One more like Ava’s, who bakes cookies, sets normal rules regarding curfews and boys and congratulates Ava with a hug when she brings home an A.

Mine, on the other hand, leaves anything remotely culinary to my dad, tries to squeeze juicy gossip out of me about what I’ve been up to instead of enforcing rules and... well, it’s not often I bring home an A, so we’ll just skip over that part.

I’m about to respond, but my voice is cut off by the sound of the doorbell ringing through the house. Oh, crap. Five o’clock has arrived way too quickly.

Let the hellish evening begin.

***

“I can’t believe how much you’ve grown, Georgie.”

I look up from my plate to force a smile at Julie across the table. I’m pretty sure she’s made the same comment at least three times in the past hour, and it’s getting kind of annoying. To be honest, if I hadn’t grown up in the eight years she’s spent in New York, I’d be kind of worried.

“Yeah...” I say awkwardly, before swiftly returning my attention to my plate. Throughout the whole dinner, my attention has been primarily focused on avoiding eye contact with everybody around me. I feel totally antisocial, but there’s no way I’m even considering the alternative.

My plan is to keep my head down (literally) and get through the next couple of hours with as little interaction as possible.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of my dad, who’s wordlessly telling me to keep the conversation flowing. Yeah. Like that’s going to happen. I concentrate even harder on the food on my plate, pretending the meaning behind his expression hasn’t reached me.

“With looks like those, I’ll bet you’ve got the boys queuing up at your door, right?”

Is she determined to ruin my strategy or something? Resisting the urge to sigh, I look back upwards and smile wryly. “Not quite.”

I’ll leave out the part I’ve had absolutely zero experience whatsoever with the opposite sex after Connor left.

She nudges Connor, who is sitting in the adjacent seat looking incredibly moody, and grins at him. “See, Con, you’ve got a chance.”

I inhale so sharply the piece of chicken in my mouth gets lodged in my throat, triggering a huge coughing fit. And first prize for making things awkward goes to… Georgie Howard. When I finally manage to calm down – thirty seconds of choking and my mom clapping me on the back later – I sink back into my chair, feeling my cheeks flaming.

But come on… was that really necessary?

I sneak a quick glance at Connor, who’s had enough bad luck to secure him the seat opposite me. However, my discreet actions aren’t as discreet as I intended, and the moment I look upwards, our gazes lock. After half a second of awkward eye contact, the glaring begins, and I avert my gaze to the food on my plate once more.

Will this torture ever end?

I shove another forkful into my mouth and chew quickly, keeping my eyes glued below me. Julie resumes a conversation with my parents, fortunately leaving me and my elegant (note the heavy sarcasm) mannerisms out of it. For this, I am eternally grateful. All I want to do is finish up what’s on my plate and make an excuse to retreat to my room for the rest of the evening.

Where I can spend hours cringing over what’s already happened.

“Could one of you pass the salt?”

We both reach for it at the same time, our hands brushing as both of us try to grip the salt shaker simultaneously. Oh, crap. Immediately, I retract my hand, trying to ignore the quickening pace of my heartbeat whilst telling myself furiously to get a grip.

Unfortunately, my clumsy side chooses this exact moment to make an appearance, meaning that the hasty removal of my hand from across the table also sends Connor’s drink flying.

If I was being dramatic and creative, I might say it was like a scene from a movie that had been put into slow motion. I could describe how we all watched the glass wobble and topple over dramatically, and how everyone’s facial expressions were priceless. But, as you know, this isn’t a million dollar budget movie; it’s my humiliating life.

And all that happens is the glass’ contents – which conveniently happens to be particularly stain-worthy diet cola – spills over the tabletop, before reaching the edge and dripping with uncanny precision onto Connor’s shirt.

“Oh my God!” I squeal, as he leaps up from his seat in record timing. “I’m so sorry!”

Just trying to reduce the chances of him punching me in the face.

“Georgie...” Mom starts, already shooting me a disapproving look. I respond with my own despairing one. It’s not as if I intended to knock it over. Believe me, my clumsiness and distinct lack of elegance is definitely not a lifestyle choice.

If I had the opportunity not to be such a loser, I would grab it with both hands.

And possibly handcuff myself to it.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Julie says, laughing. However, Connor doesn’t seem to share her lighthearted reaction. Instead, he’s shooting me daggers as he peels the wet white shirt away from his body. Oh, brilliant. If he didn’t want to kill me before, I’m pretty sure he does now.

“I’m so sorry,” I mumble, biting my lip.

“Don’t look so worried, Georgie!” Julie reassures me with a friendly smile. “It’ll wash out fine.”

That’s easy for her to say; she’s not the one on the receiving end of Connor’s death glares. Needless to say, this evening is taking a rapid nose dive from bad to worse. I want nothing more than to turn back time. At least that way, I could’ve come up with a more convincing – and possibly life-threatening – illness that would’ve allowed me to skip this mortifying evening.

Oh, if only.

“I’ll get something to wipe the table,” Dad offers, rising from his seat. “Do you want something to dry off your shirt, too?”

“It’s fine.” Connor half-smiles at her, but his tone is as cold as ever. “I’ll just go next door and change.”

“Oh, no – you can’t go out there!” Mom says, gesturing towards the window. The five of us turn our attention to outside, which, sure enough, is being pelted by a heavy downpour of rain. The lawn outside is already saturated and the sky has turned a dismal gray. “The weather’s awful. Don’t worry about it, Connor. Brandon didn’t take all of his clothes to college, so there should be some of his stuff upstairs in his room. Georgie will help you find something.”

My head snaps back to them so quickly I get a painful crick in my neck, making me wince. “What?”

“Why don’t you go on up there?” Mom suggests, as Dad moves over to Connor’s place to wipe up the spilled liquid. “You know where Brandon’s stuff is, Georgie.”

I go to shoot her an incredulous look, but then realize she’s blissfully unaware of the less than civil relationship Connor and I share. If I don’t want to make it obvious we’re not exactly on speaking terms, I’m going to have to do what she says.

And go upstairs with him.

Alone.

Where my screams of murder will probably go unheard.

“Yeah,” I say, adding false sweetness to my voice as I rise from my seat. “I know where it is. Follow me, Connor.”

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Woooo, another chapter! I love all of you for reading this story... even if its plot is really cliché.

BUT... why aren't you guys commenting? :( On the last chapter I got like 37 votes... and only 11 people commented, I think! I love to hear what you think! Even if it's just telling me how much you hate Connor. And, every time I upload I pick a random commenter to dedicate the chapter to! So please comment. I'll love you forever. Until next time <3