#he acts like he’s madly in love with her…and lianne is so confused by her feelings…

[yamslander]

synopsis: lianne and anthony are on a date. she notices little things about him. they can be ignored, right?

“You sure, Lianne?” Marcel asks. I get it. It wasn’t like me to fall for a guy so fast. Or at all, really. But he was different! Anthony was funny, he was quick-witted; what else could I ask for?

“Yes, I’m sure. Don’t act as if you’re my father,” I snap. He narrows his eyes and brushes a stray blond strand behind his ear. He’s not mad though.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Marcel’s shoulder brushed against mine harshly as he pushed past me. I scoff. What’s his problem? Anthony was as good a guy as anyone else. He’s not jealous, is he? No. Definitely not.

I pack my bag, sorting through the textbooks and folders. Physics, math, history. Check, check, check.

“Hey, Lianne!” Anthony!

“Hi, Anthony,” I blush. Blush? Maybe Marcel should be worried.

“You still on for tonight?” he asks. My eyes are surely wide and desperate.

“Uh-huh,” I say. It’s not the witty, sharp response I would usually give to anyone else; this is Anthony I’m speaking to.

Anthony nods, taking my face in his hands. “You know, you’re a hell of a lot prettier when you aren’t snarking about god knows what.” His smirk makes my face burn more than the embarrassment does. If Marcel…If anyone did this to me…I’d slap them, cuss them out. So many things.

But I can’t even think of that. All I can think about is the piercing stare his brown eyes are giving me, or the way his lips are ghosting over mine. I’m sure my eyes look as big as saucers. His nose finally touches mine and he laughs, pulling away. Anthony taps my red cheek, a gesture I would typically find annoying.

“See ya then, Linnie!” He struts off to talk to Cain, and I touch my cheek. It’s hot. Am I sweating? This is crazy; he didn’t even kiss me! No, no, no. I’m supposed to be put together! Why does he make me feel this way?

Suddenly I feel a presence behind me, and I see a tuft of golden hair bounce silently behind a corner. I narrow my eyes. Was she watching all of that? I try not to think about it as I sling my bag over my shoulder and start walking out.

I seem to settle into my usual self as I walk home. My blazer catches on the door as I walk in, and I yell, slamming the wood and shocking the hinges.

There’s familiarity in my ill temperament. This is how I act. This is how I am. Not a dumb, lovey, wistful little girl with a crush on a handsome boy. I heave my bag on the ground. I have to get ready.

With a breath, I don the tightest leggings I have and a cute lace tank. It’s not my normal athletic getup, and I never have been one for style, but I think it looks pretty good. I hope it impresses him.

I snatch a mascara tube, full from underuse, and swipe the stuff all over my lashes. It makes them feel chunky and heavy, but they look fuller. Anthony likes girls with long lashes. As much as I hate to admit it, Honey has long lashes. She’s pretty in that regard, I suppose.

Heading out the door, I wait in the early November chill for fifteen minutes. Then I see him, hands in his pockets, strutting down the street. He’s in sweats and a well-loved t-shirt. We’re only going on a walk, but I at least put some effort into my attire.

Don’t worry! I tell myself. It’s Anthony, that doesn’t matter!

But what does matter is when we reach a tiny cafe where the only worker is a young lady who looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks. Anthony orders his drink, pays, and waits for me to order mine.

I dont mind paying for my own drink; it’s only our first date anyways. So I tell her my order: small black coffee, as hot as she can get it. She nods, I’m far more polite than Anthony.

As she makes Anthony’s drink and sits it on the counter while calling his name, he picks up the cup and sips. I’m grateful he has the basic decency to swallow before making a horrible retching noise.

“This is disgusting!” he yells, and the lady stops in her tracks. “How the hell did you mess it up this bad?” The woman behind the counter is on the brink of tears as she explains herself. Er, tries to explain herself. Anthony isn’t having any of it.

“No! I don’t care about your excuses. Linnie! We’re leaving, c’mon.” He’s dragging me out by the shirt sleeve while I hear ‘It was her drink, not yours, I’m sorry’ and it hits me. My drink, a simple black coffee, would surely be made first over an intricate latte with more additions than I could count on my hands.

Anthony slams the cup on the ground with a grunt and the steaming liquid splashes all over the sidewalk. “That bitch,” he says, and he continues to insult her with far more colorful language. “A barista that can’t even make a drink.”

I grit my teeth. Anyone with half a brain would piece together that it was my order and not his. Was he even paying attention? Did he even know what I ordered?

We circle back to my house. Anthony leans in and kissed my cheek. But I’m not blushing anymore. I think I know what Marcel meant.

“C’mon, where’s my flustered little Linnie?” I fake a smile and a giggle. I want him gone. He’s disgusting. “Atta girl,” he purrs.

He turns with a wave, sauntering down the sidewalk. I grip the doorknob.

My shirt gets stuck on the door. I yell. I slam the door into place.