Describing Him (Ansel Elgort)

15 // The parents

The next day went by smoothly.
That was not including the fact that there was a strong burning sensation in my stomach all day.
And no, I don't mean my monthly visitor.
It was due to the fact that Ansel's parents were arriving home tonight, and I'd already been staying in their house for-to me - what felt like a long time.
"Ansel?" I call through my door, my nerves playing up.
I hear the familiar thud of footsteps drawing closer and moments later, Ansel is standing in the doorframe with a slight dazed grin on his face.
"I beat my flappy bird high score." He mumbles, sounding proud.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
"What is it now, 343? Ansel, how many times do I have to say it before it sticks in your brain: no one plays that game anymore."
"I do," He says, trying to hide his growing smile with a fake pout. "And no, actually -628." He beams, clearly proud of himself.
"You need a life." I murmur to myself.
He takes a step in, minimizing the space between us, and suddenly, I can feel his breathe again.
"Oh really? 'Cause I'm the one starring in your movie." He lets out a short, breathy chuckle.
Every muscle in my body is tense, and I can feel goosebumps arise on my skin.
I hate this. I hate feeling so...
Vulnerable.
That's the only word that comes to mind.
Honestly, sometimes I wonder how my writing ever got so far.
"Anyway, I-uh, needed your opinion on what I should wear tonight." I say, breaking the trance, although my voice is still a little shaky.
He shrugs my off, as if my words were completely ridiculous.
"Oh Margo- you don't need to dress up. They're just my family. Honestly, you talk about them as if they're some crazy creatures from Greek Mythology or something. You're going to be so disappointed. They really aren't that exciting." He scoffed.
But then his expression changed, and I swear I saw something flash in his eyes.
Whatever it was vanished as quickly as it came, and his gaze met mine.
He at me, his eyes big and reassuring, holding a stern quality that I didn't quite understand.
"Margo," He says, his voice barley a whisper. "Don't worry about it. They're just like me, I promise."
His hand reaches up and he cups my cheek, and I can feel them heat up with his touch.
But the moment passes. He takes his hand away from my face, his expression melting into his usual amused look, and the sparkle that possesses his eyes has returned.
"I mean, Margs, I'm just wearing my pajama pants."
I squint down, examining his pants.
I open my mouth, a frown on my face.
"Have you..."
I shut my mouth.
He is astonishing.
"Ansel." I meet his eyes, scowling. "You've been wearing those pants all day."
His grin spreads, occupying almost his entire face.
"Yep." He declares.
"Unbelievable." I murmur to myself again, this time rummaging through the contents of my suitcase. "Absolutely unbelievable."
Out of the corner of my eye I spy Ansel trudging over and plonking himself down on the bed.
He watches me for a minute or so. Just watching, without saying much.
When he does speak, my head snaps up to him. I was so caught up in my own little world, I'd completely forgotten he was here.
"You know," He says. "You're most beautiful when you aren't trying to be anyone else." His gaze, oddly enough, is on the floor. He shakes his head, and then tilts his head to meet my eyes. "Just wear what you're wearing now. You look fine."
I stare at him.
"Ansel." I state. "On one foot I'm wearing a $2000 Manolo Blahnik stiletto, and on the other I'm wearing a slipper in the shape of a dog."
He looks down at my feet.
"They're actually pretty cool..." He says, looking mildly impressed.

I ended up wearing a black blouse and my nicest pair of jeans - a rich dark blue color - with heels. (Not the Manolo Blahnik ones - Ansel seemed to convince me otherwise.)
"Are you sure you don't want me to cook them dinner? That could sort of be my payment for sleeping here."
Before Ansel had time to argue, the sound of keys in the front door caused both of us to turn our heads.
The door opened to reveal a young woman with a coat on. She wiped her boots on the welcome mat before stepping inside. She had blonde hair a little past her shoulders, and the same warm eyes as Ansel.
"Hey Ansel." She says, acting completely relaxed and casual. She walks to the end of the hall and places her keys on the kitchen bench.
"What's going on, little brother?" It's only now that she seems to notice me, turning around to look at me. "Whatcha got here?" She asks, sending a poke to my side.
I'm taken aback, my mind at a loss for words.
"Oh, this is Margo. She's a writer. The writer, actually, for New York Heights."
The woman raises her eyebrows, her body facing directly towards Ansel, standing with her back towards me. "Oh, did she write it?"
"Yeah, she wrote the book a year or so ago." He then seems to remember I'm here.
"Margo, this is my sister, Sophie." He says, nodding at me.
Sophie turns her body to face me, and finally looks me up and down.
She has kind eyes and a kind smile. All of her features, although worn out, are soft and her expression is friendly.
"Nice to meet you," She says, flashing a loving smile, embracing me in a quick hug.
She then turns to Ansel.
"Mom and Dad'll be home soon; they just texted."
Ansel nods. Sophie proceeds into the kitchen.
"So do you know the plans for dinner?"
"Nope. Mom hasn't texted or anything. Probably takeout."
Takeout?
"Do you know when Warren's coming?"
"Ask him yourself." She says simply.
Suddenly the sound of keys rattling can be heard again, and another blonde woman about my height walks in. Her eyes have sunken into her skin over the years, and a few wrinkles lined her small face. She comes in, two shopping bags on her arms, followed by an older man in a coat.
"Ansel! Hows the big movie going, sweetheart?" She exclaims, her face radiating with Ansel's huge smile on her face.
The man shuffles behind her, taking off his coat.
Ansel's face lights up and he pulls the woman into a hug.
"Hi, Mom." He coos.
"Warren's about twenty minutes away," She says, setting down the groceries into the kitchen.
I turn around to see Sophie greeting the man as her enters the kitchen. I assume he is her father.
"And who's this pretty girl?" Ansel's mom swerves around to face me. She fixes the ends of my hair, then ets her hands on my shoulders.
"Oh, Mom, Dad- this is my friend Margo. She's the writer for New York Heights. She wrote it when she was sixteen."
As if on cue, my cheeks heat up and a small, awkward small appears on my face.
"Sixteen! Wow, you must have so much talent. I'm glad Ansel's sticking around with you. Make sure you rub off on him, eh?" She says, jokingly elbowing me.
"So Ma, what's for dinner?" Asks Sophie casually.
"Ummm," She pauses for a minute. "I don't know, takeout? I don't mind. It's up to our guest."
She smiles warmly at me, but then her eyes light up and she turns to Ansel.
"Oh! Ansel, you have to take Margo to 餐厅的名字!"
To what?
"Hey! You know what, why don't we have some tonight?" She says, at the same time I blubber out:
"T-take me where?"
"Cāntīng de míngzì," Says Ansel, his pronunciation strange with his New York accent. "It's the Chinese place down the road." He turns to his mother.
"We went there last night."
"Oh! And did you like it?" She says, and at first I think she's asking me the question, but she doesn't wait for an answer before she continues on to Ansel.
"I'm sure she wouldn't mind going again! I love it there. Arthur? Go and put your coat on and we'll go to that little Chinese place again."
Suddenly, Ansel's face becomes hard to read. His eyes train on his mother, as if he wants them to bore into her skull and he speaks quickly and softly.
"Mom, don't you think we should just get take out? Stay at home? We have a guest, I'm sure she doesn't-"
"Ansel! What has come over you! Stop acting up like this," She says, swatting his hand off her arm. He held a tight grip.
"I'm sorry Mom," he mumbles so low I can hardly hear.