Watch Your Temper

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Arabella Lombardi CAN Speak English

        He broke away, a look of pure shock etched across his dazzling face.

I sat, pulling him down with me.

"What happened to your boyfriend?" he mumbled, his face turning a deep red hue. I shrugged, not wanting to get into great detail about the whole Apollo-cheating business.

"Nothing. It doesn't matter," I muttered, not bothering to reminisce on the past. I peeked up at him from behind my curtain of molasses hair.

"What about you?" I wondered timidly, hoping I hadn't struck a tender nerve with him.

"What do you mean?" he inquired, glaring at me with his frosty gaze.

"What happened with you and Zoey?" I asked, blinking up at him in curiosity. Although I technically already knew what had happened, I wanted to hear his side of the story.

"Nothing. It doesn't matter," he repeated my exact words, and our eyes met.

We burst out laughing, and for a moment, I felt as though things were back to normal between the two of us. Just as quick as that blissful moment had come, it vanished. George frowned and turned away from me. I frowned and turned away from George.

"I'm sorry," I whispered almost inaudibly. He didn't look at me.

"For what?" he finally growled, his voice unforgiving and laced with venom.

"For everything. I'm sorry for spilling soup all around your shoes when we first met. I'm sorry for eating my pizza like a slob when you showed up at Lombardi's that one time," I exclaimed, wincing when I said the familiar name. "I'm sorry for vandalizing when I spray-painted that wall. I'm sorry for messing up that house near your cottage. I'm sorry for canoeing us over that waterfall. I'm sorry for crashing into that stupid tree at the skate park and ripping my head open. I'm sorry for almost dying on you. I'm sorry for our parents dating and I'm sorry for our parents' engagement and I'm sorry that our parents' wedding was ruined and they didn't get married. But most of all, George, most of all... I'm incredibly sorry for dumping you."

Hey. I wasn't Shakespeare by any means, but that was pretty good. Maybe good enough to make rom-com writers cry, even. Who knew I had it in me?

His eyes glistened with what I assumed to be tears. Or maybe he had something in his eye?

"I'm sorry too, Temper," he said softly after a few seconds.

My heart lifted.

"I'm sorry for ever dating you in the first place," he spat, scooting up from his chair and huffing toward the exit in a big angry cloud. I gasped, my hand flying up to my mouth like old ladies always do in those old black-and-white Hollywood movies.

Everyone in the cafe watched him leave-- fifteen or so pairs of disappointed, hard eyes staring into his back as he retreated-- sixteen, including mine. A chorus of dramatic sighs and whimpers went up, and the people mumbled and kept their heads down low. I looked down at the table in front of me, suddenly taking great interest in the once-neatly folded napkin that was currently crumpled up in my tightly-clenched fist.

I could definitely relate to that damn napkin.

"Psst, kid," someone hissed, nudging me from the side. I didn't bother to turn my head.

"Hey. Um. I'm talking to you, you know? It'd be nice if you acknowledged me or something," the stranger hissed again, obviously becoming more impatient by the second.

I swallowed the rueful lump of failure that sat lodged in my throat. "What?" I managed to croak out.

"It's me. Arabella Lombardi."