I love him. I'll do anything to have him back. I guess that's why I'm dating his spitting image. I am head over heels in dragon dung. I'm screwed. Merlin, help me out of this bloody mess...
Pretend
Angelina Weasley. Has a certain ring to it, doesn't it? Welcome to the Johnson-Weasley wedding. I'm such a girl. But I love him. The only thing is- Fred's dead.
George came over to my place around 3:30 to have some afternoon tea. Yes, tea. Not Firewhiskey or any other liquor to strangle our sorrows- just tea. I didn't even spike it.
"Thanks, Lina," he murmured as he sipped his Earl Grey, "I haven't seen you in ages." He paused to survey me with his piercing blue eyes; I gulped remembering another pair that was exactly the same shade and if possible, even brighter. "How've you been?"
Oh, I don't know. I'm fine and dandy. I mean I just heard about a week ago that I lost the love of my life. It's like fucking sunshine and daisies- "Fine," I mumbled, not quite meeting his eyes. I dumped another teaspoon of sugar into my cup.
"You sure?" He asked, unconvinced.
"I think I know myself better than anyone else," I said stiffly. I wasn't going to let the whole world know that calm-and-collected-on-the-right-track-has-a-great-sense-of-direction Angelina Johnson was slowly deteriorating and turning into a lifeless, empty shell because of one dead bloke.
"I'm not just anyone. I'm your friend and I know you're hurting."
"Oh boohoo, Angelina's hurt," I said sarcastically, not quite sure what I meant by saying that.
"You don't have to hide behind walls," George said gently.
Was he trying to be a shrink? I got defensive. I mean, who was he to talk? I bet he was crying his balls out. "I don't need walls and I'm not hiding or pretending anything. I mean why should I?" I said vehemently. "I'm strong. It's not like we were best friends! It's not like he left without saying goodbye! It's not like he was my life! It's not like I was completely in love with him!" I choked on hysteria as I stressed the truth in my lies. What I said, everything I said was exactly what he'd done, what we had been, what I had felt- what I still felt.
My cup full of hot tea shattered for the sixteenth time this week. The brown fluid soaked through the white tablecloth, staining it.
George was immediately at my side pulling me into a tight embrace. "I know," he whispered, cradling me. He tucked a lock of my wavy black hair behind my ear. "Whatever you say, Angel." It was such a Fred thing to say, that I forgot who he was- that he was George and that Fred was dead.
It didn't register to him either that my lips were firmly planted on his. Nor did it register to him that my hands had crept up to his neck and were working their way into his messy red hair. Fred. Everything about him reeked of Fred: his hair, his eyes, his clothes, his voice, his smile. Damn his missing ear- I could pretend it was there.