Liar, Liar
-George Clarke x Reader
Brother’s best friend type of thing….
They used to call her “little liar.”
She could still hear it in George’s voice, sharp, smug, always louder when her brother was around. They were two years older, and she was too girlish, sensitive. Every holiday gathering, every family camping trip or neighbour’s garden do, she’d be lingering nearby, desperate to be included. George would look to her, eyes gleaming with mischief, and say something like:
“Oi, isn’t it past your bedtime?”
Or worse: “You’re not coming, this is proper stuff, not games for little girls.”
She was six when they convinced her to hide inside the wardrobe during a game of hide and seek, they then left her there for nearly an hour. She came out all tear-streaked and shaking, only to find the boys had ditched her to watch telly, totally unfazed, unaware.
She was seven the first time they locked her out of the treehouse. Her brother’s voice had laughed through the planks “go away, no babies allowed!” But it was George who stuck his head out of the hatch and poured the last of his juice all over her hair. She ran inside crying to the parents, this was how she earned the name ‘little liar’ as both boys claimed she was lying.
She was nine when they nicked her diary and read it aloud along the seating on the patio, her brother howling with laughter, George mocking every innocent line like it was the funniest thing he’d ever read.
And yet, somehow, she always waited for George to arrive.
He was loud, sarcastic, messy, and mean, but he was magnetic. There was something about him that made her stomach fizz, gave her butterflies, even when she hated him. Especially when she hated him. She listened out for the knock at the door, or clack of the football boots on the wood of the hallway floor.
~
By the time she was sixteen, the teasing had shifted.
Subtler now. Crueller in its own way.
He’d ruffle her hair when she walked past, even when it was curled or styled. He’d comment on her clothes, “You off to a wedding or something?” When she was trying out a new dress, or “That shade of lipstick’s a bit…. mad, right?” when she was already feeling self-conscious.
She told herself that she didn’t care, that he wasn’t special. She told herself George was just her brother’s mate.
She told herself that again the day he walked past her outside the common room, plucked a book from under her arm and started reading the most embarrassing paragraph aloud.
It was from a romance novel of her friends, she’d only just started it, his eyebrows were raised and his voice dripped with mockery:
“Her lips trembled as his hands smoothed over her waist, drifting lower, touching her in ways she’d never been touched before.” - “Bloody hell, didn’t know they stocked this at the library,” he’d laughed.
Most of her friends had giggled, half in shock, half in fear of saying the wrong thing.
She stood frozen, face burning, cheeks aflame, barely managing to whisper: “Give it back.”
“Relax,” he’d said, tossing it back at her like it was no big deal. “Didn’t peg you as the steamy sort.”
That night, she cried in the bath
But worse, worse than the humiliation, was the blunt ache that followed. Because even then, even when he made her feel pathetic, her stomach still flipped every time he said her name.
~
She saw him once at a house party in the summer holidays. She wasn’t supposed to be there, her brother had warned her not to come, but she turned up anyway, heart hammering in her chest, face all done up with her mate’s glittery eye shadow, skirt much too short.
George saw her straight away. Walked over to her with that lazy grin.
“Didn’t know they let little girls in.” he’d said, taking a swig of some cheap beer.
“Didn’t know you were the doorman,” she snapped
But this only made him laugh.
He smirked, his eyes flicking down to her legs. “You always dress like that for attention?”
She wanted to slap him. She wanted to kiss him.
Why did he have to make her feel so small.
Instead, she rolled her eyes and walked off. But her hands were shaking the rest of the night.
~
School had started back up again when things shifted again.
There were whispers going around the boys in her year, crude, disgusting things said in locker rooms and in stairwells. She heard her name thrown around like it meant nothing. Some guy in the year above, she barely knew told his mate she was “easy,” loud enough for her to hear.
She didn’t tell anyone. Just went quiet. Took longer routes between classes. Avoided eye contact during form.
Then, out of nowhere, she saw George waiting in the courtyard after school.
She was just coming out of history, when she spotted him leaning against the gate, arms crossed, face set, stern.
“What are you doing?” She asked, her stomach lurching.
He didn’t answer right away, jaw ticking. Just brushed passed her and muttered under his breath, “Sorted it.”
Later that night, she’d hear whispers from a friend, one of the boys had shown up with a bloodied nose and refused to say who’d given it to him.
She never asked George for details.
He never offered.
That was the first time she thought: Maybe he doesn’t hate me after all.
But nothing changed. Not really.
He still turned up at her house and called her “kiddo.” Still sat on the sofa, feet on the coffee table, joking with her brother like nothing in the world could rattle him. Still teased her, still acted like her feelings were nothing but background noise.
~
University didn’t help.
She saw less of him, but the few times they crossed paths, Christmas, birthdays, summer barbecues, it was always the same. A comment here. A smirk there. Lingering glances she wasn’t sure whether she imagined.
She remembered one birthday, her own, her nineteenth. George had turned up late, already a bit tipsy, wearing a stupid party hat someone had forced on him. He’d handed her a birthday card that just said “Don’t get emotional.” He only gave a lazed smile as she looked at him in confusion.
Then he’d whispered as he passed, “Nineteen. Bloody hell. Proper grown-up now, aren’t you?”
And the worst part? Her heart had leapt. Just from that.
~
The night it all came to a head was a sticky July evening. A friend of her brother’s, someone they both vaguely knew, was throwing a party in their back garden. One of those informal summer things, with fairy lights, sickly mixers, cheap beer. She wore a little lilac dress, and a glittery lipgloss that made her feel, confident, braver, even.
She’d laughed too loudly. Drank too quickly. Kept catching George’s eyes across the fire pit.
She should’ve ignored him. Should’ve stayed away.
But when her brother passed out, and she needed a lift home, George offered.
And she let him.
They didn’t speak much during the drive. The music was low and soft. The window was down.
And somewhere halfway home, she said it.
“I used to like you, you know.”
He glanced at her. Said nothing.
“I used to really like you.”
A pause. A beat. Then: “You’re still a kid.”
She didn’t say anything after that.
Just gave him a nod, turned her face to the window, tried to stop the tears from welling up in her eyes.
When he pulled up outside her place, she climbed out without a word.
And this time around, he was the one watching her walk away.
~
Four months passed
She met someone. Luke. He was sweet. He showed up at the right time, just when she’d stopped looking for fireworks and started craving some form of warmth. He texted her first. Made it on time. Held her hand in public like he was proud of her.
He didn’t make her heart race, or her stomach fill with butterflies. But he made her feel steady.
She blocked George’s number. Unfollowed him on every platform. Erased him from her life the best she could.
And still… her brother would say, “He’s been asking about you.”
She didn’t respond.
She didn’t care.
Or at least, she pretended she didn’t.
~
Then came a family function. Her cousin’s engagement party. Flower arrangements, lanterns strung up around the patio. Tables decked with finger food, and champagne loosing its bubbles.
And of course.
George.
He was wearing a short sleeved button up with jeans, a pint held in his hand, grinning like he hadn’t wrecked her with a few careless words.
“You look different,” he said when he spotted her.
“Grown-up.”
She gave him a tight lipped smile. “It’s only been a few months…”
He laughed under his breath, nodding. “I ‘spose so.”
Luke appeared at her side, as if on cue, wrapping an arm around her waist. The tension snapped into focus,
“This him then?” George asked, jaw clenched.
“Yeah, this is Luke,” she said coldly. “My boyfriend.”
Luke shook his hand politely, clueless to the undercurrent.
George’s jaw ticked, eyebrows slightly furrowed.
“Nice to meet you,” Luke said, smiling.
“Yeah, you too,” George responded, voice flat.
She turned away without another word. Luke followed.
~
Later that same evening, after the speeches and half-drunk toasts, she went to go find her coat.
She found George instead.
Standing in the hallway by the stairs, arms folded across his chest, watching her.
“You’re still mad,” He said.
“You’re still cocky,” She snapped.
He took a step closer. “You cut me off.”
“You deserved it.”
“I was trying to do the right thing,” he said, voice lower now. “Didn’t think you actually wanted someone like me.”
She rolled her eyes, laughing bitter. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who used to leave me stuck in closets for hours.”
“I was a knob. I know that.”
“You still are,” she huffed.
His eyes met hers, intense, everything felt quiet. “I miss you.”
She hated the way her chest ached at that.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t do this.”
“Tell me you don’t think about me.”
“I don’t,” her voice cracked.
He stepped in, his voice a low rasp. “Liar.”
And then he kissed her.
All harsh and bruising.
And the worst part?
She kissed him back.
Until she didn’t.
Until she pushed at his chest, breaking away, heart racing, breath caught in her throat.
“I have a boyfriend.” Her voice wavered.
“I know.”
“Then what the hell are you doing?”
He didn’t answer.
She left.
~
Guilt consumed her, so much so, she broke up with Luke within the same week.
They were sitting in his car outside her house. It was raining, light and soft, tapping against the windscreen like the sky was trying to fill the silence between them.
Luke was saying something about his weekend, something normal, something safe, but she just couldn’t listen. Couldn’t even meet his eyes.
She stared at the condensation forming on the window and said, quietly, “I’m sorry.”
He stopped mid-sentence. “What?”
“I’m sorry, Luke. It’s just... I don’t think this is going to work.”
He blinked at her, confused. “Where’s this coming from?”
“I don’t know,” she lied. “I’ve just been feeling it for a while.”
His jaw tensed, he breathed out hard. “Yeah…. Right.”
He didn’t ask her for reasons, he had an idea, but didn’t even want to ask. He nodded, the way kind people do when they feel they need to protect their dignity.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “I hope he’s worth it.”
She didn’t answer. She felt ashamed, the guilt piling up so high it lodged itself in her throat.
George hadn’t called, hadn’t even messaged. Nothing.
And that should’ve told her everything she needed to know.
~
The next week felt quiet. The evenings felt drawn-out, longer. The ache in her chest grew strange and dauntingly familiar, like an old bruise blooming beneath the surface.
She knew it was wrong, but she missed the steady feeling Luke provided. The simplicity of being loved without question, no strings, complications.
But even more than that, she hated herself for the way she thought about George. The kiss replayed in her mind at any given moment, when brushing her teeth, walking home from work, folding her laundry. It wasn’t even the kiss itself, it was his voice. The look in his eyes. The way he’d said, “I miss you,” like he meant it.
And yet, he hadn’t done anything since.
She refused to be the one to chase him.
She’d spent years doing that in silence. That was well over now.
So, she got on with it, life in general.
Went to work. Messaged her friends. Drank wine in the bath and watched comfort shows she was paying half her attention to.
~
Two weeks later, her friends dragged her out.
“Wear something hot,” they’d said. “No moping about tonight.”
She wore a black lace dress and lipgloss that caught the light. Laughed too loudly at pre-drinks, let someone style her hair in some half-up do, and let herself feel good for the first time in ages.
They ended up at a rooftop bar, somewhere with edge, with fairy lights and loud music, packed full of people pretending they weren’t looking for someone to watch them, want them.
She was halfway through her second dirty martini when she saw him.
George.
Not just George. George with someone else.
She froze in her place.
He was leaning against the bar, pint in hand, head tilted slightly as he spoke to her. Her. A tall, leggy brunette with shiny dark hair and a posh laugh that floated above the music. She was the kind of girl who looked like she modelled for Zara and drank tequila straight. She was everything she wasn’t.
And George was smiling. Ear to ear at that.
Not in that cocky, teasing way he used to with her.
No. This was different.
Soft. Relaxed. Flirtatious.
And then, he looked up.
Their eyes met across the room. The crowd vanished. The noise dulled.
He just stared.
Didn’t smile. Didn’t wave. Didn’t say a word.
Just stared.
And for a moment, she forgot how to breathe.
Her friend tugged at her sleeve. “You alright?”
Her throat felt all tight, but she nodded. “Yeah, fine.”
But she wasn’t. Not even close.
Because she realised something right then,
She’d spent years wondering if George would ever want her the way she wanted him.
Then spent weeks wondering if she’d made the right decision.
And now, finally, she knew:
She was nothing more than a ghost in his rear-view mirror.
She turned away before he could look any longer.
Finished her drink in one go.
She saw it as she was leaving.
The flicker in his eyes.
Her stomach dropped as she rushed down the hall.
~
She turned away before she could cry. Before she could throw a drink or do something stupid like ask why. Why he kissed her. Why he said he missed her. Why he looked at her like she was everything one moment,
and like she was nothing in the next.
She took the lift down alone, pressing the button with shaky hands, her chest tight, heart throbbing somewhere in her throat. She hit the pavement outside and breathed in the cool night air like it might steady her.
It didn’t.
She was halfway down the street, heels clacking against wet concrete, when she heard him.
“Oi,”
Her spine tensed.
She didn’t stop.
“Hey, wait. Just stop.”
She didn’t.
Then a hand caught at her forearm, not rough, just enough to make her turn back.
George.
His curls were windswept, his cheeks flushed from drinking or running or both. He looked at her as if she’d just bolted from a burning building.
His eyebrows furrowed, he crowded into her, towering. “What’s wrong?” he asked, like it was a genuine question.
She laughed, a hollow, breathless sound that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“You’re joking.”
“What?”
She yanked her arm free from his grip. “Don’t do that. Don’t play dumb with me.”
“I’m not-”
“You always do this,” her voice was biting, louder than she meant for it to be. “Every time something actually matters, you suddenly forget how to speak like a real human.”
George blinked, clearly thrown. “I don’t know what you mean…”
“She looked perfect, by the way,” she cut him off. “That girl. She looked perfect. Tall. Posh. Shiny hair for days. Probably doesn’t have a single embarrassing story to her name.”
He didn’t say anything.
“And you just stood there. Like nothing ever happened between us. Like you didn’t kiss me. Like you didn’t look me in the eye and tell me you missed me.”
His mouth parted slightly. “That was…different.”
“No, no George. It was cruel.”
There was a beat of silence.
She stepped back from him. “I broke up with someone who actually wanted me. Someone who treated me like I mattered. And for what? For some version of you that only exists when we’re alone and you’re bored or drunk or nostalgic?”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he muttered.
“Yet somehow you always do!” She snapped. "You’ve been hurting me since I was seven years old. Since you poured juice all over my head and told me I was too childish to play with you. Since you read my diary, making a joke out of how I felt. Since you ruffled my hair like it was nothing when I put so much effort in just to be noticed.”
His face fell slightly, a flicker of guilt slipping through.
“You kissed me,” she whispered, voice wavering. “And then you disappeared. Again. Like I was something embarrassing you wanted to forget.”
George looked at her like he didn’t know how to respond. He sucked in a breath, flicked his eyes to his shoes. Like every word she said had peeled something raw open inside him. Exposed him.
“I don’t know what to say,” he murmured. “You scare the hell out of me, sometimes.”
“Good,” she said. “You should be scared. Because for the first time in my life, I’m not waiting for you to get your act together, waiting for you to suddenly want me.”
He stared at her. “I wasn’t with her. Not like that. I only just met her.”
She shook her head, sighing. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.”
“No,” she said, voice cold, icy. “What matters is that you let me walk away thinking I’d imagined all of it. That I was stupid, or desperate, or childish. Again. And I’ve grown too much to keep letting you make me feel so small.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
“I cared about you,” she said softly. “For years. And you didn’t even have the guts to tell me you didn’t want me, you could never just shut me down.”
“Did you enjoy it?” She got more heated now. “How I fawned over you, pined after your affection.”
He huffed, ran a hand down his face. “Come on, you can’t genuinely think that.” He was shaking his head now, as if he were in disbelief.
“You don’t take me seriously,” she pointed out. “Even now, I mean look at you.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Look, I’m just going to go,”
She turned away. He didn’t stop her.
As she walked off into the night, heart cracked open, but spine straight.
She let him stare.
Let him finally feel it
He was lying, to himself, to her.
After all, it was his turn after all this time.
Liar.
(Part 2: a-sweeter-sin/liars-and-fools)