#narrymccartney

You had asked Harry why he included it in the occasional stack of books he loaned to you. He said it’s required reading, because so few people know the movies are based on a book. You’re just wondering when he’s going to slip The Outsiders or Stuart Little under your door next. 

The rows of ancient cream desks stare back at you, and you wonder just how you’re going to command a classroom in a few days. Well, seven of them to be exact. Then you try to remind yourself, for the twentieth time, that you’ve done this before. It won’t be so hard, then. Perhaps you’ll even have some past students, and that should help. Right? 

You’ve barely gotten a few steps into your classroom, because of the thoughts muddling your mind. Sighing, you slip off your bag to leave on your chair. One that some days you don’t even sit in, because your legs are walking miles around your classroom, setting up. Thumbtacks are scattered across the expanse of your desk, reminding you of the unfinished walls. Before you can think about the posters sitting in the corner, a flash of pink catches your eye. Furrowing your brow, your eyes flit back to the flash of color. 

It’s a hot pink Post-It note with messy handwriting in black ink. 

Should I get us burgers or subs for the meeting we have today? 

PS: You’re officially a teacher now with your own pad of Post-Its ;) 

You’re sure that the insane happiness painting your face would look more at home on that of a teenager. Nonetheless, you can’t get rid of it, and you wouldn’t want to. This rings even more true when you see the note is stuck to a copy of Matilda. A warmth blossoms in your chest as you pick it up, running your thumb along the weathered edges. Ones you haven’t touched in ages, it seems. Within seconds you’re stepping into the hallway, thoughts knitting together in your mind. They’re from the love you have deep down for this story, a favorite book, and movie of yours as a child. The elation budding in your mind stops when you find his door closed, just as you had minutes ago. Unable to hide your disappointment, a pout tugs at your lips as you turn around. 

“Ya gotta verdict already? Dat was quick,” a voice drawls from behind you. Your pout is a thing of the past, and a grin is making its way to replace it. Spinning around, your summery dress follows your twirling body. 

A couple paces away, Harry stands at the top step of the staircase. His trademark brown leather backpack is slung over one shoulder. A black Fleetwood Mac t-shirt hugs his upper half, a black and blue flannel covering his arms. His old skool Vans echo down the hallway as he walks towards you. 

“Well, I’ve already read it,” you inform him, observing his content smile turn into a confused one. “A couple of times actually. Once when I was 8, then some other times through the years.”

“Ah, so I got lucky and happened upon a lifetime favourite, have I?” he smirks, only a few steps away now. 

“Mmmhmm,” you nod, your growing hair tickling your chin before you move it away. “When are you going to tell me what your favorite book is?”

“When ya finally guess it right,” he quips, stopping in front of you. A dimple falls into his left cheek as he shows off his sparkling teeth. Okay, sir, it is too early in the morning to be looking this attractive. 

“I’m going to have to ask you to stop being so chipper when it’s only nine in the morning,” you tell him firmly, but it’s all for show. Poking his chest, your finger just hits pure muscle. Swoon. 

“Then maybe wake up, already, birdy,” he chirps, the Raybans in his hair moving when his head goes from side to side. Chuckling, he grabs hold of your finger and tries to bite it, but you pull away in time. The mention of the recent pet name slows you down, but you haven’t gotten bitten yet. “Ya betta not fall asleep in today’s meetin’ like ya did last week.”

“I didn’t fall asleep, I was just resting my eyes!” you exclaim, throwing your hands into the air. His amused giggle greets your ears as he unclips his ring of keys from his blue jeans. 

“Yes ya did, ya don’t getta lie t’ me, love,” he responds in between laughs, seemingly finding this more amusing than it really is. 

“Oh, so John can fall asleep at meetings, but I can’t?” you ask, your voice raising with laughter and faux annoyance. 

You watch Harry pluck his sunglasses from his head as you walk into his dark classroom. The streams of sunlight speckle desks and pictures donning his walls. As you flick on the light, the smell of oranges wafts over you again. The red bowl sat upon his desk filled with the citrus makes you feel at home, albeit his mere presence does that without fail. 

“No, ya can’t. Sorry, love. I don’t make tha rules ‘round here.”

“Lame,” you sigh, paging through the book mindlessly as you fall into his new chair. He finally splurged and bought a comfy leather one that you steal every chance you can get. 

“Want a Bit-O-Honey, honey?” Harry offers, pulling your eyes away from the familiar pictures. Grinning, you take the wrapped candy from his outstretched hand, trying to ignore the pet name. You find it hard to forget as you half look through the book and half watch him peel off his flannel. A sight, indeed. 

“Wait, how’d you put this in my room if the door was locked? The other books you sneaked in when I stepped out,” you ask suddenly, working on the piece of hard candy in your mouth. 

“I tol’ Marty tha janitor I forgot sumthin’ in yer room.” 

You can hear the smirk in his voice even though his back is to you. A broad one at that. When he turns just the slightest to peek at you, you find crinkles around his glimmering eyes. 

“Harry!” you scoff, your jaw falling to your chest, although not quite. 

“Oh stop it, ya know ya like it.”

Groaning, you cross your arms over your chest in annoyance, but it doesn’t last very long. 

“I don’t like all of these meetings,” you complain, throwing your head back onto the headrest. You flip to a page that makes you smile at the sight of cartoon Matilda. 

“Get used t’ it, ‘s one o’ tha big differences between bein’ a sub an’ a salaried teacher. Shoulda just stayed a sub then,” he jokes, driving you to pick up a Bit-O-Honey and throw it at his head. Turning away from the things he’s unloading from his backpack, he whines. “Heeey! Watch dat arm o’ yers, ‘s a scary one. Maybe ya should be teachin’ gym class instead.”

“Sports are ew,” you reply, ducking when he throws it back at you. “Harry Styles, you stop it!” you manage in between giggles, finally closing the book. 

“Oh ya, and what’re ya gonna do ‘bout it in t’ose heels, huh?” he teases, his hands leaving the pockets of his oversized backpack. “Ya gonna fly over t’ me, li’l birdy?” 

Huffing, you set down the book on his neat desk. Placing his hands on his hips, he turns to you and sticks out his tongue. 

“Oh, that’s it! You’re going to get it!” you threaten, standing from the chair as his laughter fills the room. 

“‘m soooo scared, boohoo,” he teases with a fake sob, his fists mimicking wiping tears from his cheeks. Snickering, he returns to his backpack. “Go hang up yer posters in yer room and leave me be fer once.” 

“You’re no fun,” you proclaim with a final whimper. Grabbing the book, you come up from behind him, softly hitting him with it on the shoulder. 

“I warned you,” he retorts. Before you know it, he gently grabs your wrist and pulls you over to stand in front of him. 

“Warned me about what?” you jest, a giggle wedging its way into your sentence as you drop the book onto a desk. You know that you’re getting on his nerves now. It’s the only time you’ve heard his teacher voice come out, but hey, you’re not complaining. 

His thick eyebrows above those eyes raise, wrinkling his forehead tan from your days at the beach the last few months. Harry pushing you off a rope swing into the water, him bitching about doing all of the paddling during your canoe trip, not so accidentally drenching your back with water from his paddle, and head dunking competitions while swimming. The tan looks far better on him, you think, as you admire the sun-kissed freckles peppering his face. 

“I told ya one time dat yer good at pushin’ me buttons, and here ya are doin’ it. I know I shoulda neva told ya dat,” he mutters, the curls atop his head dancing as his head rocks back and forth. The nervous laughter bubbling inside of you finds its escape, and you know that you’ve done it now. “But I guess ya jus’ don’t listen, do ya, bird?” 

You can’t stop yourself, and there you are poking his dimple with your finger. This time, you squeal when it finds its way between his nibbling teeth. His name leaves your lips in a near shout which only grows worse as his fingers dance along your ribs. 

“Stop, stop!” you cry out, but with no avail. His other arm comes around your middle to trap you with your back against a desk, despite your squirming. His other fingers dig into your sides before finding the soft flesh of your tummy. 

“Stop bloody screamin’, yer gonna make e’rybody think ‘m murderin’ ya or sumthin’,” he titters. You almost give in at the sight of his crinkly eyes and the smile stretching across his face. 

“And what if I don’t?” 

“Then I might jus’ hafta find a way t’ shut ya up, my li’l bird,” he coos from above you, a brunette brow raising. 

“Oh really?” 

“Yes, really,” he hums, the tips of his fingers ghosting over your side now. 

His bubblegum lips relax, falling into a knowing smirk. The laughs disappear from the both of you as his fingers still, resting on your side. The seconds tick by as your heart hammers in your chest, because his face is closer than it was a second ago. You gulp, suddenly finding the gold flecks in his eyes you didn’t know were there. Or the smattering of tiny freckles along his nose. That all becomes a thought of the past when his lips become the only thing you can think about as they near you. “Shall I?” Harry says in a breathy whisper, and you’re nodding even before his last syllable hits the air. 

Your skin feels hot and prickly all over as your eyes fall closed, waiting for what happens next. The very thing you’ve dreamed of since that day you dropped the books in front of him. When he took off his shirt at the beach, revealing his toned chest covered in black tattoos. The charisma and kindness he carried at your very first meeting after you were hired, the beginning of you two being joined at the hip. 

His lips are soft when he presses them against yours, and warm. He surrounds your lips with his slowly, as excitement rushes through you. A woodsy smell engulfs you when your nose brushes against his prickly cheek. His lips feel like velvet against yours with the slightest taste of Carmex chapstick. You’re sure he can feel the smile hiding on yours as his top lip fits between yours like a puzzle piece. His thin beard you’ve never seen him without tickles at your skin as your lips mold together. You can still feel the tingle on your lips after he’s pulled away. As well as the one that spreads across your body when those green eyes look into yours. 

“See, I was right. It did get you t’ shuddup,” he mumbles, the blissed-out smirk on his face covering every inch of his skin. You’ve seen his nervous smiles and everything in between, but you’re certain you’ve never seen that smile before. Not that your face is any better, because right now it’s a competition between whose smile is bigger. It might just be a tie, and you wish there could be a tie-breaker. 

“You should do that more often,” you smile, an uneasy laugh bringing an end to your risky words. 

“I think ‘d be happy with dat.”

You try to tell yourself you’re glad his hands didn’t stray to your face, because he would’ve felt the heat of your tomato likened cheeks. There’s no use, because you want them there, but on your sides, as they are is better than nothing. It fills your stomach with multitudes of butterflies just to have your hands on each other. 

His hands draw shapes into your back when you wrap him in a hug. The fresh smell of his citrus body wash fills your nose, your skin touching the fabric of his shirt. 

“Ya gonna get all soft on me now, are ya?” he whispers above you, his cheek against the side of your head. 

“Mmmhmm,” is all you can muster as you find yourself dragging the tips of your fingers along his side. 

Raising your head to peek up at him, his eyes drop to you. “Good, I like ya dat way,” he murmurs, running his thumb along the roundness of your cheek. His tongue peeks out of his lips, held between his teeth. “Verdict?” he almost laughs, causing the butterflies inside of you to stir. 

“I don’t know. I think I might need um, another sample,” you smirk, watching a corner of his mouth meet his cheek. 

“Tha’s fair,” he agrees before dipping to plant another kiss to your lips. His lips are even more decadent a second time, and you quickly realize how addicting this could become. You realize it’s the only addiction you’d be okay with having as the tip of his nose caresses your cheek. 

Your lips part with a soft smack, much too soon for your liking. “We should prolly get back t’ work,” Harry snickers, his breath against your face sweet from the caramel candy. 

“Yeah,” you agree aloud, much to your dismay. “I’d give it an A, by the way.”

“Hmmm,” he thinks aloud, quirking his eyebrows in response. 

“A long overdue one.”

“‘d say yer right there,” he echos, pinching your cheek between his fingers. Giggling, you pull away as your laughs mix with each other’s. 

“Hey, Harry!” a voice calls, sounding far away. 

You separate quickly, like two magnets repelling each other. It saddens you, but when a colleague steps into Harry’s classroom a moment later, you’re met with relief as you grab the book off the desk. 

“Hi, Trent. Ya ready t’ see who falls asleep first in t’day’s meetin’?” he quips, stuffing his hands in his pockets, nonchalantly leaning against a desk. 

“My money’s on John, for sure,” Trent jokes, pressing his red glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Oh hi, Y/N,” he says, greeting you. You wave with a small ‘hi’ as you stand at the edge of the classroom near the windows uneasily. 

“I dunno, my money feels pretty good on her,” Harry teases, pointing a finger at you before winking. 

“Whatever. I better go take my nap now that you reminded me,” you return, sauntering out of the room and into the hall. 

Out of his presence, the butterflies take flight inside of you. A warmth fills your body all over when you reach the safety of your classroom. Closing the door, you fall against it with happiness jumping from the smile on your lips. Squealing with your hands held to your chest, you soon sigh at the thought of his lips. His lips soon being on yours again, and again, and again. 

Exhaling, you step down from the chair and stare at your hard work. Nodding in approval, you straighten the skirt of your patterned mustard dress. The happy face of Anne Frank looks back at you from the enlarged poster of her autobiography. Dragging your feet over to your desk, you plop onto your brown spinny chair, ignoring your heels forgotten on the floor. You bask in the new ambiance of your classroom, feeling the pleasure from the new posters donning your walls. 

The Diary of Anne Frank. 

Ross from F.R.I.E.N.D.S saying ‘you’re means y-o-u  a-r-e.’ 

The quote, ‘Never forget what you are, the rest of the world will not’ - Tyrion Lannister.

A funny grammar poster that makes you feel like an even bigger English nerd. 

Frowning, the last poster in the corner sits there begging to be shown off, but you need help with it. After the events of earlier, you’re nervous to approach Harry. A sweet kind of nervousness, but nonetheless it’s there. Huffing, you grab the edge of the desk to pull you closer. Pressing play, the Queen song crawls from your laptop’s speakers, slowly filling the room. Clicking through your open windows, you finally find the unit plan you’ve been working on. 

Voices carry down the hallway outside your door, but you can’t make out what they’re saying. Squinting, as if it will help your hearing, you then tilt your head to look out your half-opened door. Jackson from the nearby history wing walks by, laughing at something somebody said. 

“Dis betta not be a bloody heavy desk, Jack,” somebody responds, amusement laced in their voice. 

“Hey, I know that voice,” you softly whisper to yourself, your lips curling at its sound. 

“You’re the one who agreed to help me! You can’t get out of helping me bring it in now, Harry!”

You hear the melodic sound of his laugh, perhaps one of your favorite sounds. The butterflies return when you let yourself think about getting to hear it as much as you’d like in these walls. 5 days a week for 9 months out of the year- well, something like that. 

A couple seconds later, Harry zooms past your door saying, “Get t’ work!” in a mocking deep voice, winking. 

“You!” you shout back, giggling to yourself with hot cheeks. You attempt to return your attention to the document open on your screen. It’s difficult, you find, because the thing consuming your mind is how nice Harry’s bum looked in those jeans. 

*

Chatter pecks at your ears as you swivel in your chair, watching your new colleagues converse around the table. Your new boss laughs with somebody standing at the room’s front by the projector screen. Reaching forward, you pluck another carrot from your plate to nibble on nervously. Once again, you pull out your phone to busy yourself, only making you feel guiltier for not mingling. You’ve already said at least a ‘hi’ to everyone in this room already, and you have the rest of your career to get to know them, you tell yourself. Bouncing your leg, your eyes drift to the clock on the wall. Impatience spreads like a hot wave throughout your limbs, bringing your eyes yet again to the back door to the conference room. When is he going to get here, you guess fervently, counting down the minutes until the meeting starts. 

A thud! surprises you when a white paper bag lands on the table in front of you. 

“Hmm, I didn’t know ya were a jumpa,” a voice snickers, its owner soon coming into view in front of you. Harry. “Why ya lookin’ like a lost puppy, bird?” he coos, pushing out his bottom lip as he pulls out the chair to your right.

“I’m not,” you retort, continuing to scroll through Instagram, stopping when you see a picture of a Goldendoodle puppy. 

“Yes, ya do. What, were ya wonderin’ what’d ya do if I didn’t show? Can’t have ya missin’ yer security blanket now,” he teases, poking you in the ribs with a glint in his eye. 

“Stop,” you giggle, placing your phone face down on the table. Sitting up and eyeing the food, you pinch his thigh for good measure. 

“Hey, watch those fingas, missy. They keep gettin’ ya into trouble lately,” he warns, tsking as his head goes from side to side. Opening the bag, he pulls out a familiar wrapped burger to hand to you. 

“Thank you, I’ll pay you back.”

“Shhhh, ya can pay next time. Sound good?” Harry hums, flitting his eyes to you with an eyebrow raise.

You give him his answer with a nod before taking a bite of the cheeseburger. Your boss starts to tell everybody to find a seat so they can begin the meeting. Out of the corner of your eye, Harry sets a packet of fries in front of you. Shooting him a smile, he returns it as he feeds one between his happy lips. Chairs squeak and whine as they’re moved and sat in around the long table. Somebody nudges your foot, and to no surprise, you find it’s Harry. He holds out a covered paper cup, a red straw poking from the top. A ‘thank you’ is held in your smile and he just nods, slipping off his sunglasses to set down. Your attention is stolen by his fingers raking through his curls to put them back in place. 

A thought pops into your head unwarranted, and consumes your attention as the principal speaks. I wonder if this means now I get to run my fingers through those curls, you ponder as you grab a fry. At the most inconvenient time possible, your mind starts to dig around. Doubts soon fill your thoughts, along with questions about what this will be with him. You try to push them away and lock them in a box, but they’ve done their job. Any smile left on your lips is gone now, and you continue to eat your burger quietly. 

“Ya eat jus’ like a bird with t’ose li’l bites,” Harry whispers, scooting closer to the table to retrieve the packets of ketchup from the bag. 

Turning to look at him, he holds a glowing smile in his eyes for you.  His shoe knocks into yours and he leaves it sitting on top of yours. Take that, stupid brain, you announce to your thoughts as you affectionately bump your knee against Harry’s. 

Reverting your thoughts to the towering figure speaking at the front of the room, a smile buds on your lips at the feeling of Harry rubbing his knee against yours. 

*

Rubbing your hands across your eyes, you feel the breath leave you in a whoosh. Tapping the board with your electronic marker that’s a pen, highlighter, and an eraser in one, you drag it in zig zags. The scribbles on the board disappear in a flash. Suddenly, it falls from your hands when you feel a pair of arms surround your waist. 

“Hiya, bird,” a voice says, pressing a kiss to your cheek. Their warm breath tickles the nape of your neck, and so does the collar of their shirt. Spinning around, you find Harry standing there, a pout forming on his face. The adorable Starry Night tie you bought for him hangs loosely over his cornflower blue button-down. “What, why won’t ya lemme hug you?”

“Harry, anybody could walk in,” you insist, prying his arms from your waist. Bending down, you pick up the pen and place it back in its holder with a click. 

“All tha students are gone by now, babe. ‘s half past 3, and any dat are around are at practice. Tha last place they’d wanna be ‘s back t’ a classroom afta their first day o’ school,” he murmurs, wedging his way back into your good graces as he pulls you back into his arms. “I wanted t’ see how me birdy’s first day went. Sooooo, wha’s tha verdict?”

“It was good. A little overwhelming, though,” you hum in return, letting your head fall backward to fit against his cheek. 

“It ‘s fer e’rybody, love, so don’t worry. It’ll get betta, jus’ hang in there. Tha first month ‘s nothin’, that’s tha honeymoon period befo’ e’rythin’ goes wild.” His lips brush against your cheek with every word, the feeling of his ticklish stubble something you’re not yet used to. 

“Harry!” you scoff, turning your head to find his hairy cheeks creased with a devilish smile behind you. 

“‘m kiddin’, well not really, but hey, ya got me t’ help ya through it all. Don’t fret, love,” he tries to assure you, brushing the back of his fingers along your side. “What was yer favourite part o’ yer day, hmm?”

“Seeing some familiar students from when I used to sub. It was nice to catch up with them and hear stories,” you reveal, looking down as you cover his hands settled on your tummy with your own. 

“Mmm, that’s good. Familiar faces are always nice,” Harry mumbles, the point of his nose dragging along the expanse of your cheek. “Did I tell ya yet ya look really pretty in yer new dress?”

“Yes, you did. About three times, but thank you again.”

“Welcome, bird. I hope no teenage boys are crushin’ on ya now,” he jests, planting a loud kiss on your temple. The remnants of his minty piece of gum cover your face in a silent cloud as he laughs at his own joke. 

“Yuck! Oh and like there aren’t dozens of girls fawning over you in your classes?” you chuckle, bringing a whine to his lips when you squirm in his arms. “Put that lip away.”

“Or what? Hmm, what’re ya gonna do ‘bout it? Ya can kiss it away like all tha girls in me classes wanna do, if ya want,” Harry smirks, wiggling his eyebrows at you once you turn around. Lifting a hand from his arm, it lifts to brush back the brown ringlets falling onto his forehead. 

“You’re gross sometimes. It makes me wonder how I can kiss that potty mouth.”

“Well ya do, and ya sure seem t’ like it,” he winks, dramatically licking his lips with a loud slurp. 

“Stop!” you exclaim, collapsing into laughter, your head returning to his chest. His hands clasp over your back, his thumb brushing your skin through the jade dress you wear. You’re grateful for your face hidden away in his chest for when you feel his lips pepper kisses from your temple to your neck. He leaves your skin tingling from his magical touch, and his growing curls leave a trail down your neck. 

“I think dis year’s gonna be a good one,” he coos against your ear, letting his smooth nose brush against its lobe. “I got tha reason right here.” 

“Can we do this though?” The words jump from your lips without a chance to catch them and shove them back in their safety. 

“Do what, love? Kiss? ‘Course, ya jus’ take yer lips and my lips, and put ‘em togetha’ like dis,” he wisecracks, lifting your head to show you the humor painting his face. Puckering his flushed lips, he closes the space between you to press a peck to your waiting lips. Pulling away, he quirks an eyebrow at you in silent questioning. 

“That’s not what I meant, Harry,” you continue, your words falling short of the thoughts buzzing around in your skull. 

“Then what’d ya mean?” 

“Can we, I don’t know . . ,” you begin, but you lose your footing. Leaving his arms regrettably, you almost lose your footing quite literally when he tries to hold on. A sound leaves his lips at your departure, but you try to ignore it. That’s easier said than done, you realize as you fight with yourself, wondering if you should say that word or not. “Date . . as colleagues?” 

They they are, free to the wind. It feels like coming home and your heavy book bag leaving your shoulders, although this time it’s far less trivial. The similarity doesn’t ease your anxious mind as you stop in front of your desk, fingering at the note that greeted you this morning. A pink Post-It note smattered with his sometimes unreadable handwriting, resting on top of a box of novels he gifted to you for your classroom. 

To my favorite teacher - I know you’ve been dreading this day for months, and looking forward to it, too. You’re going to do great. They’re going to love you. You’re not going to mess anything up. You got this, bird. Remember that. Take it easy on yourself. Remember, you have to take care of yourself, so then you can take care of them. You’ll learn from each other too. Just keep remembering pizza at the beach with me tonight to celebrate your first day. 

Harry xoxooxoxoxo 

“‘Course we can, as long as it doesn’t bleed into our work life. What d’ya mean?” Harry says, trying to inject lightheartedness into his words. You both can hear the failed effect they have, and they only make his words sound sadder. 

“I don’t know, I don’t want to like, get in trouble, or something. I just started this job.”

“Oh,” is all he mumbles. Mumbled or not, you hear the finality in his one word. As well as all that it says with that single syllable. 

Looking over your shoulder at him, you find the confirmation you needed knitting together his features. “Harry,” you say, turning the rest of your body to face him. He takes a step back, and now you know you’ve done it. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Then how’d ya mean it?” he retorts, coolness playing in his voice. He knows he’s done it, too. “Hmmm, bird? Ya only care ‘bout dat part o’ it - if we get caught and what people would think? Only wanna keep me a secret?” His words bite as he spits them into the air. They hit your face with a sting, but nothing compares to how he threw your nickname into the mud. The nickname you love, that happened all because of the first meal you shared together. 

“Harry, don’t. You know that’s not what I meant- Y-you’re being ridiculous,” you press, stepping forward. It’s like one step forward and two steps back, because he continues to walk away from you. Quickly, your hands grow shaky as the feeling consumes the rest of your body. 

“No, I know what ya meant. Or ‘s there mo’ ya want t’ say? Want t’ say dat ‘Oh, ‘s too risky, so maybe we shouldn’t do dis anymo’, even tho’ it makes us happy,’” Harry persists, his right hand lifting in question, before it falls with a slap to his thigh. 

“We never even said what this was,” you try to say, but before you get any further, you know you’re just making it worse. You know that he’ll read into your words incorrectly and assume the worst, despite your true meaning. At the realization, your heart pounds harder in your chest. The look on his face like you just slapped him tells you all you need to know. “Harry, wait.”

“No, yer right. We neva said what dis was, but apparently ‘s nuthin’ worth labelin’ or takin’ risks fer,” he grumbles. His head falls with a spiteful smile, but when it lifts again something shatters in your chest. With wet eyes, he continues in a croaky voice, “Then why’d ya take tha job knowin’ I was mad ‘bout ya?” 

Your lips wobble with his name dangling from them. When you try to walk over to him, you’re only two steps in when he holds a hand up. “No, don’t. ‘m glad ya told me early on. ‘m happy I didn’t already start fallin’ fer ya or anythin’. That’d be real shitty, wouldn’t it?” he wheezes, a strange smile tugging at his lips dealing failed sarcasm. Sniffling, a tear falls down his tanned skin and he brushes it away. With a shake of his head, he turns to walk out of the door. You know that you shouldn’t, but you let him, because you know you have to. 

Collapsing at your desk, your head falls into your hands. Tears splash into your palms as your chest shakes, wondering just how you turned the best first day into the worst first day. 

*

You know that a note won’t be there, but you continue to wish as your heels clack down the halls of lockers. You know that you’ll see his face no matter how hard you try to avoid him, and that it’ll hurt more than you thought it would. Although you prepared yourself, unlocking the door to your classroom and finding no notes from him hurts more than you suspected. The hurt only stings worse when you pass each other in the halls with your students trailing behind, eyes falling away instantly. The spark in the air is lost when he huffs, passing you on the way to the vending machine in the lounge, leaving as soon as he came. Although the hurt grew as the attacks came and went, nothing could prepare you for the absence of his notes that week. That was an eventuality you had dreaded thinking of since the day you found the first one, back in his classroom. 

You tried at the very least, albeit an understatement. Notes dropped into his mailbox went unanswered, as well as texts and phone calls. Even the bag of Bit O Honeys failed at their messages of apology. A few times you thought about trudging into his classroom after the bell rang, and hashing it out. Each time you mustered just enough courage to do so, a staff meeting got in the way. Or, within 5 minutes of the bell, his door was locked and he was gone. Speaking of staff meetings, you suffered even worse at those. No longer was he your security blanket at your side, because he no longer saved you a seat. Slowly, the young and pretty visual arts teacher grew to get on your nerves as you watched her be a little too nice to him. He didn’t entertain her taunts and turn to you with a smirk to rub it in your face. No, he was a good guy, and you had to go and ruin it, or what was becoming of it. 

He ignored you - at staff meetings, in the copy room, in the staff lounge, in the halls, when both of your classes were in the library - basically everywhere and anywhere. It was an understatement to say you suffered because of it. You had to buddy up with Jen, the poetry teacher. She took the brunt of your questions, whether technology-related or English related. You became fast friends, but unlike the easiness with Harry, you quickly felt you were a nuisance. That was something he never made you feel like, well, until now that is. 

You made the mistake of getting your hopes up when you found a bag of Bit O Honeys in your mailbox one morning. That is until the white note on it told you in his writing to stop plugging his box with them. Instead, you tossed them on the counter in the staff lounge to share, never wanting to see those yellow and red wrappers again. Quickly, what you thought had become your dream job morphed into a nightmare. His face filled your thoughts day after day, and it especially distracted you when your mind chose the tear-stricken memory. It bled into your lectures and although it stung less when you saw him, without fail every day, it was messing with your mind. It didn’t help when you were beginning a unit on Romeo and Juliet and a student joked you could play Juliet and Mr. Styles could play Romeo, quite literally. 

*

You had been staying after school every day to finish lesson plans, grade tests, reflect on teaching, and plan for the next day. The October chill that arrived this week only made you want to stay in your cozy classroom with the Autumn decorations you hung up. Soon, it would be Halloween and costumes would fill the halls. The thought pours memories into your mind, but a particular one sours the enjoyment for you. The memory of planning a matching costume with Harry. Jay and Daisy from The Great Gatbsy, like the English teacher nerds you are. Were. 

Swallowing past the lump in your throat, you reach for your water bottle. A groan finds its way past your lips when you pick it up, only to find it's empty. Standing with it in your hands, you cross the room to your door. After a few steps into the hallway, your movements freeze at the sight of his open door. Biting back any hesitations, your hand shakes when it presses against the wood. 

Something thrilling washes over you when you find his head bent over his desk. His left hand covered with varying rings props his head up as he marks the page with his favorite red pen. A Micron pen, but only you would know that. Pausing, he fiddles with the tan braces strapping his shoulders clad in a handsome white and gray checkered button-down. Words stick together inside of your mouth, and when you hear the click of your shoe, regret surges inside of you. 

“I made a mistake,” you say, testing the waters, although you know they’re stormy. Clearing your throat, you hope the subsequent ones will come out louder and stronger, before he can stop you. Your galloping heart jumps when he lifts his head to look at you, a question painting his face. “I fucked up, and I could never say how sorry I am. I said the wrong things, and I didn’t mean them that way- that’s not the point . . . I miss you, Harry. You’re all I think about, even when I’m thinking of other things, or when I’m teaching. That’s how I know it’s bad, because even though it’s only been a month, it still hurts like it was yesterday,” your voice screeches to a halt. You take one step at a time as he watches you. 

A curl tickles his bearded cheek, making you want to tuck it back into place, but you can’t. A crumb from a chip sits on his chin, making you want to brush it away, but you know you can’t. And neither can you whisk away the worry lines forming around his eyes. 

“I need you, not just to help me figure out how to use a projector or what a conjunction is again. But I need to tell you about the good parts of my day, and even the bad parts. Because even though we haven’t talked for like a month, my mind still goes to you when something good happens, or even bad. Even my students tease that we should be together, so that says something,” you try your hand at joking, but he turns his attention back to his desk. “Harry, please. I’m sorry,” you plead with him, tears catching the last of your words. 

“Sorry doesn’t jus’ make it all go away, bird,” he returns cooly. His head lifts ever so slightly, only to fall. As if he changed his mind a few seconds into a decision.

“I know, but I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I’ll buy you Bit-O-Honeys for the rest of your life, grade your papers, check your mailbox, or buy the next meals for a month. Anything.” The apologies run off of your lips, but he doesn’t say anything, nor do his actions. An exhale whooshes over your pursed lips as your nails dig into your clenched palms. Defeat covers your body as you turn to leave. 

“None o’ dat takes away what ya said,” he announces painfully, the new fabric of his chair squeaking with his movements. 

“I know,” you say automatically, a battle waging its way inside of you of whether to look at him. As if his words laced with hurt didn’t already leave you breathless. “So tell me what I have to do.”

“I can’t do dat, bird. Ya should know,” he sighs, clucking his tongue in disbelief. 

Your eyes fall shut and your jaw clenches in anger, but the sweet smell of oranges brings you back to the moment. “I’m sorry that I made it seem like it wasn’t worth being with you, because it was, and I realized that even more after . . what happened. I’m sorry that it didn’t seem like I was dedicated enough, but I want to be a- I want to show you that I can be, and I want to be that to you. I’m sorry that I care too much about what other people think, because I only care what you think. It’s ripped me apart lately knowing that you hate me, and how you can’t even be around me, and . . ,” your string of words breaks off, stolen away by your onset of tears. They rumble through your chest with tremors, and the embarrassment brings your hands to your face streaked with them. 

The howling of the wind hugs the windows, masking any other sounds. If there were, you can’t hear them, but you do feel something. His fingers wrapping around yours, pulling your hands away from your face. 

“Ya gonna stop now befo’ ya make me cry too?” he hums, one corner of his lips turned up ever so slightly. With raised eyebrows, they pose the question to you. Nodding fast with hiccups stealing your words, he kneads your hands between his own. “Are ya gonna shuddup or am I gonna hafta make you?” Harry softly laughs. 

“You’re going to have to make me,” you return, stumbling over your sobbed words. 

“Good, was hopin’ ya’d say dat.”

Smirking playfully, he steps forward to cup your face in his hands. The callused tips of his fingers make quick work of the tears staining your face, as well as his lips. “Don’t cry, and don’t ever say dat I hate you,” he coos in between pecks to your wet skin singing with his kisses. “Don’t want me pretty birdy t’ cry no mo’.”

“Your bird doesn’t want to cry and be sad, and miss you anymore,” you whimper, trying to hold it all in, but it comes pouring out. 

“Baby bird,” he pouts sadly, his rose lips round and extended. His brow presses into a sad line as the same emotion carries his words. “Lemme make it all betta.”

Nodding, you hiccup again as you cover his hands with yours. His subsequent smile warms your insides cold and aching from the long days without him. His lips bring a respite when they touch yours, ending the harsh drought. Kissing him back, you revel in the feeling of his unkempt scratchy beard against your face. Just one more thing you missed. Severing the kiss, you mumble an ‘I’m sorry’ against his chapped lips. 

“Shhh, ‘s okay, love. I know ya are,” he tells you before bringing his lips back against yours. They move together slowly, welcoming the return of the other. 

Your mouth falls to envelope his bottom lip in between yours, his facial hair feathery against your mouth. Hungrily, you kiss him and savor his familiar taste and smell. Fingers drifting to his hair, they return home to his buttery curls. His lips pull away only to plant another kiss against your mouth. Too soon, he breaks the kiss with a breathy laugh against your lips. 

“My goodness, lemme breathe, love.”

“Sorry . . I missed you.”

“Ya sure did, bird. Think I missed ya a li’l more, though,” Harry chuckles as your hands fall from his locks. His thumb steals the last hint of a tear from under your eye. The amusement creasing his features disappears swiftly. “‘m sorry too, y’know. I overreacted, and I shouldn’t have put meself over yer job. It wasn’t fair o’ me t’ do dat. D’ya think I can have those Bit-O-Honeys back, or were ya serious ‘bout buyin’ me a lifetime supply?”

Groaning, you playfully shove at his chest, only to have him wrap you up in his arms. “I guess I was serious.”

Briiiiiiing!

“Styles and Lawson, this is Rebecca,” I chime, finding it hard to hold in a sigh as I play the fake cheerful card. And boy do I try to believe it, too.

"Hi yes, I’m calling about . . . ,” the shrill voice belonging to an old granny spills into my ears. I grudgingly reply and transfer them to the right department that they should have called in the first place. Sigh.

My fingers return to the keyboard of my laptop and glide across the keys. I pick up where I left off from the middle of the sentence. The sentence I was interrupted in the middle of.

“I need copies o’ these,” a voice rasps, before I hear a definite clud. I look up to find a pair of tired green eyes belonging to Harry. They disappear in a flash when he turns his back, walking away without another word. With a huff, I reach over to grab the small stack of law books and documents, post-its spanning the color of the rainbow sticking out to mark pages.

+

Beep.

I tap my finger along the screen, first entering Harry’s code. Welcome, Harry, it reads. I press OK and ignore the many options, and instead select Copy. After selecting what I need, I tap the green button and wait for the whirring of the printer.

Ten minutes and many copies later, I plant the last post it on a stack of copies of Chapter 10 from Law’s Empire. After rearranging the stacks in alternating directions in one big stack, I settle the hefty pile in my arms before turning around.

I nearly lose it when I turn around. Harry stands mere inches in front of me, floating into the room unannounced like a ghost. And in my fright, my arms do a weird thing out of my control. In staggering slow motion, dozens upon dozens of papers jump into the air.

Suddenly, my vision speeds up to the present. I groan loudly at the mess of papers lying on our feet all over the floor.

“‘m sorry, didn’ mean t’ scare ya, love,” Harry comments softly. He falls to his knees as he gathers a handful of paper. “Here, lemme help you.”

“I’m fine, I got it,” I reply, grabbing a piece of paper with an orange post-it. “Did you need something?”

“What?”

“Well, you were standing two inches away from my face when I turned around. It kind of implies that you need something,” I say, starting to recognize some similar papers. I begin to make stacks of the familiar pages.

Law’s Empire. A History of British Law. Pages from a file on somebody named  Harrows.

The reason is fleeting me, but I look up briefly to find his head bent down as he gathers papers together in a uniform stack. The pause rouses him and he looks up too. I tear my eyes away after only a few seconds of eye contact. A chilling silence fills the space between us, often interrupted by the sound of shuffling paper and the almost quiet ticking of the clock.

Maybe minutes later, my five stacks are growing higher along with his. I start to see the tile floor that I had forgotten was there.

“I wanted t’ talk t’ you.”

“Of course,” I almost retort in a mutter, setting aside a copy of page 489 from The Infamous Case.

A syllable falls from his lips, but it stops there and I try to ignore it.

The stack for Dallow vs. Emprise Inc. has nearly doubled in size by the time he speaks again.

“Why can’ we talk ‘bout what happened?”

“Because, Harry, there’s nothing for us to talk about,” I answer, picking up copies from the Harrows stack and clinking them against my thighs to straighten them out.

“Becks,” he almost pleads by the sound of it, and it catches my attention. I’m coming to hate that name, with how much it’s been battered and abused.

“It’s over, Harry, just drop it. Please.”

“No, I don’ wanna drop it, Becks. ‘s not over.”

After sorting through a good two dozen papers I pick up another, leaving only a handful or so left. Thank God, then maybe I can get out of here.

“Yes, it is, Harry. Stop it.”

“Why?” he retorts through gritted teeth.

He pushes his stacks into the middle.

“Because it was over the second you didn’t try to give me the benefit of the doubt,” I say curtly, staring down at his messy stacks that I combine with mine. Throwing caution out the window, I put them all into one stack that I hug to my chest as I get to my feet.

Finally, I meet his eyes as our shoes squeak against the tiles. He stands between me and my way out. A synonym to sadness tugs at his eyes. His red rose lips pout out of the corner of my eye.

The door clicks behind me with a definite thud as I make my escape.

I have to push away my disappointment when I don’t hear the clud of his footsteps coming after me.

+

It pains me to wrap my fingers around that handle. I feel a pang seeing his desk and all of his familiar furniture and books. It hurts, even more, to look at his leather couch and see where we sat at each end on late nights. Boxes of takeaway and empty beer bottles would sit on the carpet nearby. Our laughs floating around the room and filling the empty cracks in the walls. And the empty parts of my heart. Maybe even his.

My feet hardly budge from his doorway. I drag them across the room and over to his desk. My eyes land on the scattered mess atop it. Papers. Empty mugs. Forgotten pens. Hastily written notes. I juggle the stack of papers back and forth, trying to find an empty space for them where they won’t get lost. My eyes catch the dark wooden frame beside his phone. His dimpled cheeks and sparkling eyes smile at me from a picture. Next to the excited smile and fake blonde head of hair called his girlfriend. Amber.

“I coulda taken those,” a voice speaks from behind me. I jump at the sound of his voice. Once again, it’s as if he floated into the room without a squeak.

Gulp.

I pick a spot and drop the papers there. Turning around, her perfect smile and perfect face stare at me out of the corner of my vision. Touching my hair nervously, I find him standing in his doorway looking lost. Nervous. A question sits on his face. The way he looks at me is as if he wishes for me to answer it. I look down quickly as thoughts storm through my brain. I strive for the calm after the storm, and I know the only way that’ll happen.  

I lift my head, and it finally feels clear for a moment. I meet his eyes and nervously lock gazes.

“Consider this my two week’s notice. I’ll help you find a replacement for me. I’ll train them in and I’ll finish up what I’m doing, but then I’m gone,” I announce suddenly. I wish for my voice to sound balanced and confident, but I’m almost sure it’s the polar opposite.

His eyebrows raise as if controlled by a puppeteer, and his jaw drops nearly in sync. No words fall from his mouth, but I see question after question blossoming behind his big eyes.

The storm behind mine rages and howls as I walk past him. Now it’s my turn to float away like a ghost. If only I could turn invisible, too. And maybe haunt a person or two, like a certain somebody’s girlfriend.

+

The rest of the week drags on slowly. Rain plagues the city and puddles litter the sidewalks everywhere I go. I count the days until I can leave and call this time in my life a stupid mistake of the past. But the days can’t go fast enough, and with the incessant rain, they only seem to go by slower. The jumbled mess in my head only grows worse, too. The dread. The slight excitement. The relief. The confliction. The sadness. The feeling of being lost. The wondering of what the hell I’ll do next.

Another storm rumbles overhead amidst the beeps and whirring of the elevator. Finally, the red number reaches 17 and the silver doors part. I’m bombarded by the sounds of the seventeenth floor. Chatter. Typing. Phones ringing. It’s not long before it blends into the background, just like any other day.

One week down, one left to go. My Monday is slow and I’m quickly reminded of my restless sleep from the night before.

Caffeine is my saving grace throughout the day that seems like it’ll never end. First, the copier won’t work. Then I get an earful from some stranger on the phone. Next, I realized I forgot my lunch at home. To top it all off, Harry is in a disastrous mood. This last one is by far the worst as if the others weren’t bad enough.

“Wha’s this I hear ‘bout you hangin’ up on people?” a voice rasps from behind me. The four numbers unique to me show on the screen of the kiosk before I hit enter.

“I’m on my lunch break, I’m not working right now,” I reply, walking away and towards the fridge with the hopes I’ll find something forgiving there.

“I don’ care if yer on yer lunch break, or if yer off for tha day. I wann’ talk t’ you,” Harry retorts. I resist rolling my eyes at his remark as my eyes search the shelves of the fridge. The barren shelves.

“Then what do you want?” I huff, turning to face him as the refrigerator door closes with a soft thud.

“First, yer hangin’ up on people, then sumbody called t’ tell me that ya messed up their appointment with me, and lastly I still haven’ gotten tha copies I asked for at nine this morning?” he continues, holding out his ringed fingers and using them to count. He holds up three of his fingers and waves them in the air. As if I don’t know how to count, too. “What, are ya tryin’ to make yer last two weeks hell for tha both of us?”

“No.”

“Well, it sure fookin’ seems like it. What, have ya just given up halfway in? Ya still got anotha week left ya know, a week that still requires you t’ do yer job. And train yer replacement in, but ya seemed t’ forget that part haven’t ya, considerin’ ya’ve still failed t’ find one?” Harry goes on, poking at the ticking time bomb inside of my chest. The anger pumping through my veins goes a little quicker with every word that falls from his lips.

“Fuck off,” I tell him, pronouncing every syllable clearly and slowly.

His green eyes expand in a second flat and instantly regret fills me with a sick feeling. But then the anger returns and my heart starts racing.

“Excuse me? What makes ya think ya can talk t’ me like that? ‘m still yer boss, don’ bloody forget that,” Harry says, his voice rising as he wags a finger at me. Annoyance and anger knits his eyebrows together.

Fear surges into my veins and suddenly I’m tired. My stomach growls, yelling at me to feed it so it won’t be empty anymore. But I couldn’t find five minutes this morning to order something, and I’ve had enough of the rain that the last thing I want to do is step back into it before I absolutely have to.

“Please, just stop. I’m sorry, okay?” I sigh, my voice threatening to break on the last syllable. Suddenly, his features soften and the real Harry peaks out at me from the cracks.

“Becks, I’m sorry, too. I know ‘s not an excuse, but ‘ve been having a hard time lately. ‘s been so hard t’ try and find a replacement tha’s even half as good as you. I jus’ wish we could talk ‘bout this more, and that you could stay. Please, Becks, ‘ll do anything,” Harry says quietly. His voice leaks of pleading and honesty - two things I haven’t seen in a long time.

My shoulders threaten to fall with a loose shrug, but I stop them before they can. I gulp past the knot in my throat and force myself not to give in. A flicker of movement behind him catches my eye, and I look over briefly to see what it was. The door opens and in walks Asher with two brown paper bags clutched in his hands and a question painting his face.

“No, Harry. My mind is made up, I’m leaving. I spoke with somebody who sounds like they’d be a good fit - she’s coming in tomorrow,” I say softly, defeat tugging at the corners of my voice but the edge sticks. And so does my decision.

I walk away after the last word hits the air before he can say anything else. The smell of greasy fish and chips tempts my taste buds as I near Asher.

He flashes me a small smile before whispering, “are you okay?” as he turns to follow me out the door. I nod ‘yes’ and take the bag he holds out towards me.

“You’re a lifesaver.”

A microwavable cup of oatmeal. Picking titles off Harry’s bookshelves and making copies at his request, over and over. Then putting them back where they were, in alphabetical order by title. Picking up his newest dry cleaning. Taking care of his shopping lists. The next mornings consisted of this. Oh, and ordering take away because guess who was too busy again to make herself lunch?

“Hello, is anybody home in there?” somebody says. I jump a few inches off of my seat and jerk my head up to see who’s talking to me. Harry. With his large hands resting on the edge of my desk. Wrinkling papers and pushing things around. “You okay, love? You look a little down, and tired, and-.”

“Okay, I get it. I don’t look the best. Noted,” I reply, looking away from him and to my computer.

“I-I didn’ mean it that way . . Really, are you sure yer okay, Becks? Is everything alright?”

“Yes, everything is fine, thanks.”

“Okay, if you insist,” he replies. He finally lifts his hands from my desk and makes it look like he’s going to leave. But he doesn’t. He continues to stand there and look at me, awkwardly.

“Um, can I help you with something?” I ask him, holding my hand out before I rest my chin in my palm.

It takes him a short moment to collect his thoughts. But then after looking around mindlessly his eyes return to me. “Ya know if ya need a letter of recommendation or something, I’d be glad t’ write one for ya. Unless ya’ve already found a job and ‘m saying this kind late . . I mean if yer looking for another personal assistant job which whoever that’s for they’re tha luckiest in tha world,” Harry goes on. He talks like he’s never going to stop, but I wouldn’t put it past him. “Have ya already found a new job?”

“No, I uh haven’t. But I’m working on it,” I reply. I awkwardly meet his eyes that gently look back into mine. An unwelcome thought creeps in through a crack in my reserve, and there I am feeling the weight of its words.

If only things could always be easy like this and he could be easy like this then I wouldn’t be looking for another job. But they’re not.

“Good. ‘m sure you’ll find something great, whatever it is ya choose. Anybody will be lucky t’ have you,” he rambles on quietly. The tension in the air grows and I suddenly wish this conversation was over minutes ago. “Ya wouldn’ ever go and work for Tomlinson or the bloody Scotts-.”

“No no, of course not. I’d never do that to you,” I reply quickly. A quick smile flashes across his face and a blush pinches his cheeks.

“Yeah yeah, I know. I didn’ want it t’ seem like I thought you would, but-.”

“I know, Harry. It’s ok,” I tell him softly. Now it’s my turn to smile, or the best I can try.

“Y-you’ll be ok?” Harry says slowly, thumbing at his bottom lip. The question catches me off guard, and I look away from the feeling in his eyes. I can’t handle it. This is already hard enough, and the two weeks isn’t even up.

I clear my throat and pull my head back up to look at him. I nod at his question and his head moves a little too. He bites at his bottom lip and turns his eyes away.

“You have an appointment later with Judge O’Connell at 3, and then the new prospect, Amelia Jones, should be here in fifteen to interview,” I say quickly so as to avoid any more sappy talk. But I quickly regret it, because knowing Harry it’ll be another few days until another moment like this.

And I only have six left, counting today. Six days to figure everything out, and to let him go. As if I could do that.

+

“So. . ,” he rasps as the hum of the heating fills my ears after the previously incessant chatter.

“What?” I ask softly, tearing my gaze from the wall to Harry’s inquisitive eyes that search for mine.

“What did ya think of her?” he continues, speaking with his expressive eyebrows that climb up his forehead. The pen in his hand ventures out towards me in question before it returns to its stay between his teeth.

“She was good, probably the best one yet,” I admit hesitantly, looking down at my clipboard holding an interview sheet similar to the one in his lap. She checked nearly all of the boxes, and the one’s she missed were miniscule. Insignificant. She’s damn near perfect. I hate it.

“She was better than good, she was bloody great,” he nearly sings with a giddy smile, and I find it tugging at my heart. I shouldn’t feel resentment and jealousy when I’m the one choosing to leave, but this whole situation is wrong and nontraditional so what’s one more thing then? “I think ‘ll hire her. What d’ya think?”

“Go ahead, you’re the boss,” I reply, standing from my chair and stretching my arms above my head. Images of her flame-like curls pop into my head along with her piercing jade eyes and beautiful laugh that put a spark in Harry’s eyes.

“Becks,” Harry begins as I shake my head with the hopes the motion will break up the unpleasant thoughts enough to make them turn into dust and blow away. And maybe to get him to stop calling me that, too. If only it were that easy. “I want yer opinion. If ya don’ think she’s good enuff, tell me.”

“She’s great, Harry, she’s more than good enough. She said so herself that she’s willing to learn and has some similar job experience. I’ll give her a call and tell her she can start training tomorrow,” I respond, turning my head to meet his eyes briefly before I head for the door and out of this painful moment.

“Ya know, you can still change yer mind . . ,” he blurts, his words rooting me to the spot but persuading me to do the opposite.

“Harry, please don’t. What’s done is done.”

“We can still talk ‘bout this,” he starts, but I don’t let him finish.

“No, we can’t,” I retort, whipping around to meet his eyes begging for mine. “And you know exactly why, Harry. It was your choice, not mine.”

If he said something, I didn’t hear it. I’m passing the threshold and out the door before he has the chance to speak and before I have the chance to. There’s so much I want to say, but I don’t know if I’ll ever know how to.

+

Beep.

The elevator climbs another floor and when I look up I’ve arrived at floor 17, for the last time. My first time being just a few short months ago, although it’s felt far longer. Nothing has really changed besides the newness of the place fading away, and the redhead standing at my desk that’s almost her’s.

I walk to the break room to clock in for the last time. I hear voices spilling out of the cracked door before I even enter.

“I think she’s the longest one he’s kept around,” a man’s voice remarks.

“I’m glad he got rid of her, or whatever happened, ‘cuz this new one’s much better looking. I wouldn’t blame him if he slept with this assistant for real this time, heck maybe I will even,” his friend snickers beside him, their backs to me as they drop sugar cubes into their cups of tea with laughs.

“What, ya mean he didn’t sleep with this one already?” the first bloke asks with a soft laugh. The stirring of their spoons fills the short silences between their gossiping.

“No, he didn’t,” I announce loudly, and I watch one of their teas fall over and begin to coat the counter they stand at. They both face me with a “deer in the headlights” look before moving their feet as fast as they can to leave the scene of the crime.

“Ignore them,” a voice says behind me, and who I find to belong to my nearly only friend here.

“Easier said than done,” I reply, following him to the kiosk to clock in.

“How ya holdin’ up?” Asher asks, looking behind me after he puts his code in.

“I couldn’t even tell ya,” I confess as I punch my number in for one of the last times. I bring my eyes to meet his and I feel my lip wobble when our eyes connect.

He reaches out and wraps an arm around me, pulling me into his side.

“Come on now, don’t start crying because you’ll miss me too much,” he jokes as I nuzzle my head into his chest, my arms winding around his taut middle. I laugh with him as I swipe at a tear on my cheek.

“You’re the only one I’ll miss,” I tell him, looking up to find his eyes that are somewhere up there at the top of his lanky body.

“We both know that’s not true,” he whispers with a flick of his brow. I nod and return my cheek to his chest and give him a squeeze. “Go get ‘em, Tiger,” are the last words I hear from him with a wink and a toothy grin. Oh, Ash, what would I do without you?

“Good morning, Ms. Holte,” somebody says as my fingers leave the handle of the break room door.

“Oh hi, Amelia. How many times do I have to tell you to call me Becky?” I reply casually as I meet the eyes of Amelia Jones.

“Yes yes, of course, I’m sorry uh, Becky,” she says nervously, stumbling over her words and nearly her feet as we walk to my desk.

“It’s okay. How are you this morning? Do you think you’re almost ready to take over for me on Monday?” I ask her with a teasing tone, even though it’s the plain truth and a hard one to swallow.

“I think so, I just hope I can do as good of a job as you, Becky,” she replies with a sugary sweet smile.

I thank her before we start our day with her sitting at the desk and me sitting at the side now because this is how it’s going to be from now. I still can’t get used to it, even if all but a few of my personal effects are now replaced with her own. I gulp before forcing a smile and letting her begin.

“Lookin’ great this morning, ladies,” a familiar raspy voice chirps and I look up to see Harry coasting on by with a wink. I hope Amelia can get over her little crush before Monday because God knows that isn’t going to bode well. I should know.  

+

Mid morning I take a tea break as well as an Amelia break, because God, how can somebody be that happy all of the time? I drop a couple of sugar cubes into my tea and stir the spoon around, hearing its clinking and scraping as another sound interrupts my thoughts.

“Are you actually getting sad about leaving this job finally? I thought this was something you’ve wanted for a long time,” Asher’s sunshine voice mumbles from the doorway as he closes the door behind him.

“Yes and yes,” I reply with a small laugh and return my eyes to my cup of light brown tea.

“Ah, I knew it,” he responds, pointing a finger at me. He stops in front of me and leans against the countertop, looking around and behind him nervously. Asher wrings his hands together and nibbles his lip, things I’ve only seen him do when he has something on his mind.

“God, can’t anybody around here act normally today?” I huff before taking a cautionary sip, but it’s still too hot to drink quite yet. “I swear, Amelia is acting even more weird than usual. She kept having me help her with copies and scans, even though she nailed that the first day here, and then was talking secretively to Harry a lot. Then there’s Harry and Myles acting weird, I mean even Jennings is being nice to me today, and then there’s you acting like you’re being watched by the cops.”

“I am not acting weird!” he protests with a funny look, but I think we both know I don’t believe him for a second.

“Whatever, I’ll find out why soon enough,” I say, taking my cup of tea and leaving the breakroom to continue supervising Amelia even though she’s nailing every part of the job and she hasn’t even officially started. I’m not even gone from this job yet and I’m being shown up by my replacement. Ugh.

+

“Hey, Becky? . . Becky?” a voice speaks, interrupting my daydreaming.

“Uh yeah?” I say, spinning around to find Amelia standing in front of the desk. Now her desk. Her bangs crowd her eyes as she tightens the bow on her waist tying her wrap around violet dress that hugs her in all of the right places. She even has a better body than me, what the fuck.

“I uh t-told the client coming at noon that we’ll go a-and wait for them in the conference room, so um if you’re ready . . ,” she trails off, not knowing what to say next because she can hardly get out a full sentence as it is.

“Uh yeah, sure let’s go,” I say, getting to my feet. “There should be some notepads and pens in there. We’ll just do a preliminary consultation with them to see what kind of representation they would need from Harry, and also if their case would be up his alley,” I explain, and she nods fast as if I’ve already explained this before.

As she leads me away from the desk and down the hallway towards the conference room and the offices, I rack my brain wondering if I’ve already told her this. I’ve done this annoying repeating thing before already, and it’s embarrassing enough when she tells me that she knows because I’ve gone over it already. I don’t want it to happen again, especially in front of a client. I don’t know why I’m worrying about it anyways when it’s my last day here, I mean-

Amelia interrupts my inner monologue when she opens the door to the dark conference room and suddenly the lights turn on as the rest of my senses are bombarded.

“Surprise!” a mix of voices shout at me, freezing me in place. “Happy going away party, Becky!” my coworkers continue as they throw their arms in the air, confetti blowers popping, kazoos kazooing, and party hats atop their heads.

My mouth opens as if to speak, but the words run away from me as my cheeks pinch with a smile. “Oh my- I don’t know what to say. Um, wow thanks, everybody!” I beam with excitement and am suddenly overwhelmed with hugs from everybody and anybody from the firm - people I don’t think I’ve ever seen and others who I didn’t like and who didn’t like me, including “deer in the headlights” guys from this morning.

“I’m sorry, I hated to keep it from you, but I promised,” Asher says, finally coming to my rescue with a drink he shoves into my hand as he wraps me up in a warm hug.

“It’s okay, Ash, I guess I can let you off the hook,” I laugh as I hug him back.

“I’m really gonna miss you, ya know. I don’t know how I’m going to survive this shithole without you,” he continues, giving me a kiss on the head.

“Awww, Ash, don’t make me start crying again.”

“I know, I’m just so good at it,” he giggles with a wobbly voice, and I laugh too.

“Go have something to eat, but not that Jello salad Bitchy Trishie from IT brought. It’s probably poisoned with her spit or something,” he teases, and I smack his arm playfully as he walks away sticking his tongue out at me.

I laugh softly to myself before taking a drink from my cup of fruit punch, looking around at everybody milling around. Eating free food. Hugging one another. Laughing with each other. Talking with people they say they hate. And signing the poster board on the table by the food, writing fake messages to me that I’ll most likely read only once or never. I tsk when I see one of the most gossipy girls signing it, but as I turn my head to look away my vision is blessed with that of something else.

My lips spark with an instant smile that outdoes my surprise of just a few minutes ago. He sees me just a few seconds later, and a smile tugs his lips upwards effortlessly.

“What d’ya think, did I do a good job?” Harry asks as he stops in front of me, holding his arms out and my jaw drops in astonishment.

“Y-you did all of this?” I ask, pointing at the food, the streamers hanging from the ceiling, my favorite music falling from the speakers, my favorite foods donning the tables in the corner, and on and so forth. Okay, so maybe this isn’t so bad.

“Who d’ya think did it?” he laughs, giving me a fake glare. I barely have time to laugh with him when people start clinking their solo cups with plastic spoons - it’s an even more annoying sound than you would think - and shouting “speech, speech, speech” over and over with their eyes on Harry.

I find myself chanting along with them as his cheeks fill with the color of roses. “Alright, alright, calm down ya crazy lot,” he shouts, dimples drilling into his cheeks as he uses his arms to tell them to quiet down. “I didn’ really prepare a speech, but fine, I guess you lot will get one. Fuck, where do I even start?” he titters, and so does everybody else at his choice of words.

Harry thumbs at his bottom lip as he stares off into the distance before his eyes float over to me and glue themselves there. “Becky, or as I like to fondly call her, Becks, I dunno where to even begin with you, love . . Never have I had a personal assistant like you. No offense to you, Amelia darling, but there’s never been one like you, Becks. Yer one of a kind and nobody could ever replace you. Once again, no offense,” Harry continues, occasionally pointing at Amelia laughing and making her blush up, but nonetheless, she waves him away in response. “There aren’t even words that exist to describe you and how amazing you’ve been t’ me and tha firm, and I know because I went to uni and fucking law school so I know a lotta big words,” insert here a throaty laugh of Harry’s echoed by those of the room’s. “Yer a bloody angel with all the shit you put up with from me, from several coffee runs a day, to grocery runs, to dry cleaning runs, to going down to the creepy ass files room and wading through spider webs to find what I needed for my cases. You were my lucky charm, Becks, you were tha reason I won so many cases, ‘cuz if I didn’t have ya there checking me notes or making sure I did it all right, I dunno where Ida been without you. And ‘s safe t’ say I dunno where ‘ll be without you afta t’day, or tha firm for that matter. So thank you, thank you, and thank you a billion for all that ya did in yer short time here and I wish you tha best in tha future. I know yer gonna do bloody amazing things out in the world, I can’ wait t’ hear all ‘bout ‘em. I hope we’ll see you back out there in our li’l law world soon, I know you’d kill it,” Harry says, his voice cracking in places that pull tears from my eyes and down my cheeks. “I don’t care what any o’ these idiots say, ‘cuz nobody’s gonna miss you as much as ‘ll miss you,” he ends with tears threading through his words, jolting his voice to a stop.

The tears welling in his glassy eyes finally topple over and land on his cheeks, just as he steps forward to embrace me in a warm hug. My face goes into his chest and his chin rests atop my head, fitting together perfectly like a puzzle piece as our arms wind around one another. “I meant every word I said, Becks. I hope and pray ya’ll finish up school and fight our fight, cuz I know you’d kill the hell out of it . . If ya do, yer welcome back here, we’d be bloody lucky t’ have ya again. Anytime yer welcome, Becks . . . I really dunno what ‘ll do without ya here, I dunno ‘bout that Amelia . . ‘m so sorry about everything, Becks, you have no idea how sorry I am; it kills me every day,” Harry speaks into my hair, tears strangling his voice every few words. I sniffle against his chest, spilling tears there and he sniffles above me where he too spills them.

“I’m going to miss you more than I’d like to admit,” I confess into the collar of his silky mustard button down. “I won’t miss the midnight texts or 4 coffee runs a day,” I laugh and he does it with me. “Thank you, that all truly means a lot to me, Harry. I wish things didn’t have to end this way either . . but they do,” I finish, pulling away from him and looking him in the teary eyes briefly before severing the pain and wiping away the same from my cheeks.

Angry wet raindrops fall on my shoulders, piercing through my sweater and shooting ice into my veins. I wrap the thin piece of clothing around me tighter, cursing myself from this morning for not having brought any kind of coat to make up for this pathetic sweater and this chilly rain. And cursing myself for forgetting to put gas in my car yesterday, landing me on the tube for today and in this wet Fall weather. As I walk under the faint glow of the wet streetlamps, my shivering body grows colder and colder with every painful step. Icy drops run down my face, the only relief I find in this sudden rain is the numbing of the stings and throbs painting my body. Splashes of rain puddles hit my legs, soaking through the sheer black tights donning my legs. You only have one and half more blocks to go, Becky, you can do this, I think hopefully. And with that, I soldier on. Soaked to the bone and beaten down.

My feet squeak along the wooden floor, leaving tiny invisible puddles behind me as the warmth of the flat begins to thaw my frozen body. I drop my bag on the table in the entryway, toeing off my shoes and leaving them where they land. I plod my way across the room and into the kitchen, unbeknownst to the movements my body makes. 

Open the cabinet. Take down a mug. Pick up the tea kettle. Fill it with water. Turn on the burner. Set it down. Walk over to the kitchen island. Pull out a chair. Sit down. My eyes fix themselves on one spot on the wall, staying there and no motivation to move.

Click!

Thud!

“Hey, I’m just stopping back to grab something I forgot. Boys don’t really have hair straighteners, I realized only after I left the flat,” Skye’s joking words poke through my hazy bubble, but that’s all they do. “Becky. Wait . . What the bloody hell happened to you today?! You look like you got run over by a car, Ree. You’re bleeding!” she almost shouts, voice rising in volume as she clears the room and comes to cup my cheeks with her warm hands.

“I’m fine, it’s old,” I reply quietly, meeting her eyes after she turned my head to make sure I’m looking at her.

“You are not fine, Ree. You have t-this gash in your scalp and a cut in your lips, both covered in dried blood. Did somebody do this to you?!”

“No, I-I just fell. You know how clumsy I can be sometimes,” I answer, attempting nonchalance as I step down from my swively chair and go to tend to the whistling teapot.

“You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met, always have been and always will. Now I’m not bloody leaving or going anywhere for that matter, until you tell me what really happened, Ree. Actually, wait- you stay here and don’t you move your bum one bleeding inch!” she points at me, raising her eyebrows above her sky blue eyes surrounded by black eyeliner.

I mindlessly remove the kettle from the heat, pouring the blistering hot water into the yellow mug, watching the water mix with the Peach tea bag.

“Now come here,” Skye orders moments later and I turn around, surprised to find her gently but a little forcefully leading me to the island once again. “Sit.”

“I’m not a dog, Skye, don’t give me commands.”

“I don’t care, just sit down and let me take care of you,” she replies, flicking her wavy hair half the color of bone and the other half sky blue to over her shoulder. My gaze follows her hands as they reach for the brown bottle and cotton pads. “Now are you going to tell me what happened, or not?”

Putting the bottle down hastily, she gently pushes my damp curls away from my face and runs the pad along my forehead. I suck in a breath through my teeth, wincing at the terrible stinging on my forehead.

“Ree?” she sighs, giving me a hard look in the eyes. My lips don’t move and neither does hers. A sadness I don’t want to look anymore into hangs around her eyes as she runs the pad along my forehead a few more times before discarding it, red blotches staining the cotton. “My God, you’re the most stubborn person I’ve met,” she sighs, the package crinkling as she removes another pad from the bag and soaks it with the hydrogen peroxide.

The pad is inches away from my forehead again when tears begin to fall down my cheeks out of nowhere, my lips creasing with them and my eyes falling shut. Skye’s face falls and she discards the pad, pulling my face against her chest and tucking my head under her chin.

“It’s ok. It’s ok. It’s ok,” she repeatedly hums against my hair, planting kiss after kiss on my damp ringlets. Arms around my neck keeping me close. “Everything’s going to be ok. You’re going to be ok, Ree.”

If only I could believe that too.

And if only the thought of giving him up didn’t scare me so damn much.

My weekend consisted of cuddles on the couch with Skye in our PJs, who decided to cancel her trip last minute, instead staying back to have a two-day long movie marathon with moi. She took care of me, making me a grilled cheese when I wanted, and stirring up chocolate milk for me when I wanted that too, and tending to my cuts a few more times until they were scabbing up and could fend for themselves. She didn’t push for the story again, but I knew it was on the end of her tongue and it was only a matter of time until she’d catch me off guard and make me spill.

With Monday looming closeby, I soaked up the last hours of freedom until eight am rolled around and I dragged myself out of bed. With a heavy lunchbox courtesy of Skye’s rare cooking excursion this weekend of Taco Soup and garlic bread, I head off into the chilly bright morning. Slipping into my forgotten front seat of my car, I start up the old thing and only then remember my lack of gas issue. But when I look at the gage, it’s hugging the bold F. Oh, Skye, what would I do without you, I think to myself with the warm hint of a smile clinging to my lips.

I put the car in Park and turn the keys until the hum of the engine is no more. With a deep breath, I peak a look at myself in the rearview mirror. Loose chestnut curls barely touching the shoulders of my violet peacoat and the smooth brown dress underneath it. By habit, my eyes dart to the slightly discolored area of skin just meeting my scalp and the dark crease in my bottom lip. If you don’t look too closely, you can’t notice them with the makeup and the colored lip balm. Sighing, I grab my purse and lunchbox and leave my car for the long parking garage in search of the elevator that will take me up to the seventeenth floor, and back to Harry.

The main floor of seventeen is doused in a quiet hum, albeit for the occasional phone ringing and small conversation among the Cubiclers tucked away in their cubicles by the elevator. Dark clouds hover on the other side of the clear pristine windows, threatening to burst at any moment as they cast dreariness over the black tiled floor and sleek gray granite walls of the firm’s main floor. The circular fluorescent bulbs hidden in the black wooden ceiling work hard as the rain nears, and stab needles into my head that still dully aches after three days.

My MacBook sounds its typical whoosh as its screen comes to life. I open my email with slow fingers, relieved and yet surprised to find only a handful of emails waiting for me. A handful or sometimes two less than usual. Thank God.

My fingers float across the keys with learned ease, composing a reply to a current client asking for some more information and certain documents that are the usual after Harry liked what he heard in the face to face consultation from Friday. I include a timeframe for when they’ll hear from us next, before sending the email off.

The day drags on with its hits and its misses. My time is spent answering emails and typing up new ones, retrieving and delivering case files for Harry that land on his empty desk as he sits in a courtroom across town. Last but not least, I take another crack at filing, rounding out another few sizable stacks before lunch arrives and I’m knee to knee with Asher in the breakroom scarfing down my soup and sharing my cookies.

3 o’clock rolls around out of nowhere, the rain clouds far gone as I savor the sliver of sunlight peeking out from behind the now fluffy clouds. Harry’s weekly list dinged in my inbox hours earlier and has grabbed my attention ever since, checking off a few things already until I decided to devote the rest of the day for filing and then hopefully finishing out the rest tomorrow. I kneel down and pick up the granola bar I dropped trying to take it out of one of the drawers of my desk. My hip bumps my creaky old desk as I leave for Harry’s office to get on that filing. The voices of Green Day, The Stones and Fleetwood Mac among others swim around me as names and numbers occupy my mind, as bright warm sunshine peeks in through Harry’s windows. I don’t catch one glimpse of him for the rest of the day, or of anybody else of significant importance much to my pleasure. I leave the rest of the files for tomorrow, gleeful at the sight of only a few stacks left and the bubbling hope of how happy Harry will be to see them all done. A new song by Vance Joy fills my car as I pull out of the parking garage and begin to make my way home.

My alarm clock rings too quickly the next morning, waking me up with a sad frown at having to leave that wonderful dream where I was on a beach with Derek from Teen Wolf. Mmmmm. Fucking alarm. I stumble out of bed and whiz through my morning routine with heavy limbs and heavy eyes. My Tuesday is a blur of coffee, emails, to-do lists and dreading doing the rest of those files. But with a new album and sneakily watching some more American Horror Story, I get through the day along with Skye’s soup and cookies.

With the secondhand hugging the 11 and the shorthand inching towards the 5, I decide to call it a day and make a break for my desk. Hiding away thick files and stacks of empty ones, I tidy up my desk and put everything back where it was this morning before deciding to head out. But when I’m reaching for my purse, I happen to look up and find Harry walking in my direction. Well, so much for thinking I could avoid you today, the words course through my skull as I heave a silent sigh at watching him arrive in front of my desk.

“Did ya drop something’?” he questions, leaving out a greeting as his striking maroon suit tightens around him when he bends over to pick up something off the floor. His eyebrows quirk together as he looks down at a white envelope, and a second later I feel my heart cease in my chest. “Hmm, ‘s addressed t’ me, I wonder what it ‘s,” he continues, apparently thinking that because of that he can go ahead and help himself and open it although it wasn’t sealed and the content already had begun to spill out. 

I scramble around my desk and over to him, not so calmly or chalantly ripping it from his hands. But when he looks up and over to me, I realize I was a fraction of a second too late because the creased letter tight in my hand is open just enough for the words stuck to it to be known to the world. Thick emotions paint his face all over, creasing the space between his eyebrows as they knit together sadly with his puppy dog eyes locked on me. Lips trembling to open, but not fully getting there. All as my heart races uncontrollably, regret filling my body quickly with my chest growing tight and my cheeks hot. Realization dawns on me, making me think back to bumping into my desk on my way to file some stuff. Shit. Devastation slowly sticks to every inch of skin on his face and seeps into his green eyes framed by thick lashes.

“Becks,” he rasps, hand going to his hair as if it’s his own unique coping mechanism. “What's this? I-I mean I know what it ‘s, but I don’ get it. ‘m so bloody confused . . yer quttin’?” Harry croaks, words coming out fast and then slow, and sloppy and crazed. “If you want less hours or t’ get off earlier, I can do that. Even if ya want more hours, we can figure that out. Or if ya wan’ a lighter workload, we can work sumthin’ out, Becks, I promise. Jus’ tell me what you need and ‘ll make it happen, jus’ pleas don’ leave.”

Wow. His lips sputter to a stop, as my heart does something the same and I’m left all of a sudden speechless, but with so much to say just a minute ago. Or so I thought. My heart only thumps faster and harder when he comes closer to me at the end of his plea.

“I-I’m not leaving, Harry. I-I just- I don’t know . . . “

“What d’ya mean? Tha’s a two weeks notice letta I just read. T-this isn’t makin’ sense, Becks,” he replies in a huff, throwing up a hand in exasperation before it falls heavy with a plop against his leg. Yeah, I don’t know, either. “Wha’s bloody goin’ on?” he outright asks, eyes glued to me and expecting an answer. And a good one at that.

“I have it because I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Why’re you thinkin’ ‘bout leavin’? What happened?” he questions quickly with sad eyes, and when they stray from my face to land on my forehead he steps forward, and I suddenly feel the urge to shrink into myself. If only that were possible. “Becks, yer head - ‘s gashed open, what’d you do, love?”

“I’m just clumsy, I tripped and fell,” I answer, looking away from his prying eyes and then back to find something in his that I don’t like.

I know that he doesn’t believe me.

“Yer not a good liar, ya know that?” he answers, lifting his eyebrows ever so slightly. I nod softly, looking around awkwardly without an idea of what to do, or say. “Did sumbody do this t’ you?” Harry continues, taking another step when there aren’t many left. I inhale nervously when the pad of his thumb softly brushes over the healing cut at the edge of my scalp that I couldn’t as easily hide the scab and bruises of this morning.

I can’t meet his eyes. I can’t. Because if I do, I’m afraid all of the words pent up inside of me that wish to free his ears with the truth will all come rushing out. No matter how much I try to stop them. And that the crazy beating of my heart will make them go all over the place, just like his touch has done to me. A gentle ‘heeey’ drops from his lips, making me look up at him and into his soft caring eyes that belong to the real Harry. My Harry. With courage bubbling up inside of me, my lips begin to part when a loud voice cuts in.

Jennings.

“Harry! I got Mr. Bishop on the line about the crazy Tillings case that’s all over the news. You know the one, with the wife stabbing her kids to death . . Well, there’s some stuff he wants to talk to you about, like maybe even hiring you for the Defense instead of Tomlinson,” he nearly shouts, with a foot out of the door of the large meeting room across from us. Several of the big lawyers like Stone, Bradley, Mickey, and Rose are visible through the half drawn blinds strewn over the windows acting as walls around the secretive room. It looks like the judge interrupted an important meeting, another one that Harry just so happened to skip out on. 

Harry sighs, muttering an ‘I’ll be there in a sec’ to Pete, before turning back to me. Hand back to himself and eyes full of questions, ones that I don’t want to answer. But I do. I just don’t know if I can.

“We’re not done here. ‘ll see you tomorrow’ before court and we’re settling all this then, alright?” he says with a wag of his ringed finger, and I nod at him. It’s really not that much, but it seems like more when he squeezes my arm as he holds my gaze before leaving with a goodbye.

Well, I guess my secret’s out. 

I inadvertently avoided my phone and emails for the rest of the night, and the next morning until I pulled into the parking garage attached to the gleaming skyscraper that I call my work. With my head down and the word ‘avoid’ repeating over and over in my head, I quietly make my appearance and try my best to slip away to my desk unnoticed. My heart pounds a little as my email loads, the innermost part of me dreading the long list of new emails waiting for me and the possibility one or a few might be from Harry.

A strange calmness covers me when his name isn’t found anywhere in my new emails on this dreary and cold Tuesday morning. Nervously, I pull up the weekly list and double check his agenda for the day, even though I was the one who wrote it and I should remember. But I wrote it up weeks ago.

Tuesday, November 9th

Court for the O’Pete’s Case 10AM - All day

Dinner with friend at The Grand 5pm

The plan for the day is simple and to the point, with some room for leeway and adjustments which I won’t be surprised if he makes. And a later start to his morning, which I know by now that he certainly likes. But not today, because guess who’s going to be Mr. Early. Ugh. I busy my mind this morning by answering emails and returning calls, peeking a glance every now and then in the direction of the elevator expecting to see him pop up out of nowhere. The first few times I look over without a hint of his appearance, but the fifth time I watch the elevator doors open and spit him out.

Oh no.

I know I can’t, but I almost try to hide behind my desk. Drop my head and busy myself with something. Turn around and make it look like I’m grabbing something from behind me. Crouch down and dig in the lowermost filing cabinet.

“Hey.” an internal groan ripples through me at the remembering that of course, he has to walk right past my desk on his way to his office. Could I be any more stupid? Probably not. “I wanna um talk t’ you ‘bout yesterday, ya busy?” the raspy words roll off his tongue fast. I slowly sit up to look at him, but it can’t be slow enough. His long curls gleaming wet after what must have been a morning shower, his nose and cheeks dotted with red from the London cold.

“Yeah no I’m fine,” I reply hastily, my words tumbling out before I can tell them to stop. Dread and nervousness guide my actions as I turn to face him fully and close my laptop.

“Kay, c’mon then. I wann’ talk in my office.”

Gulp.

Pushing my chair in, I leave my desk and follow his heavy footsteps down the hall and around the corner. The thump thump of my heart picks up as his drying curls bounce on his shoulders, and his shiny new YSL boots click clack on the tile flooring.

Here we go.

“Sit down,” he instructs, waving a hand to the black leather chairs in front of his cluttered desk. I do as he says, crossing my legs and folding my hands as I watch him set his black leather messenger bag on his desk and get situated as I wring my hands nervously. 

I watch his careful and rather rushed movements, until he’s hung up his jacket and fixed his hair. “Now le’s talk,” Harry sighs as he walks towards me and sits down on the corner of his desk to face me. Okay then.

“What’s there to talk about?”

“Don’ lie t’ me. You know I wan’ t’ talk ‘bout that two-week letter I found of yers,” he goes on with a huff.

“I know, but there’s nothing to be said. I changed my mind and decided not to give it to you.”

“Well yer mind had t’ have been made up pretty damn good ‘bout quittin’ if ya felt so compelled t’ write it in tha first place,” he argues, looking away after a moment with a shake of his head.

I take a cue and shake mine too, frustrated at the way he’s acting and how big of a deal he’s making about this.

“You were never supposed to see it,” I comment softly in admittance, looking up from my lap and to him. But he won’t look at me. A hand adorned with rings is in his hair as he looks away, then stands up and walks over to where midmorning sunlight streams in through the polished window.

“What, are ya not happy enuf here, Holte?” he asks, throwing up a hand that he seconds later stuffs in the pocket of his tight black pants. It’s almost painful to hold back a snort at his remark, or to chime in with a ‘duh’ or an ‘are you serious’. “I thought we’d figured out our own li’l system and that you were comfortable an’ happy here”

When I don’t answer, I can’t ignore his heavy sigh that pokes at me and somehow makes this worse. “What can I do t’ make ya happier, huh?” Harry says softly, but not in a nice way, and more like in it a perturbed way like he doesn’t want to have this conversation any more than I do.

I don’t know about that.

His question catches me off guard a little, and I almost want to take it the wrong way. But things aren’t like that, and what’s to say that they ever will be more. Turning my mind to something else to get it off that, I start to think of what I should tell him. Well for starters, you could stop dating that bitch of a Barbie and that would take away something like half of my problems. Then there’s maybe treating me with some respect and decency, and not just when you like or those certain days when you decide we’re friends.

“Nothing, I’m fine,” I decide to say, but I regret it almost as soon as I say it, because he’s Mr. Doesn’t Take No For An Answer.

“Why can’ ya just talk t’ me,” he relents, something sad and real creasing his brows and painted in his eyes. I start to fall for it and the truth itches to come out.

Briiiiiiiing!

He huffs and his gaze lingers on me willing me to speak as he seems to wait it out to see if it’s going to ring a second time and a third time and a fourth. And just when I gather a little nerve he reaches out and picks up the phone. “This is Harry,” he answers, pulling his lips in and pressing them together as he listens to the person on the line. I watch his eyes dart around and he nods with a ‘mmhmm’ before grabbing a pad of paper and a pen, jotting down something important.

I can hardly take the mix of awkwardness and tension for a minute longer, and I stand up and make it for the door.

“Becks, wait.”

The name and its sudden return hit me like a wall, hard and out of nowhere. My lips tremble with all of the things that I could say, and my limbs stutter with the things I could do. I decide on one, and I turn around. “I’m not going anywhere, so would you stop worrying about it?” I tell him, watching his face donning an expression I don’t want to read as the phone is still pressed to his ear, his hand cupping the speaker.

I think I hear a small sigh, but I don’t know because I’m already turning around. A harsh clud! tickles my ears and just as the icy metal welcomes my fingers, a warmth arrives on my shoulder making me spin around to find it.

“Please don’ leave, I still wanna talk t’ you. Ya’ve been actin’ so weird lately and there’s a cut on yer head and ya dropped a two weeks letta’ that ya say wasn’ real or sumthin’ . . . Will ya jus’ tell me wha’s goin’ on already?” Harry almost pleads, the ‘please’ stinging in his eyes. I can’t do it. The pleading and concern drowning in his eyes does it. It gets me.

“You won’t believe me,” I almost mumble, unsure of if he heard me until his quickfire ‘tell me’ knocks that down.

“Ya underestimate me sumtimes.”

A soft ‘okay’ falls from my lips recklessly a few breaths later, just like the rest of what I’ve said in the last minute. A shaky breath trickles into my lungs, my heart picking up speed as words jumble around in my head. It’s only made worse when his hand placed on my shoulder that’s hard to forget gives a little squeeze, egging me on.

“It’s um Amber, s-she keeps harassing me, Harry. I put that file on your desk the other day and I know that she took the crime scene photos out and did something with them just to sabotage me, or something. Also other times when she comes in, she always has to give me shit somehow: accidentally knocking over a coffee on my desk, accidentally hitting the end button on my phone when I’m on a call, or her favorite being to tell me that I’m not allowed in your office when you’re not here. I’ve told her time and time again that I am, but she won’t believe me,” I talk fast, shoving the words out into the free air before I stop myself, or before he does. My eyes jutt away from his, far too nervous and scared to wonder what they’re holding because his poker face doesn’t work on me. And if I see something I don’t like, I’m afraid I won’t get the next part out, because of that and the dryness eating up my throat. “A-and Friday I was doing filing in your office, and from the second she helps herself in she won’t leave me alone to get out because ‘I’m not allowed’. She was almost screaming at me, and she literally dragged me by the arm out an-and threw me at the door but I missed and hit the trimming o-on the wall, giving me a bloody fat lip and doing that to my forehead,” I divulge, sputtering to a hurried stop before another word takes it out of me and I’m spilling tears on his shoes.

My chest shakes with each hasty breath and the violent thuds of my heart pounding against my ribcage. Sweat slickens my palms I didn’t realize I was folding together so hard, the tips of my fingers white against my knuckles that I instantly release. But then they start to shake. Tears prick at the back of my eyes, ready to make their debut as I nibble nervously at my lip. Dread fills me, mixing with my nerves and anxiety and fear and everything else to make the worst feeling ever. It surpasses the gut-wrenching anxiousness of sitting at your desk in class waiting for the teacher to hand you your graded test. Or being statue still behind the wheel during your driving test afraid one little mistake will make you fail. Or the impending drop of a rollercoaster that makes you feel like your stomach is going to jump into the sky along with the rest of you.

The uncomfortable eeriness of silence pools around us, slowly building an invisible distance between him and I. A distance I’m afraid will be magnified by just a few words from him. Words that he could spill at any second. The waiting is always what kills you. I get ready to speak, new words ready to spring off the tip of my tongue.

“Tha-that’s not Amber, Becks, she’d neva do that kinda stuff, let alone give sumbody a gash on their head and a fat lip,” Harry finally says, words quick and sharp that are accented with a nervous laugh. Gulp. My heart drops into the pit of my stomach at the drop of a hat- or at the second he disagrees. A sudden angry heat fills my body all over, joined by a sourness spilling into my stomach. I think the toast and oats from this morning are going to be reappearing real soon. “‘m sorry ya think that, Becks, but I know her and she wouldn’ do that kinda stuff t’ sumbody, I swear,” he finishes. As if I needed to hear it a second time.

Braving it, I meet his eyes and find them creased with something sad that I don’t give a shit to decode, but I know they look even worse when they lay on mine. I take a step back, feeling his hand slide from its place on my shoulder. He steps towards me and almost grabs my hand, but I pull it out of his grasp. “Don’t,” I almost spit through gritted teeth, my heart beating loud and fast in my ears. My name starts on his lips, and I shake my head. No. “O-of course you didn’t believe me. God, what was I thinking? Why would you anyways?! Your head is so fucking wrapped up in her that you can’t see anything else but what she wants you to see, Harry!” I explode, words flying places without a thought. Because who gives a flying fuck.

Rage seethes through my veins hot and fast. A sudden boom! of thunder echoes through the room, big fat raindrops hitting the window with pits and pats. The former rays of sunshine nowhere to be seen as smoky clouds dominate the sky. 

Yeah, things sure do change fast.

“Becks, c’mon. ‘ve known her for years, I know she wouldn’ do this stuff yer accusing her of!” he replies, throwing his hands up and doing a half sigh-half gasp in exasperation. “Why would she anyways, what reason has she got t’ harass you if that were even true?”

“She hates me, Harry! Ever since the first day she met me she’s had it out for me. I’ve done nothing to her, but she insists on making my life hell ever since. I don’t know why, m-maybe she feels threatened by me or something, because you’ve kept me around for so long and because I’m a fricken girl! Why are you asking me? You should be asking her, Harry!” I almost shout, but at this point I don’t think either of us cares anymore. A guttural groan leaves his lips, a hand caught in his hair next messing it up further as he keeps his distance rightly.

“I know her, Becks. I know she wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Somebody dragged me by the arm and threw me to the ground, Harry! It wasn’t some ghost, I saw who it was. It was bloody daylight out and I’m sure you could ask anybody around here and they could tell you they saw her here at that time on that day, and maybe even what I looked like afterward!” I yell at him, finding my hands in my hair next, feeling the urge to pull it out. Palms sweaty, goosebumps covering every inch of my body and my brain turned on to fight mode. The sour feeling in my stomach grows, and next my eyes begin to blur ever so slightly and I don’t know how much longer I can fight. Or how much more. “W-why don’t you believe me, Harry? Why would I ever lie to you?” I relent, throwing a frustrated hand up to have it smack against my leg. My words crack at the very end and I shake my head with a sad smile.

It looks like a light clicks on in his head, filtering to his eyes as his lips part slowly. His forehead shiny with the same kind of clammy and angry sweat that covers my body. I blink at the blurriness, but it only grows worse.

“Amber’s not like that, she’s neva been,” he continues, refusing to give her up by holding onto her honor. It makes me sick. And if I stay here another minute longer, I’m afraid that I will be. “Becks, y-yer just confused o-or ya took sumthin’ she did wrong.”

“Wow, you’ve really got yourself hooked on believing all of her lies, Harry. You really have no clue of what kind of person you’re dating . . And I can’t believe I ever thought th-that there was some good down deep inside of you,” I spit, the anger and intensity falling as the words hit the air and my fight leaves me too, leaving the last words hanging there in my exhausted voice.

His grief-stricken face drowned in a mixture of sadness, confusion, and anger stare back at me in a blurry haze that disappears with my next blink. Hot tears trail down my cheeks, my whole body heavy. My heart. My stomach. My head. My eyes. His boots click when he inches towards me, but I move away by habit. A habit I didn’t know that I suddenly have. It hits him too, and the hurt etched into his face deepens from seconds before.

My heart wrenches at the sight of him. And the immediate disgust. I spin around, dying to get out of here and as far away from him as I can get. I swipe hastily at the tears flying down my cheeks, the clack of my heels muffled in my ears where my heart beats ravenously faster and faster and so do his words that play like a tape in my head.

It doesn’t stop when the sounds of seventeen come back to me, or people passing me, or the bile beginning to rise in my throat. Or even when I’m pushing past the doors. Or when I’m emptying the remnants of this morning’s breakfast from the pit of my stomach. His words and the look on his face still drill into my head, and when another wave hits me I heave into the toilet as the cold ridges of the dirty tile dig into my boney knees. Once it passes, I’m not yet out of the woods as sobs wreck my body and only grow worse when I play over and over the words he said.

And it only amounts when I think that maybe just maybe he’ll burst in here any second calling for me and admit his fault. But as the minutes grow and my cheeks become wetter, I sit back and curl against the partition of the stall and cry harder. Because he isn’t coming. He never will. 

it feels like everybody’s eyes are on the back of my neck when i eventually walk out of the bathroom and back to my desk. when i turn around, there’s nobody watching or staring or prying. just my messed up conscious and paranoid mind, because that’s nice. i discreetly run a finger under my eyes as i pull out the wheely chair and sit back down, lifting the top of my macbook to open it up. holding down the power button, the white apple logo soon appears on my screen. with a sniffle, i pull at the tight waist of these black dress pants before typing my password in.

the plain mountain background loads quickly, and a second later a soft chime sounds. and then there’s another. dragging my eyes to the top right corner of the shiny screen, i see the name i dread maybe the most.

(H in italics and B in bold-italics :-))

12:05pm

please try to be nice with

the costume, pretty

please with a cherry on top?

12:10pm

you’re making me nervous,

becks.

and a new chime just as this message comes in, all fresh and new.

12:23pm

you there, love?

yeah sorry. got busy.

it’s ok.

instead of replying, i venture to chrome and open my email to find too much freaking shit. the third or fourth email is from him, time stamped from around eight am. he probably finished the list up and sent it from home last night, which isn’t too weird for him. sometimes it comes the night before, if he’s feeling generous or something like that.

12:29pm

what’s this file you want?

what?

on the list. it just says ‘find the

heartwood file for me asap and bring

it to me’. you need to learn to be more

specific you know, i thought we talked

about this.

12:30pm

oh yeah. that. sorryyyyyy,  i

know we spoke about

it. yeah, i need the

criminal file on bertie

heartwood. it’s not on the

online database as a digital file, so

you’ll have to go down

to the basement where

they keep all of the real paper ones.

you’ve been down there

the one time right? it

wasn’t too bad, huh?

yeah it was a jolly old time, i loved the

creepy old geezer sitting in the door shoving his face with a twinkie who couldn’t help me for shit. i almost had

an asthma attack from all of the dust

and i don’t have asthma!

damn you’re hilarious,

becks.

shutup, i’m being serious.

:) 

don’t send me a fucking smiley face.

first i have to do all of that awful filing

and now i have to go down to the

basement to the papers room where who knows

how many rats live with the creepy old

guy staring at my bum and boobs. watch, i probably

will never even get back up here to

17 because the elevator will have

stopped working, or the weirdo shanked me and i bled out. and god, don’t even

get me fucking started on the

cobwebs down there.

language! and would you chill out? there

are no bloody rats in my

law firm

i heard something the last time i was

down there trying and failing to find

that witman file for you, and i turned

around and i swear to god i saw a

tail, harry.

stop it, you did not see

a bleeding rat down there.

and i keep my firm

blooming spotless, so hush.

you still need to find a new clerk guy

down there who isn’t a 80 year old

who probably has an arrest or two

having to do with pedophilia and porn.

i bet you fifty pounds if you had the

techies look at his computer you’d find pornhub.com in his web history.

bloody hell becks. he

does not. jerry’s background

is spotless. ya really think

i’d take a bet on somebody

like that?

well all he does is basically just guard

about fifty dusty shelves of files, so

yeah maybee.

fuck you, you little shit.

uh no, i only get to call you that.

sure you do.

shutup.

can i pleaseeeeee not go down there?

i was considering it, but

not after all that lousy stuff

you said about the papers

room and nice old jerry.

he is not nice, harry! he’s so rude.

doesn’t even help me when i have a

question, scouts honor.

no way, you were a girl scout?

ya sell all those yummy boxes

of biscuits, too?

shut up.

ya better be nice, or i just

might make you come to

that ball with me after all,

you little shit.

stop calling me that, that’s my line.

would you rather i come down

and give you another nice

tour? i don’t really want to,

because i’m supposed to be

doing this skype call with

somebody from ny, and

hell thats why i asked you

to do it.

god, don’t be too honest there.

i’m sorry, just not looking forward

to this skype call. and amber

won’t stop blowing up my phone,

she’s in a real mood today.

what’s new with that?

be nice, becks.

i’m just stating the truth, that’s all.

his reply is lagged, and i tap my fingers against my thigh as i wait for the word ‘read’ to show up under my message. and more so for the little bubble to show up. i don’t know if i’m thankful or what when the t-rex rings and i drag my hand over with a huff to pick it up.

“styles and lawson, this is becky,” i answer the most mock cheerfully that i can do on a monday.

“hi, i was wondering who i could talk to about how i could go about setting up a consultation with mr. styles?” a chipper voice replies.

“i’m mr. styles’ assistant, so i can gladly answer that question for you,” i reply.

ten unnecessary minutes later, i finally set the phone down. and when i turn to wake up my computer, there’s a red bubble stuck to my little messages icon. with a shake of my head, i click on it and find harry’s texts. but i hardly get a chance to read them, when his name pops up in the corner of my screen again, but this time he’s calling me.

sticking my hand into my drawer, i pull my buzzing phone out and swipe my thumb across the screen.

“god, what do you want now?” i reply fake annoyed.

“ya betta watch it, becks. actually ‘m surprised ya answered, ya weren’t replying t’ me texts.”

“i’m sorry, i had to explain to some old lady on the phone that just because you’re such a greaaaat lawyer, that you don’t take all cases that come at you, and she wasn’t that happy because of that and because she doesn’t really know how to work email to send me a consult. actually i don’t think she even has one.”

“oh, i see. well sorry i blew up yer mac, but was hopin’ ya’d go an’ get that file fer me soon. pleeeease, becks?” he says, apology heavy in his tone, before it switches to something sickeningly sweet. what a little shit.

“can’t like, you call down there and just have them send it up somehow?”

“this isn’ a bloody post office, becks. ’s jus’ one li’l file, tha’s actually real important. an’ i need it, i wouldn’ ask ya t’ go get it if i didn’ need it.”

“suuuuure,” i sigh, browsing through this week’s list quickly, but it’s not much use because this isn’t the final length. it’ll just keep getting added to as the week carries on. the usual.

“come on, becks. i won’ make ya go down there fer awhile afta this, ok?”

“weak proposition, mr. lawyer,” i reply sassily, pushing my hair behind my ear as i open another email reading a consult from a possible client.

“‘m not gonn’ bribe you.”

“why not?”

“you cheeky li’l thing you, jus’ go get tha bloody file before i come out there.”

“wow, you’re soooo scary,” i tease, hearing his fed up huff.

“jus’ go get tha damn file, you bloody li’l shit,” he chuckles softly. “now i really hafta go, tha bloke’s s’posed t’ be callin’ any mo’ now.”

“no, wait!”

“whaaaat?” he groans.

“i forgot where i look down there, because you know there’s like fifty shelves with boxes of files on them.”

“bloody hell, becks, just ask jerry.”

“i am not talking to that creeper ever again in my life,” i whisper, lowering my voice when somebody walks by. “and he is soooo a creeper, harry! the last time i was down there, i was looking through a box of files that was on the bottom shelf, and when i looked up the bloke’s eyes were glued to my cleavage!”

what comes next is a little explosion of giggles from his side, and i have to resist rolling my eyes because it’s not as good when he can’t see it. since we’re on the phone, even though he’s like . . well right over there.

“becks, yer too damn funny fer yer own good, darlin’,” he gets out in a long titter, and i deal him back a sigh. “ok don’ botha with jerry then, but ’s organized by tha alphabet if i rememba right from tha last time i was down there. but yeah ’s just by last name, so it shouldn’ be too hard t’ find, love.”

“wow, thanks for calling me dumb.”

“‘m not callin’ you dumb, becks!” he laughs, and when i hear the familiar ringing sound faintly i know it’s his skype. “hey sorry, that bastard’s ringin’ me, so i gott’ go. but if ya ‘ave any troubles, jus’ text me an’ ‘ll try t’ get back t’ ya fairly quick.”

“ok, don’t get too bored,” i joke, hearing his sweet giggle for only a second.

“thanks, babe, don’ die down there,” he replies, and i only get a scoff in before he says a quick goodbye.

+

with a dreaded touch and an exaggerated groan, i stab the lit up plastic button labeled ‘bmt’ and take a few steps and turn to lean against the back wall of the elevator i’m alone in. with a soft hum, the doors squeeze back together and it starts to move down as i stare ahead at my blurry reflection in the shiny doors.

12:50pm

this really fricken sucks,

like a lot.

i stab my thumb at the ‘send’ button and let out a huff after pressing the lock button waiting to arrive in the moldy scary basement. the red led number above the doors falls one by one, sticking at ‘9’ before it drops again.

buzz buzz.

12:54pm

hush, don’t start being a

whine baby on me now.

i told you i won’t make you

go down there for awhile

after this.

you better not.

oh stop being so dramatic.

i think i got that from you.

you’re just hilarious.

why thank you.

now get off your phone and

go get that file.

i’m on the elevator as we

speak, god chill!

you chill, and stop taking the

lord’s name.

since when do you care?

doesn’t matter, now i gotta go.

this bloke is almost back from

whatever the hell he had to do,

and i gotta pay attention, this call

is important.

ok, sorry for bothering you.

don’t, you’re not bothering me.

why do ya always think you’re a

bother becks? but

text me if you need me for any

help with finding the file, and i’ll

try my best, i just might take a

bit to reply.

thank you, harry. you know

you’re probably the best, right?

:)

thanks, sweetheart :) you’re

pretty darn great yourself.

you’re welcome, and thanks :)

i wait for a quick witted reply, and after a little bit i think he should have replied by now with how quick his replies were coming. and so i stuff my phone away in my pocket, and look up to find the doors peeling apart. i take in a deep breath and step off the elevator, pulling my long gray sweater around me at the change of temperature. fuckkkkkk, i do not need this too.

with shivering shoulders and chattering teeth, i tiptoe down the hall - because well there’s not a fucking soul around and i feel like it’s too quiet and shit is going to echo - and soon spot the little sign that reads ‘file room’. but ever since i stepped my first foot into this form, it’s always been called ‘the papers room’ for a reason i don’t know, and that i should probably ask harry one day. or asher.

sure enough, wrinkly and graying and not to mention balding jerry whitter is sat at his black desk scrolling away on his silver desktop. probably looking at girl on girl action, or something really weird, i just have a weird feeling. it takes him too long to look up and when he does, i savor the look on his face because fuck i know he was looking at porn. that git.

with a forced smile stretching across his stubbly chubby cheeks, his thin lips you could hardly discern from his gray mustache part, “oh hullo, love. come down to find another file. ya need any help finding anything?” he says ever so cheerily, but i know it’s fake.

“uh no thanks, i think i got it,” i reply, trying a smile that he returns, but it’s last about a second. with a shiver and my arms pulled around myself, i walk past the wimpy coworker of mine dressed in a long sleeved gray button down and slacks. i don’t even want to think about those slacks and any other part of his body for that matter.

that thought gives me another shiver as i pass the tall gray metal shelves of cardboard box heavy with ancient files. all i know is that most of the files that harry and the other lawyers used and need these days are online digitally, and that somebody who’s not fucking jerry is in the process of scanning all of these to get them online. but i can imagine there’s a point where it’s just been enough, and what’s the point if you don’t need them? at least that’s what i think.

clearing my throat and trying to do the same with my mind, i bow my head and lift my hand to find the hot pink post it i scribbled down the info on, knowing i’ll most likely forget.

bertie heartwood

criminal files

1989

with a huff, i stuff it back away in the pocket of my sweater, pulling the front tighter across my chest. glancing a hasty look over my shoulder back at jerry, all i know is that i’m glad he’s not looking me up, and i don’t bother to see what he’s staring at on his computer. bad idea, becky, bad idea. and so i cross my arms over my chest, wincing at my annoying ass bra digging into my side as i look at the little sign on the very left of the shelf by the aisle. ‘a-f’ it reads. i try to hold back the groan as i walk down the long ass aisle, and turn to peek in the next one. like the other side, the very last shelf has another little sign reading ‘g-m’ and i drag my feet down to the beginning. first i go too far and i’m stuck in the g’s, and then when i veer to the right of the aisle i’m in the fucking j’s, because god. ughhhh.

i almost jump out of my fucking flats when my hip buzzes, and i look down to find the screen of my phone lit up. the smile is hard to push down at the sight of his words, and what they are.

12:55pm

it going alright? you get lost

down there, bub?

no, not yet. but apparently

finding the h’s in this aisle for

g-m is harder than it looks.

the screen goes dark as i stare at it waiting for his response, but it doesn’t come right away, and so i assume he’s caught up with his skype call. i don’t even know why he bothered anyways, especially since he joked somewhat about me leaving him alone. i turn my attention and eyes back to the boxes upon boxes of files waiting in front of me. after awhile, i finally get a little warmer and find the h’s. you’d think it wouldn’t be too hard to find ‘he-‘ especially when there shouldn’t be that big of a variety of files here, but yeah no. first there’s habergram. haberly. habittle. hack. hackney. hackman. like i’ve never seen so many ‘ha-’s in my entire life. what the fuck, harry?

my phone says it’s a few ticks away from quarter after one when i finally locate the ‘he-’s and then it’s not too bad then, considering ‘hea-‘ is right in the beginning, or so i hope. but after a minute or two, i finally finally the little label reading ‘heartwood, bertie’ and pull out the frayed dusty black file.

“ya find all that you need?” jerry questions when i walk up to his desk, much to my dismay.

“yep, thanks,” i answer, plucking a clicky pen from his coffee mug full of them. hmm so maybe the coffee mug of pens is a thing here, huh?

dreadfully so, i lean down and press the pen to the clipboard, but this time i remember to hold the file to my chest so the perv can’t look down my shirt. fucking gross. first i scribble down the date, time of 1:34pm, the name of the file as well as the handy dandy code on the lip of the file i have to locate first and then make it out and yada yada it’s too much work really, and finally i put down my autograph at the end.

jerry and i exchange small ‘thanks’ and he mutters a ‘bye’ i fully ignore, before i peel out of there and get back on the elevator afraid to be down there another minute more.

1:35pm

you still on the phone?

a dictionary sized ‘delivered’ pops up under my message after a moment, but no read receipt before i check my notifications and a few other things as the elevator brings me up. i’m happy when it sounds a long ding and the doors open, letting me breath again as i step out onto seventeen. the keys are clicking and the phones are a ringing as i walk back to my desk, veering for people in slacks and skirts rushing with their cups of tea and stacks of paper before i swing down harry’s hall. i know that i probably shouldn’t, and honestly i really don’t know if harry would give a shit, but i thumb at the corner of the file by the label. the fact of being in his hall and not knowing if i should do this or not makes it a little worse, so all i get is a glance of a wacky mugshot of a weird looking guy before i let it fall closed only a few steps away from harry’s door.

doing a once over for anybody busting me, even though i know it’s not going to happen or so i hope, i take a breath before i stop in front of his closed door. rapping my fist against the door, i wait like any other time. and after harry told me the other day to just come on in if he doesn’t answer by the second time, to just let myself in if it’s something important, i do just that ever so nervously. and with the suspicious as shit file weighing heavily in my arms, i wrap my fingers around the cold tingy metal and twist.

the creepy neck feeling and the hot nervous one like i did something wrong floods back to me in a tsunamic like wave when i spot the graying man standing by harry’s desk. with a gulp that becomes harder when his dark brown eyes cast over to me along with the weak dimples peeking out of his cheeks aged with lines, suddenly i feel not so great.

“u-uh can i help you with something, sir? i’m sorry, but nobody’s allowed in here without harry already-,” i begin, looking over his combed back thinning hair and broad-set frame.

“i got it, becks,” a voice says quickly, and when i turn my head, harry’s slipping into the room with his hard eyes set on the stranger standing in front of the both of us.

his emerald’s a different body of water from the man’s before us fall to me and i see something in his face that i don’t like. “are you sure?” i say quietly to him.

he nods his head and gives me a small smile, but i don’t know how much i believe it. “‘m sure, love, jus’ gimme a mo’ with him, alright?” he replies, patting my arm with his hand, and i don’t know why or how or what, but i catch his hand when it falls from me. it’s almost awkward and i don’t know what i’m doing or what my little half hatched plan is, but i hold it for a moment along with his gaze and last ditch murmur of his name. “’s fine, becks, promise. why dontcha go take yer break now, yeah?” he continues, giving me another reassuring smile that i don’t know if i can handle or accept, or whatever.

“ok,” i say, dropping his hand but not before i give it a little squeeze, one that he returns warmly. “let me know if you need anything.”

“will do,” he replies, before i turn away and head for the door, holding the image of his off smile and his whole off look in my mind. and the other thing sitting on his face that i don’t think i’ve ever seen before. nerves.

the door opens swiftly with a click, and as my back is to harry and the odd old guy, i hear the beginning of his brash voice. the voice of the other harry. “what, ya not know how t’ work a phone or sumthin’, can ya not gimme a quick ring befo’ ya jus’ swing by wheneva ya bloody like? i have a job ya know - people i represent an’ stuff i gott’ do, meetings i hafta go t’ an-“

“i bleedin’ built this place, ya not rememba that or sumthin’ . .” the stranger booms back in the same accent identical to harry’s, giving me a jump and making this whole thing even weirder. and with that, making me even more confused.

i blink hard before opening my eyes as the last bit of harry’s cold words spat at the stranger melt away from my ears with the distance i put between us, but i catch deep shouts and a raspy one in return. one i know all too well. and it hits me in the gut. because for some odd fucking reason, i want to spin around and stomp back over to his door and do i don’t know, something to get it to stop. to get the man to go away, a man i have a bad feeling about i know that already, and so i can wipe that scared nervous feeling from harry and make it all better.

but i know i shouldn’t and all of things, i know that i can’t. it’s not like that, and with a sad thought, i think it probably will never be like that. with another click, i step inside the break room and pop open the fridge, wishing the can of soda was something else. something still fizzy, but heavy to the taste and not sweet. something a happy medium like my favorite wine coolers, which only sends me into another dark thought about the man i just left. the man i care too fricken much about. fucking shit.

+

i knock the back of my middle knuckle against the screen of the kiosk, tapping hard at my numbers before pushing open the door to get back to work. i drop the black file i never actually put in harry’s hand on the last rack of the new little black file rack on my desk. i plop back down onto my chair, hearing a squeak i roll my eyes at. but my ass hardly hits the stiff chair when i hear shouting from far away and then a door slam, and when i think i recognize one of the voices, i fly out of that seat.

almost running, i bolt over to harry’s hallway in time to have the burly pissed old guy nearly charging past me. he gives me a dirty look that immediately reminds me too much of harry’s for some odd reason, before he rounds the corner and stomps away. with a gulp, my feet move again from being still and i carefully tread down to harry’s door. for what feels like the hundredth time, i hesitate when i reach my hand out to wrap around the door, but this time a feeling burns in my gut that i should and that i need to do this.

and with that, i turn the handle slowly even though an urgency pricks at my skin to turn it faster and harder, and everything else. i spot him almost instantaneously. back to me. shoulders taut and then shaking. little sad sounds carrying across the room from him.

i don’t know what to do. my body is rigid, every single fricken part of it. and so when i try to move my legs- hell just a muscle, i can’t. the fear immobilizes me. it restricts me as the pained sounds of what can only be his crying pricks at my ears, like the sharp end of little pins poking your skin, one by one, getting worse and worse. a breath is stuck in my lungs, not going anywhere along with the rest of me. and it only makes this worse, when i didn’t think that was an option.

all of a sudden the sniffles and the hoarse throaty sounds cease altogether, and i see his shoulders twitch. then a hand run through his impeccable curls that were messy for only a second, if that. all of a sudden he turns around and as if the sight of his red rimmed glassy eyes devoid of a care but riddled with emotion weren’t enough to send my mental self crashing to the ground, the look on his face when he sees me standing there with a foot out the door and the other in kills me altogether.

a syllable begins on his tongue i see. maybe my name. it pains me to even think it, but maybe another cry. or something possibly worse if that could happen: the beginning of a yell. the second one returns with a kick as i watch his eyes fill with tears again before he looks away with a knuckle to his eyes.

“i-i’m sorry, i don’t mean to barge in-,” i begin, but it all comes out wrong, and nothing right. it’s a mess, just like me. and well him, too. i don’t know what he’s thinking or doing, as his head is bent down looking at something on his desk, probably just finding something to do to occupy the embarrassment and the awkwardness that is all me. all fucking me. but i can’t blame him. because hell, i wouldn’t know what to do if he found me crying, well again. “harry,” is all that feels right and as i watch him poke his finger at a mini yellow legal pad with his gorgeous scrawling on it, a sob stutters in his throat. and i’m fucking gone.

within a blink or two, i’m standing in front of him. unsure of what to do. reach out, or go away. his adam’s apple bobs with a gulp before he lifts his chin slowly to look at me, and kill me with that defeated drowned look that makes me feel all sorts of horrible. for him. all for him. and because of what the fuck can i do?

but it’s more like what can’t i when i tug on his sleeve to bring him over to me until he’s close enough to wrap my arms around. that’s too late though, because his are already going around me and by the time i get mine around him, his face is bent into my neck with his hot tears melting into it. as he melts into me with throaty sobs leaving his lips.

i don’t know what to do, or what to say for that matter. i don’t even realize i’m doing it, or hell that i’m doing anything when i find my fingers lost in his hair combing through the end of his crazy curls, and drifting down to the long expanse of his back i rub in circles. through the easy silk of his shirt, i feel his taut strong back as it shakes with each hoarse cry and rises with a rattly breath that tickles against my now damp neck. we stand there for the next ten minutes, his head glued to my shoulder and my arms surrounding him and not moving an inch no matter how tired they get. but i hold onto him tight, my neck slick with tears and his breaths loud and hiccupy.