Buttercup [H.S]

Chapter Two

After some of Lucy's positive affirmations and Strong, Independent Boss Bitch pep talks, I somehow pieced together the nerve to head back into the Market to open up my stall for the first customers of the day.

She kept urging me forward with a thumbs up as I shuffled back round to the front of the building, but it did little to comfort me. My stomach was a tangle of knots at the thought of being confronted by Harry again.

But could there be a chance that Lucy was right? What if he didn't loath me like I'd assumed and it really was all in my head. What if that look of absolute repugnance and shock he gave me once he realised that it was in fact me, 'Riley Fucking Smith', had all been conjured up by my chronic insecurities and addiction to self deprecation.

I could only hope.

Maybe he'd allow me to apologise, but the mere thought of acknowledging both all that we'd been through and all that I'd done out loud, was enough to make me want to bolt straight over the railings and sink into the murky green water of the canal outside.

Another part of the problem here was, no one at the market knew about any of my past, Lucy only knew the parts I'd chosen to tell her until about 5 minutes ago.

While I may have wasted my fresh start in terms of friend making, at least non of the others here hated me. Not like most of my old friends from school did, or even my own parents. And certainly not like Harry evidently did.

Summoning as much will power as I could muster, I'd tried to fix my sights firmly onto my own corner. But I couldn't seem to stop myself from glancing over to Harry periodically, checking up on where and what he was doing. His friends that had been helping him this morning appeared to have now left and he was chatting away to a customer, listening intently with a warm, open smile.

As I tried to sneak past unnoticed, I pointedly avoided eye contact with him as he turned to look at me with curiosity. Thankfully I had a small queue of my own patrons waiting for me, so shoved the any idea of talking to him to the back of my thoughts. Or at least tried to.

"Hi, Hello, sorry, have you been waiting long?" I strangle out to the inpatient faces waiting for me.

I feel hot and flustered, repeatedly blowing my fringe from my eyes with a puff of air. I take the orders, and breath a sigh of somewhat relief when I realise I can now hear the whooshing of the steam arm as I foamed milk, now that the music from next door was at a reasonable - and dare I say pleasant - hum.

Unfortunately the ply board wall that had been erected to contain Harry's stall was only waist level on the sides, so as I did my best to busy myself I was constantly aware of his presence moving around to my right. It's like he was emitting some field of energy that I could feel zapping against my skin no matter which way I turned. I couldn't help but catch him from the corner of my eye every other second.

Indulgently, I allowed myself to wonder if he'd been stealing sneaky glances at me the same way that I had been to him. I let my mind drift into insecure places of what he'd thought after seeing me after all these years. From the way his gaze painfully dragged down my body, and then back up with a grimace, I doubt it was anything complimentary.

I felt like a disgusting hungover slug, my dry brunette hair slung into a careless bun, my last clean grey T-shirt hung from me, slightly crumpled having neither the time nor brain power to iron it after slithering from the depths of my duvet this morning. And my sad, faded Buttercups apron, pinching in and thankfully hiding the worst of my paint-stained denim shorts.

And I'm sure he must have noticed the whites of my eyes were burning red, my skin pink and dehydrated from the previous evenings binge drinking. Maybe he could smell the wine leaching from my pores.