Buttercup [H.S]

Chapter Seven

But now I found myself in some middle ground. I used sex and alcohol to cope to try and fill that lonely void, but I'd built up a tolerance now. The drink didn't numb the way it used to, if anything I'd found myself numb sober and allowing myself to drink to release all of the pain I'd bottled up for years.

I only ever had sex when my loneliness peaked, and in recent months it had only been with Kyle. The thought of trying to socialise with someone else for the sake of a chance at an orgasm just didn't feel worth it anymore. It certainly never was with Kyle, I almost always felt worse afterwards. Pathetic, really.

I found myself drawn to couples in the street, young and old, both new love and a love that was lived in, settled, comfortable. It made me almost vibrate with longing, to have a connection with someone, anyone.

But I couldn't allow myself that. I knew I was undeserving, knew I wasn't funny enough, pretty enough, happy enough to have anyone give themselves over to me in that way.

I'd never spoken these thoughts aloud, never dared to share them with anyone else through fear of judgment or worse, confirmation that all of these painful labels I'd pinned to myself were in fact real.

The end of July had rolled around quickly, the first week of August bringing with it a heatwave that made London stuffy and humid, my least favourite weather for complimenting hangovers and existential crisis'.

So I'd slipped into one of my thin floral dresses and a comfy pair of white trainers before grabbing my purse to head to the tube station. I hadn't baked anything fresh for my stall today but knew the cakes and pastries from yesterday were still fine, safe in my fridges at the market. I'd barely sold any the prior day.

The tube, as with every Saturday, was packed and stiflingly thick with hot Summer air, by the time I made it up to the steps opposite the canal my hair was already sticking to my forehead, liking blurring my mascara under my eyes. So much for looking put together today.

I had prepared myself for the inevitable; knew that Harry would be working today, knew that he may want to hash out how we'd parted last night. He may be angry and want to argue, or play some sad song about broken girls in a passive aggressive attack.

I thought I was ready for that.

What I wasn't ready for, was for him to be waiting outside of the Market beside Mei's flower stall out front, pacing back and forth with his nails in between his teeth.

The moment he spotted me it's like I saw his tense shoulders slump before he darted toward me.

"Really not in the mood," I mumbled as I tried to breeze past him but he wasn't having it, side stepping into my path.

"Are you okay?" He asked, and I wondered how his thick hair hadn't been torn out from the amount he ran his large hand through it.

"I need to open up, Harry, get out of my way" I sigh in exhaustion.

"You just ran off last night," he snapped, "I was worried."

"Clearly not that worried if you just went home," I quipped, folding my arms.

"What was I supposed to do? Turn up on your doorstep? We both know you'd have told me to fuck right off!" I could see the frustration rolling off of his shoulders.

Broad shoulders, covered in another one of his Islington Record shirts. I wondered if he worked out now, he must do.

I let myself gaze down over the black T-shirt that breezed around his waist to the navy shorts he wore and his tan, toned calf's. To the tattoo I could see peeking from his shorts or the little black letters above his knee caps.