"I didn't think you were coming back."
I sigh, and watch the mix of colours currently gliding in waves over the styrofoam tiled ceiling. The fancy projector Harry had brought in to the Youth Club did a good job of masking the cheap cladding and tube lights that had been switched off.
The lights have the illusion of being under water, or floating in space. Like a soft, blurred kaleidoscope revolving around, spinning the room slightly, making me dizzy if I focus on one spot for too long. It'd have been quite relaxing, laying on the gym floor with a bean bag under my head, listening to the melody of Harry's guitar that he was playing somewhere on the other side of the room, if it wasn't for six year old Fabian announcing he was bored every two minutes. Or the grilling Abi was giving me for not showing up to Music Therapy for two weeks.
"I know," I say, watching a cloud of red meld into another of blue. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to break my promise. Some...stuff got in the way."
I hear her sigh; a sigh that sounded far too tired and resigned for that of a girl only ten years old.
But Abi had had a rough start to life. Harry hadn't told me much about why she was currently in foster care - he'd said due to confidentially but I wonder if he was saving me from the heartache it'd likely bring.
I turn my head, where I see her gazing up at the mirage of colours floating around above us. I see her deep brown, tightly coiled hair pulled into the neat Dutch braids she always sported. See the little peak of her nose, the freckles peppering her cheekbones.
"It's okay, I guess," she says faintly. "I'll forgive you. But only because you made Harry promise not to make us sing again."
I snort.
According to Harry, the last few weeks of Music Therapy had been gruelling and frustrating for all participants; apparently his idea to form some sort of choir with the kids hadn't been as smooth sailing as he'd hoped. Apparently his thinking being it'd instil some sense of teamwork and community among the kids. Turns out convincing a group of 6-11 year olds to sing "You Are My Sunshine" was near impossible.
I think that's why we were having a very laid back version of music therapy today. Just a dark room, a bunch of bean bags and Harry strumming away random melodies on his guitar.
"I'm bored!" Fabian calls out for the fourth time.
"Yes, we know," I hear Harry whisper, working very hard to keep his tone calm. "Just concentrate on your breathing Fabian. Try to clear your mind. Deep breaths. Close your eyes."
There's a beat of silence, and I think perhaps Fabian is following Harry's instructions, but that little voice pipes up again.
"But Harry, if I close my eyes, I can't see the colours."
The gentle twangs of guitar strings comes to a halt, the room silent. I hear Harry chuckle.
"Good point, Fabian. Right, everyone up on their feet."
I see Harry set his guitar down behind him, flexing his fingers slightly before he puffs out a gust of air. He rests his hands on his hips, assessing the group around him.
"Think we need a change of pace," he says as if to the group, but he nods to himself as if he were simply speaking his thoughts aloud.
He pulls out his phone, plugging it into a speaker that he'd brought along, a little pop and hum ringing out.
"Please no more singing," Abi rolls her eyes beside me, and I can't help but giggle.
"Something funny, Riley?" Harry smirks from across the hall.
Abi flicks a look to me.
"You're getting me in trouble," I whisper to her, playfully narrowing my eyes to the girl. She snickers and her smile has my heart folding in on itself.
"Well, Riley, seeing as you seem so enthused today," Harry says, sauntering over to me with a wild and amused gleam to his eyes. "You can pick a song."
I swallow, my smile having dropped from my face.
I feel like I was back at school, being called out for chatting at the back of the class by an old crotchety teacher.
"A song? What sort of song?" I mumble.
Harry lifts a brow. "Something that you listen to when maybe you've had a tough day," he's speaking loud, so that everyone can hear. "Something that gets your blood pumping. Something that speaks to you," he eyes me with a Harry stare. "Something to dance to."
Abi groans. "The only thing worse than singing. Dancing!"
Harry chuckles at her reluctance.
"Music can help us express our emotions when we struggle to understand them. It can help us work through difficult feelings. But also, sometimes, it's just there for dancing to. So go ahead Miss Smith, take your pick."
I narrow my eyes at him, hoping to convey that I'd get him back for this. He merely shrugs, as if to say 'do your worst'.
I take the phone from him, eying his Spotify, tempted to get a quick glance at what he'd been recently listening to, but instead go to the search bar.
I flick my eyes to his, seeing him watching me patiently, his arms crossed. I look to Abi, who looks bored to death, and little Fabian who's still laying on the ground - perhaps having given up participating altogether in favour of taking a nap.
Suddenly, I realise the power of having the choice of music in my hands, and am reminded of a time years ago when Harry had scoffed and been appalled at my music taste. I remember slapping a pink holographic sticker to the dash of the van. A sticker that's still there.
I smirk as I type, and when the opening beats of the song sound out - loudly - through the room, Harry belts a full laugh as he instantly recognises the song.
Crazy in Love by Beyoncé begins playing, and quickly Harry is turning back to the projector where the lights quickly change from placid and slow to vibrant and pulsating.
"Dance!" Harry shouts to the the young children - too young I realise to even know this song let alone appreciate it.
The kids are looking between one another and back to Harry and I, not moving a muscle.
Harry turns to me, a large grin pulling at his cheeks.
"Come on Buttercup, let's show them how it's done."
And then he's grabbing my hands, pulling them around and spinning me. I laugh, allowing him to guide me around - the same way he had done in my living room two weeks ago.
But I wasn't as hesitant to join in this time. If I couldn't dance in front of these kids - couldn't be myself and throw embarrassment to the wind - then I'd never be able to.
I wiggle around frantically, Harry doing the same with some rather enthusiastic arm movements. When suddenly, between the two of us, a little mess of blonde curls pops up - Fabian, arms above his head, hips swinging around.
"That's it Fabian!" Harry cries approvingly.
I turn to Abi, who's doing her best to look unimpressed. The others have already joined in - some of the younger ones skidding and rolling around on the floor, others hopping up and down or attempting to copy Harry's moves.
I'm breathless when I hold out my hand to the young girl, hoping - praying - that she steps forward.
I see her swallow, her hands opening and closing in anxiety at her sides.
But she doesn't need to feel anxious here. Doesn't need to worry about her every move, about taking up space.
I give her a reassuring nod when she nervously meets my eye, and I promise myself that I'll never miss another week of this class if it means this girl feels she has someone in her corner.
The way Harry had always been in mine when I needed him most.
A friend to dance with when your world fell apart around you.
Abi steps forward, and I guide her into the circle of thrashing and gyrating people.
And she dances.
Timidly at first, but I stay in front of her, keeping her focus on me rather than what's happening elsewhere in the room.
I swing myself around foolishly, hamming it up so that she at least has a chance at feeling a little less self conscious if this twenty seven year old I front of her is making such a fool of herself.
Eventually she loosens up, until between the two of us we're competing in some sort of dance off; most ridiculous moves wins, prize being a plethora of laughter.
We carry on like this, each of the children calling out for different songs - Baby Shark being blared out of the little speaker twice - before the kids are being picked up to be taken home.
Before Abi heads out, I jog over to her.
"Abs, wait!" I call out, both her and her foster mum - Diane - waiting by the doors. "Here."
I hand her a little gift bag that'd been sitting in my hallway since the first time I'd met her. I hadn't managed to find any of my old art supplies, but I had managed to buy her a little sketchbook and a set of sketching pencils, as well as a fancy little tin of water colours and brushes.
She looks into the bag, Diane attempting to peak in as well.
I stumble back when Abi hugs me. My arms are floating in the air around her, glancing back to Harry worriedly. He'd told me we weren't allowed to touch the kids, and yet he's smiling at the two of us.
I look back at Diane. "Is - is this okay?"
She simply nods, and I'm quick to wrap my arms back around Abi. She's holding me so tightly, and I wonder how often she allowed herself to indulge in this sort of affection - she was such a closed off little girl, trying to keep emotion closed in. I could only begin to imagine why she'd made herself that way.
So I hold her, letting her decide when it's time to let go.
Harry drove me home after the music class, as always, and he'd followed me right up to the door. Something he'd taken to doing ever since that night with Kyle.
Kyle had yet to show up like I'd expected him to. I hoped that it was in part due to the restraining order I'd taken out against him a few days prior - with the support of my friends and Linda, my therapist.
I hold my keys in my hand, readying myself to say goodnight to Harry, when I pause.
I look up to him. His hair has gotten longer since I'd first seen him again - curling just past his ears, and constantly falling into his face.
He was leaning against the little brick wall of the tiny porch before my front door, looking off down the street, waiting for me to unlock the door and dismiss him for the night, as per our routine.
But it wasn't late, not even eight o clock.
My heart rate picked up as I battled what to do. Deciding that the worst that could happen would be for him to say no, I decide to go for it.
Fuck it.
"Do you want to come in?"
Harry's head snaps to me. "Hm?"
"Would you like to come in? Have a cup of tea or something?"
Harry smiles. "Really?"
"You act like you've never been in."
He's already following me into the hallway, us both kicking our shoes off and hanging up jackets.
"You've never actually invited me in off your own back," he says, right behind me as I flick on the kitchen light and go to fill the kettle.
"Well I've never even seen your place." I point out, trying not to focus too much on the way he helps himself to set out two mugs from the cabinet, or the way I don't at all hate how comfortable he is in my home.
"You can see my place." He shrugs easily. "You've just never asked."
He looks up at me, and I feel that little twang of guilt that I always did when realising just how far I had to go in creating healthy friendships.
It's part of what Linda and I had been discussing in recent weeks. Both allowing others in to my life, whilst also allowing myself into theirs.
"Okay." I say to Harry, rubbing the sweat of my palms off on my jeans. "I'd like to see your place some time."
"Whenever. Just let me know."
I have to roll my lips into my mouth to hide the satisfied smile that's threatening to burst from the inside out. Harry plops two tea bags into the mugs, whilst I fetch milk from the fridge. We work effortlessly in sync, whilst we discuss the market, our friends there. And when Harry suggests we sit out on the tiny patio to enjoy the last of the sunset, I suddenly find myself feeling strange.
"What is it?" He asks as if he knows that something is bubbling up inside of me.
I cradle my mug in my hands, shifting on the metal bistro seat that matches his. I look out at my little garden, to the last warm rays of sun over the rooftops of my neighbours houses.
"I think...I'm just content. And I don't think I have been - not for ages, really. And that's mad isn't it, because my life is still a massive shit show."
Harry swallows a sip of tea, then shakes his head. "How is it a shit show?"
"I mean...I've literally just had to get out a restraining order on a guy. I have a drinking problem that I'm trying to work through. I'm in therapy. Hardly the epitome of maturity and success, am I?"
"It all sounds like you're doing pretty fucking good to me, Ry. Some people never get that far. They just stay on the same path. You've made a new one. And even if things are a bit of a shit show, it doesn't mean you don't deserve to be content."
I face him, to see him already watching me, slightly slouched and comfortable in his chair, ankle resting on his knee.
It's so easy sometimes to forget that we aren't those same seventeen year old kids sometimes. Even now, I sometimes get a shock when I look at him to see the affects of age and maturity on him. Wonder where his long hair and sheepish glances have disappeared to.
But I wasn't the same either. In some ways I was - still a little fragile, a bit broken. But I also had come to realise that I didn't have so much holding me back anymore. The things that weighed me down had grown a little lighter. I was, perhaps, the most free I'd ever been.
And with that feeling of freedom came a smattering of confidence.
The same confidence that had allowed me to ask Harry to come inside tonight. The same confidence that allowed me to unwaveringly meet his eye as I told him:
"I like you being here."
I don't know why I said it really. Just the sight of him drinking tea from my mug in my garden, brought me a sort of happiness that I didn't even know existed. A happiness that was silent; that burrowed deep and settled into your bones.
Harry clears his throat, looking down at his mug briefly before back to me.
"Good. I like being here too."
We watch each other, I don't know how long for - too long probably, for a woman pretending to only be friends with this man.
Eventually Harry reaches across and - with a metallic scrape - yanks my chair right up next to his.
"Come here," he whispers, lifting his arm to make room for me to tuck into his side. I do so without hesitation, relishing in the warmth of his body as his wraps his arm around mine, watching the sky melt from orange to blue. "You're getting soft in your old age, Buttercup."
I laugh. "Says the man that's just pulled me in for a cuddle."
"A hug."
I go to peak up at him, ready to start in another debate over what constitutes a cuddle over a hug, but I stop when I realise how close Harry's face is to mine.
So close that I can't breathe, because if I did he'd feel the fans of warm air from my mouth cast over his.
So close that I can make out the way his lashes cross over one another, how they frame those lily-pad green eyes or the way they're being swallowed by the blackness of his pupils.
I don't move. I daren't.
Nor does Harry - in fact I'm counting the seconds between his blinks, wondering why he isn't. Wondering when I last saw him take in a breath. The only thing letting me know he hasn't frozen entirely was the slight flex in his hand that was gripped around my shoulder.
He leans forward, but it isn't in the direction I'd expected, instead his lips press gently to my forehead. I close my eyes as they pause there, soft and warm and lovely but not at all where I'd hoped they'd land.
And I tell myself that it's for the best.
That it'd have been stupid if I'd have closed that gap myself - I was Harry's friend.
For once, I was finally, truly his friend in - what I hoped - was the way he deserved. If not I liked to think I was getting there.
So it would be reckless - selfish - to hope for anything more.
Harry pulls back, and I rest my head back against his shoulder, allowing the softness of the moment to settle my racing thoughts.
Quiet now, I tell them. Don't get greedy.
AN: I'm back! I know I haven't updated for ages, but I've nearly finished the next chapter and it's such a fun one! I've also been working quietly on another fic, one that's more of a thriller/spooky one. Would anyone be interested in something like that?