"So the dude just spray painted your walls like a total fucking psychopath?" Louis asks, astonished, with his head stuck out of the back door as he smokes a cigarette.
I shrug, checking the timer on my phone before peaking through the oven door. Two more minutes.
"Yeah. Like blood-red paint," I say, watching Louis eyes widen at the ludicrosity of the story I'm telling him. His reaction would be funny, if this story wasn't my life, and Kyle wasn't still on the loose. "And he cut up my sofa with a kitchen knife."
"Fucking hell, Love," he shakes his head. "The guy sounds totally off his rocker."
I snort. "I mean, he is."
Before Louis can say anything, footsteps clatter down the hallway, and a rather grumpy looking Niall appears in the kitchen doorway.
"I smell something," he says, rubbing the remnants of sleep from his eyes. "Like...cinnamon and ginger. What is it?"
"Riley's baking," Louis explains, his cigarette dangling out the corner of his mouth, which causes Niall to sneer and shove his friend further out of the door and in to the garden.
"You know Harry will kill you if he smells that in the house," Niall admonishes Louis. He turns to me, stepping further into the kitchen and taking a look through the glass oven door himself. "What're you making, Flower?"
Both Niall and Louis had taken to calling me 'Flower' or 'Petal' ever since they overheard Harry's nickname for me. At first, Harry had hissed at them to shut the fuck up. But he soon seemed to ignore it.
Not that I'd seen him much since the day I'd given my statement at the police station.
I wasn't staying in his room anymore. It'd been me that had suggested it, when we'd tried to sleep in his bed that same night, and in the darkness our lips had found one another's too easily. We kissed, my hands in his hair, his on my jaw, until the saltiness of our tears reached our mouths and I told him that I should sleep on the sofa.
So that's where I'd been, for the last two nights and Harry had mostly steered clear of the living room. He'd gone into the market for work this morning, music therapy afterwards, after I insisted I'd be fine here. And I wasn't alone. I had his housemates for company.
I open the oven door when my phone beeps and pull out the tray of cupcakes.
"They're apple, cinnamon and ginger cupcakes," I tell Niall, setting the hot tray on top of the trivet on the worktop. "They're nothing fancy, I just used what Harry had in his cupboard."
Niall looks at the even row of spongy cakes as I turn them out of the tin to cool down.
"Hmm," he says, bringing one up to sniff despite them being piping hot. "Are you going to ice them or anything?"
I shrug. "Depends on ingredients."
Louis has come back in to the kitchen, cigarette no longer in sight, and he dives forward for a cupcake but Niall slaps his hand away.
"If you had access to any ingredients," Niall says, "How would you serve them?"
I chew my lip in thought, thinking fondly back to my now ruined kitchen and the pantry stuffed full of ingredients I once had access to.
"I'd make a sauce, maybe," I say idly. "Maybe cider and caramel, to go with the apple and cinnamon."
Niall nods to himself, as if deep in thought. Then he starts opening his designated cupboards and then the fridge, pulling items out into the counter top.
A bottle of cider. Apple Juice. Sugar. A lemon and some butter.
"Make it," he says with a challenging stare.
I quirk an eyebrow, not sure why he seems so interested or intrigued, but, with both him and Louis watching, I get to work.
I boil the apple juice and the cider, the kitchen filling with the rich, sweet smell, as it reduces down in a pan on the tiny hob. I then get to work in another pan, caramelising the sugar; praying that I don't burn it with an audience.
I combine the pans, whisking in the butter but I'm not happy with the consistency of the sauce.
"Do you have cornflour?" I ask over my shoulder, trying not to sweat too much under the watch of the two men behind me.
"I do," Louis says as he pulls a packet out of a cupboard, and I mix it with water, before whisking it in to the sauce.
A few minutes later, it's done. I pull out three of Harry's bowls - all cream and decorated with illustrations of wonky mushrooms and bubbly sunflowers - serving a cupcake into each and pouring over a little of the sauce.
Niall hands out three forks, and silently we all take a bite.
I don't know why I'm holding my breath for their reactions. Maybe because this had all felt like some sort of test. Maybe because they were both chefs in a fancy kitchen.
"Fucking hell, Petal," Louis groans as he eats, his eyes drifting closed, his head tilting back. "That's bloody good."
"Really bloody good," Niall nods, going in for a second bite before he drops his fork and crosses his arms. He squints his eyes at me. "Do you have any qualifications?"
"Uhm...I have a diploma in culinary arts," I say, quirking a brow and not quite understanding why he was staring at me like that.
"Any kitchen experience?" Niall asks.
I shake my head. "No. No I've always worked on my own."
He nods, waving a hand dismissively, "Doesn't really matter. Do you want a job?"
I laugh. "Niall, what are you talking about?"
I look to Louis, who's rolling yet another cigarette, who just shrugs at me.
Niall steps forward, glancing between the cakes and then me. "The kitchen we work in needs a new pastry chef. Haven't had a good one in years. I think you'd be great."
I laugh again, shaking my head. How can he base that assumption off of one cupcake?.
"I...I have a stall to run," I say.
But the truth is, I'm not sure if I did anymore. For the last six months, Buttercups had basically been haemorrhaging money. I'd sunken deeper and deeper into overdrafts just to keep a roof over my head and a cupboard full of baking powder and flour. And I didn't even have those any more.
I didn't know when, or how, I'd afford to replace all of the equipment Kyle had ruined. The police, despite their efforts had yet to capture him, and it could take weeks or months before he was sentenced, and even then I didn't know if I'd get the money for the damages in one go or in instalments.
It'd occurred to me, my first night sleeping on the boxy orange sofa of Harry, Niall and Louis' living room, that I may have to give up the cake stall.
And instead of that idea crushing me, breaking my heart and sending me nauseous, it had left me feeling a little lighter. Like just the consideration of giving it up, was like shedding a layer of skin.
It had been my dream once. To own that little stall. To make it mine, to have queues of customers and new recipes every week, maybe even every day.
But that wasn't what it'd turned out to be. Instead, I spent my days frothing lattes and dishing out breakfast pastries and I don't think my heart had been in it for a long time.
Niall is watching me, as behind him Louis is stuffing another cupcake into his mouth.
"Maybe just think about it," Niall shrugs, giving me a small smile. "The position will be open until the end of September, so you've got until then to decide if it's something you're interested in."
With that, Niall trudges back down the corridor, shouting that he's getting ready for work, and Louis is leaning his head out of the back door as he lights his cigarette, and I'm left in the kitchen staring at my cakes and wondering what the fuck I should do.
*
It's almost nine o clock when I hear the front door click open. I lay under Harry's spare duvet, with the light from the tv flashing across my face, as I listen to him kick off his shoes in the hallway, the rustle of his jacket as he hangs it up.
His footsteps tread quietly and I wait for them to pass the door to the living room and begin to creak up the stairs, but instead they still and the door to my make-shift bedroom slowly peels open.
"Oh. You're awake," he says, but I press a finger to my lips to shush him.
"I am, but he's not," I whisper, pointing to the other sofa, where Louis had passed out an hour ago when we'd been watching tv together.
Harry snorts at his friend, then glances awkwardly at me.
"I, uhm...Sarah and Lucy gave me some more clothes and stuff to pass along to you. I think Lucy said some of them were yours that she'd borrowed anyway. They both said they'll come and hang out soon?" I nod, but I already know, because both women had been calling and texting me non stop ever since I'd told them what had happened with Kyle and my house.
I'd also told them both about the situation between Harry and I. Lucy had offered to come back from the exhibition early, but I insisted she didn't. Even after she arrived home last night as scheduled, I didn't want to risk Kyle finding out and turning up to Lucy and Janis' house, because he knew where she lived.
Sarah, of course, had offered her spare room to me. But in all honesty, I didn't feel comfortable staying there, knowing that Mitch already wasn't my biggest fan. Especially now that everything had happened between Harry and I.
So Harry's sofa would do for now.
"And I got your something," Harry adds, scratching his neck sheepishly in the doorway. "If that's okay?"
I nod, and shift along the sofa, pulling the blanket away and pat the empty space I've made for him.
He tiptoes into the room, setting down a large bag of what I assume are clothes, but then he dips out behind the door briefly, coming back in to view with a cardboard box.
He sits next to me, sliding the heavy box in to my lap before he sits back and scruffs a hand into his messy hair.
I try to look him in the eye - I say try to, because it was still hard to maintain eye contact without remembering the feel of him. The smell of him. How, on two occasions, we'd disappeared into one another. I remembered his breath on my skin, his fingers on me, mine on him, and it sent my heart into a frenzy. I think we both knew that it would be so easy to slip back into that again. Which would just make all of this harder for both of us.
We could both be selfish. It wouldn't be difficult, really, to ignore the wound we'd attempted to cover with a bandaid, so that we could sleep together. But we both deserved better, and I think it would destroy us in the end.
So I look away, and Harry clears his throat and shifts a little further away from me on the sofa, and I open the box.
"Harry," I say, like I'm telling him off for doing something stupid, when I set my eyes on a brand new, buttery yellow record player. "You didn't have to do this."
He shakes his head, then whispers, "I did. Your old one was broken, and...well, a life without music-"
"- is fucking depressing," I finish, and he looks at me confused. I take a breath, before I explain. "It's what you said to me. The day that we met, in art class. When I said music wasn't really my thing."
A smile tugs at his lips, but as he looks down to avoid my eyes, I see they're tainted with sadness. "I did say that, didn't I?"
"You did. But I have my phone, and the internet and Spotify, you didn't need to give me this," I attest.
"It's not the same," he shakes his head. And he's right, it's not.
There's something visceral, something magical, about sliding a record from its sleeve. The smell. The feel of the ridges. The faint crackle and pop before the music spins to life.
"There's some records too," he points out, and I can feel the awkwardness radiating from him.
I delve in to the box, and begin flicking through the collection he's curated for me.
I smile, because there's a bunch of The Beatles in there, and Bowie, and Cyndi Lauper and then I break out into a laugh because he's given me a Beyoncé Vinyl.
"I had to order that in specifically," he informs me, as I shake my head in disbelief. "I don't think my customers would look at me the same if they saw that on my shelves."
"I don't know," I disagree. "These songs speak to some people after all."
Harry looks at me then, and I look back and I feel those splinters throb as they dig inside me. But I know if I give in, if I choose to numb the ache by leaning forward and asking him to kiss me and take me to his bed, then those splinters will never heal.
So I instead, I put the box on the floor, and pull the duvet further up myself.
"Thank you, Harry. For the gift. You should get some sleep."
He nods, with another sad smile, and he wishes me goodnight.
*
It was the next day, after all three boys had left for work when I got the phone call from Detective Mackey.
They found him.
They'd arrested Kyle, and he was charged with breaching his restraining order, harassment, criminal damage and possession of a deadly weapon, on account of the knife that had his fingerprints all over it.
They had enough evidence stacked against him that he would be charged and go to sentencing without a trial.
"What's next?" I'd asked.
"You can go home, Miss Smith," she'd told me.
I stood in the kitchen of Harry's house, and I cried. I wasn't sure whether it was through relief, elation or perhaps a bit of grief.
Because it was time for me to go home, which meant the borrowed time I had with Harry had come to an end.
I thanked Detective Mackey, after she told me I'd be kept updated with Kyles sentencing, and ended the phone call.
I held my phone in my hand, with a thumb hovered over Harry's number. But it froze there.
Instead, after a long debate, I sent a text to Lucy and I packed my bags and I walked home, slipping the key Harry had left me back through the letter box.
I thought about leaving a note.
I could have thanked him again, for everything he did for me, not just these last few days, but for all the years that the memory of him had kept me going. But I didn't.
I did, however, leave the photograph that I'd snook into my backpack on the nightstand in his bedroom. The photograph of him on my eighteenth birthday, smiling in his van as he sang me his favourite song.
I wouldn't be able to keep it anymore. It felt counter intuitive, to keep that photo that I'd held close for so many years, how I'd used it to lift myself on dark days. I couldn't use Harry anymore. I wouldn't. I had to be okay on my own.
So, with a backpack full of clothes, and my records and player in a thick shopping bag, I walked the few streets that separated Harry and I, until I was back home.
My front door was boarded up, so I had to shuffle down the narrow passage and enter through my garden gate to let myself in through the back door.
When I entered, it hit me again the state my house had been left in. All of my belongings, broken and at my feet. The rooms destroyed, and empty how they'd always been.
I crack open the windows, and clear the dubree from my kitchen worktop and plug in my new record player. And Beyoncé sings to me, and I dance and I cry, but I get to work.
*
By seven I clock, I'd filled an entire roll of bin bags. Lucy had shown up after she'd finished her day at the market, and we were taking a break from cleaning the house in the garden, drinking a cup of water each; because my kettle was broken, and my coffee and tea bags had had to be swept up from the kitchen floor.
The sun was lowering in the sky, and I knew we were lapping up the last rays of summer. Autumn would be on its way, and a chill would soon follow.
I stood under the sun, and inclined my head backwards, and I let it soak me up.
"Have you spoken to him?" Lucy asks, where she sits on my little garden chair, wiping sweat from her forehead.
I shake my head, swallowing down the ache that came with the thought of Harry. I imagined it would ache for some time, the sort of ache that used to draw me drink until I'd numb it away. But it let the pain settle, let it hurt until it ebbed away enough to talk.
"No. I think we'd said everything we needed to. It didn't seem fair to keep it going any longer than it needed to," I say.
I wanted to ask how he'd been, at work today. How he'd reacted when Lucy had gotten my text that Kyle had been arrested. Lucy would have told him straight away, of that I was sure.
The words filled me up, the questions of how he'd seemed. Had he waited for a text as well? A phone call? Did he seem hurt, that I hadn't told him myself? But I think he would have known. We'd already said goodbye, that day in the car park if the police station.
I look to Lucy, expecting her to say something about him. To advise that I should talk to him. But she doesn't. She just leans over, rubbing a hand on my shoulder in support.
"What now then?" She asks, her eyes glancing through the window to the shambles that still remained in my house. "What about the stall?"
I sip my water, and I know I've made my decision then. "I think I'm done," I tell her. "I'm going to sell my coffee machine, and the fridges and stuff. I'm not going back to the market."
Her face contorts into concern, "Riley, if your decision is about-"
"It isn't," I shake my head. "It's nothing to do with Harry. I mean, maybe in a roundabout way it kind of is. But it's something I need to do for me. I need to make a change. A lot of them really. I- " I hold a breath, releasing it as I realise all at once that all of this is about what I need, what I want. Admitting that I couldn't keep living the way I had done for so many years. "I've been sort of standing still for so long. Just existing. I don't think I've really been happy, not fully for a while - or ever. And I don't want to live like that anymore. The market, my stall...it was never what it was supposed to be. I don't want to do it anymore."
I turn to Lucy when I'd finished the verbal dissection of my life and the mess - the literal mess - it had become. She's smiling at me, a sad sort of smile when you have to admit defeat that someone you love is hurting. But I'm trying, and she can see that.
"I'm proud of you Babe," she tells me. I try not to recoil from the compliment, to not let it sting me the way it may once have.
But change doesn't happen over night, and I still had so much to sort through, both internally and outwardly in my life.
So it hurts, to hear her kind words, but I don't hide away from it. Instead, I thank her, and I close my eyes again and draw in a lung full of air and let the sun warm me.
AN: So I think Buttercup may nearly be over. Maybe one or two more chapters and an epilogue. I don't know 🥹😭