"Sorry, I...uh... wasn't expecting company."
I have to physically bite my lip to stop the giggle bubbling up my throat as I watch a very embarrassed and flustered curly haired man run around his small apartment, picking up empty beer bottles, cartons of food, and miscellaneous clothing.
The flat is a mirror image of mine: floor-to-ceiling windows, white chipped walls, and an open floor plan connecting the main rooms with a separate hallway for the bed and bath. The only difference is that this flat is filled with various furniture –no doubt form their store- and is significantly messier.
My hesitancy in stepping into a man's apartment was abundantly clear when I spluttered out a poor excuse not to come, but Harry's coaxing and puppy dog eyes had me reluctantly agreeing.
I didn't even have to tell Harry to leave the door open –he just did.
And I'm not sure how to feel about it.
I'm initially surprised at the fact that I didn't keel over as soon as I caught a whiff of the woodsy scent emitting from his flat or even have a panic attack at the idea that I was in uncharted territory with someone that could easily overpower me.
No, I didn't feel any of that. Even after witnessing his violence at the bar, I still believe that Harry is a cupcake. Especially considering his actions in the last week.
All I felt stepping into his territory was very mild anxiety.
Again, I'm not sure how to feel about that.
Harry huffs lightly as he steps out from what I assumed is his bedroom, but just catch a glimpse of a canvas splattered with paint before he slams the door shut.
"Is that your art room?" I ask, uncharacteristically excited at the thought of seeing what Harry does for a living.
As soon as the question leaves my lips Harry tenses, but it hardly registers, "Can I see some of your art?"
I barely make it a step in that direction before Harry is blocking my way. I meet his soft green eyes to see them widen in sudden alarm, looking from me to the closed door repeatedly. Heat crawls up his neck quickly until his whole face is painted red.
"Uh... no... none of it – none of it is ready to be seen yet."
"Why not? I'm sure they're all lovely," I try to step around Harry, but again, he blocks my path, the panic now clear on his face, "You shouldn't be embarrassed about something your passionate about Harry."
He rubs the back of his neck clearly uncomfortable and flustered, "'Mm not. I just... You can't see it yet, okay?"
Although the curiosity is eating at me, I simply shrug and nod my head. I won't push him, just as he doesn't push me. With one last glance towards the closed door I allow Harry to lead me into his small kitchen.
I'll get him to show it to me eventually.
If there is an eventually.
"Alright, you just sit back and watch the master work."
"Pretty sure I'm the master here – you have tasted that first hand."
"Baking and cooking are very different things, young grasshopper."
I bark out a laugh at our easy banter and nod my head in submission, taking a seat at the bar as I watch Harry pull out a pot and all his needed ingredients.
I watch him move around the counters with ease and grace –smoothly grabbing each ingredient and putting them together with no hesitance. His arm flexes as he stirs the cheesy mixture in a bowl and the muscles in his back contract under his white tee shirt when he pulls his unruly hair into a knot on top of his head. He then turns around to shoot me a cheeky grin and I flush from being caught staring at him.
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't ogling him.
He gives me a step-by-step process of everything he is doing, as if I have never even stepped foot into the kitchen before. But, I listen and laugh along to all of his jokes, completely at ease for the first time in a long time.
Harry is... Harry. The same Harry that doodles in his notebook everyday while observing me, the same Harry that took me to meet his sister, the same one that made stepping out into public easier, the same one that punched a guy in a bar for me. The same Harry that I was all but terrified of last week.
And yet, no trace of that fear is present anymore. The image of Him and Harry morphed together now seems like one giant nightmare that I never wish to re-visit.
No, he's just Harry now.
The Harry that burrowed his way into my life when it felt like I didn't have one at all.
"Alright, the macaroni casserole has landed." Harry huffs, slamming the oven door closed and turning around to place his hands on the counter.
An awkward silence settles between us, both unsure what to do now. It had been easy before; move the furniture, go to Harry's, cook dinner. Now that there is a lull in activity we both seem to fumble for something to do or say, not wanting to make the wrong move and upset the other after everything these last few weeks.
"Did you know that Thomas Jefferson brought macaroni to the states?" Smooth.
A small grin tugs at his full lips, "I didn't know that, actually," He laughs lightly, shaking his head before glancing back up at me in admiration.
"What?"
"Nothing, Layla. Nothing."
There is a certain fondness in his eyes that throws me off a bit and my eyes dart around the kitchen to find something to change the subject with. They quickly land on the fridge that is adorned with a few magnets advertising tattoo shops or bars, but what catches my eye is the small photo placed right in the middle.
I hop off the barstool wordlessly to make my way next to Harry to stand in front of the fridge. He watches me all the while, like he always does. But, I see him tense when he realizes what caught my attention.
The photo is blurred and slightly wrinkled, as if passed around too many times. But, the image itself makes my stomach drop.
It's Gemma, but her blonde hair is replaced by purple and her happy grin replaced by a sad smile. She is laying on the left side of a hospital bed. On the right is Harry, but his hair is much shorter –curling around his ears instead of grazing his shoulders like it is now- and his friendly smile is morphed into a frown.
But, it's the older woman in between them that makes my heart twist painfully.
Familiar emerald eyes with flecks of blue, dark hair, and small dimples. It doesn't take long to make the connection. Unlike her children, the woman has a bright smile lighting up her face as she wraps her arms around the two.
My brain begins to make connections instantly.
Harry working two jobs. Gemma berating Harry for not coming around often. Gemma taking over "Anne's Antiques." Harry never talking about his family.
"This your mom?"
Harry clears his throat and fidgets next to me, obviously uncomfortable. He eyes the picture with a sad smile before giving me a slight nod in affirmation.
"She's very pretty. Seems like a very warm woman."
I feel his stare burning into the side of my face and I turn to him with a stolid expression. His eyebrows are furrowed in confusion, but his eyes are warm as they trace over every inch of my face.
"You aren't going to ask me the most obvious question?"
"Not unless you want to answer."
The curiosity is killing me, but I would be the worst hypocrite if I asked him personal questions about his life when I refused to answer ones about my own.
Harry remains silent for a while, just flicking his eyes between my stare and the picture in front of us. He takes his bottom lip between his teeth and gnaws on it as if debating with himself, but soon he lets out a tired sigh and faces me.
"My mum... she was diagnosed with breast cancer two years ago. This picture... this picture was just before she started chemotherapy." His tone is soft and sad, but clear. It's nothing that I hadn't already put together, but it still makes my heart twist.
"And now? How is she now?"
"The chemo worked... for a while. But, at her check-up a few months before you moved here, they found more cancer cells in the tissue. Only this time, they're more aggressive. She's back in chemo now... Lost her hair again, constantly sick, lost a good thirty pounds. But, that grin is still on her face."
The sad smile on his lips nearly breaks my heart and even though he tries to remain strong, the shakiness of his voice gives him away.
"That must be so hard, Harry. I'm sorry. I-I can't even imagine."
He clears his throat before turning to me, a teasing grin on his face, "Please, I'm not that brave. You're the one without either of your parents. I can't even imagine that."
"But, I never knew my parents. I never got to be sad about it. To me... my mom has always been a "was" – never an "is." Always a past tense, but you..." The grin slips from his face when it's clear that his attempt to change the subject didn't work, "You have to confront that possibility and that... That is terrifying. Yet, every day you have a smile on your face. Never complaining, never openly sad or asking for sympathy... It's okay to not be okay, Harry."
"How... how can you just say things like that? How can you know exactly what to say?" He looks genuinely bemused, but I just laugh lightly at the assumption.
When I turn back to him, his eyes have glossed over slightly and my breath catches in my throat at the sight, "I don't know what to do, Layla. I just... I'm so afraid that she's just gonna disappear one day. I can't... How can I possibly live without my mum? I don't... I ca-"
The more visibly choked up he becomes the more my heart begins to crack and my walls lower. Before I can even fully comprehend what I'm doing, my arms wrap around his neck and I pull him into my embrace.
His arms instantly wrap around my waist and he nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck. It's only then that I realize that I voluntarily touched him –hugged him- and my hands tremble slightly at the idea that I am completely at his mercy.
But, instead of pulling away, I ignore my racing hear and press against his toned body harder, stroking his hair softly.
His once ragged breaths begin to even out and I can tell that he is desperately trying not to cry. I can feel his heart pound at a faster rate and I continue to whisper soothing words in his ear as I play with his curls.
"You'll be okay, Harry. It's hard now, I know it is. But, things will work themselves out, I know it," His hands squeeze me tighter and I try not to flinch, "I'll be here. If you need me... I'll be here."
My words cause Harry to loosen his grip and he so, so very slowly pulls his face away from my neck. My heart is racing and my hands are trembling as he faces me once again, pale green eyes meeting dark ones.
They trace every inch of my skin, lingering on my lips, before landing on my eyes once again. His hands are firm around my hips and mine are loose around his neck and we are standing much too close.
His warm breath fans against my lips his woodsy scent seems to seep into my every pore, but I still don't pull away. Very gently and with great caution, his forehead comes to rest against my own. My heart has jumped to my throat by now and I can't hear anything except the blood pounding in my ears.
And I still don't pull away.
"God, where have you been?"
His voice is strained, raspy, desperate and my knees shake violently at the sound. I say nothing because I physically just can't because my stomach has caved into itself and I'm positive that I have stopped breathing.
His nose brushes against mine as he begins to lean in.
And I still don't pull away.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
And I pull away.
Harry's hands drop from my waist, face blazing red as I move towards the oven shakily. My heart is pounding violently in my chest and my stress level is through the roof. I'm not quite sure what just happened, but I completely block it from my mind as I pull the dish out and place it on the cooling rack. I can't think about what just happened. I refuse to because it could have been a disaster.
When I turn around Harry is still in the same position, hands hanging limply by his sides.
"Aren't you going to help me eat this delicacy of yours?" I try to sound as normal as possible despite the panic crawling up my throat.
I see his shoulders slump slightly before he turns to face me, cheeks still pink, and a forced smile on his lips.
We spend the rest of the day eating his –admittedly- delicious casserole and chatting about everything from the existence of aliens to our favorite TV shows. We don't speak any more about his mother or mine and we don't dare mention our moment in the kitchen.
But, my heart doesn't calm for the rest of the day and it's him that I dream of that night.
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Hayla feels. BUT, BAD HARRY! HE HAS A GIRLFRIEND!
Anywho, let me know what you all think of Layla's progress and the rest of the chapter. You guys are tha bomb and i'm sorry that Harry will continue to piss you off for the rest of the book.
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