"I can do it, I swear."
"Sure."
"No, really. I'll show you!"
"Harry---"
Before I can say anything else, Harry's up off the couch and making his way to the kitchen.
"No, this is safety hazard," I say, shaking my head at him as he searches for my knife drawer.
"You underestimate me, Rosie."
"Harry, just because the guy on America's Got Talent could juggle knives doesn't mean you can."
"Want to bet?" He grins and slides open the knife drawer.
"You will end up killing one or both of us if you try to juggle those, and I don't want to die because of an idiotic Brit who thinks he can juggle knives."
Harry rolls his eyes. "I'm not idiotic."
"Alright, fine. You're not idiotic, you're just standing beside my knife drawer claiming you can juggle sharp knifes because you saw some moron on America's Got Talent do it." I cross my arms over my chest and Harry let's out a laugh.
"Fine, I'll do it with fruit, then."
"Don't hurt my fruit."
"Have you no faith in my juggling?"
"None whatsoever."
Harry reaches into the fruit bowl on the kitchen island, retrieving a green pear and two ripe red apples.
"Look, I'm good at this. It's one of my many talents."
"You and I have different definitions of talent."
Harry wrinkles his nose at me and tosses an apple into the air, then the other apple, and finally the pear. At first, it seems that he's actually going to juggle them. It doesn't last long, however.
The fruits come crushing down onto the floor, rolling around as they hit the tile.
"You idiot!" I can't help but laugh, watching as Harry rolls his eyes.
"I'm out of practice."
We bend down to pick up the fruit, examining them for damage.
"They're all bruised," I pout.
"Hey, at least I didn't do it with knives."
I snort, shaking my head and putting the bruised apples and pear back into the fruit bowl.
"I bet the guy wasn't really juggling. It must have been a hologram or something, because you can't juggle knives." Harry scoffs.
"Don't you throw it in the air a certain way, or something?"
"I wouldn't know, since you didn't let me try it with knives."
"Good thing, too, or we'd have a bigger problem than just bruised fruit."
Harry laughs. "I don't know, bruised fruit is a pretty big problem."
"You are an idiotic Brit."
"I'm your idiotic Brit," he says, grinning childishly.
I blush and roll my eyes, trying to hide my smile.
He wraps an arm around my waist, his fingers digging into my side. I squeal with laughter and move away from him, but he's too fast and lifts me over his shoulder, throwing me gently down onto the couch. He climbs onto me, laughing.
"Get off of me," I say in the midst of our laughs.
"Say the magic word," he teases, lowering his face so it's merely inches above mine.
"Please!"
"That's not it."
"Then how am I supposed to know?"
"I guess you'll just have to kiss me then, since you don't know the magic word." His childish grin doesn't diminish.
"I'll keep guessing."
"Hey!" He tickles me again and I squirm, trying to wriggle free.
"Get off!"
"Never."
"I'll hit you with that pillow."
"Like a Pillow's really going to---"
I reach for the pillow but he catches my arm, pressing it against my chest. I'm still giggling, and Harry's laughing too.
"Not so fast, Rosie!"
"You're evil."
"If you just kissed me, you'd get yourself out of this mess."
I shake my head, teasingly pressing my lips together. "If you want a kiss so bad, just ask Mrs. Klein that lives on the second floor. She's always eyeing you!"
Harry widens his eyes as I laugh, shaking his head and smirking.
"She doesn't eye me!"
"Oh yes she does. I'm sure she likes her men how she likes her tea."
"How?"
"Hot and British!"
We break into laughs and Harry leans down again, smirking widely.
"So that means I'm hot?"
I shake my head, blushing.
"Oh, now you have to kiss me," he hums, still holding both my wrists in one hand. "There's no escaping."
I look up into his eyes, a cocky smirk on his lips.
"Wipe that look off your face," I say just as he lowers his lips to touch mine.
The kiss is short and sweet, and I end up laughing onto his lips. He smiles too, and releases my wrists, my hands moving up to his hair.
When we finally pull away, he smiles down at me.
"This has been nice and all, but you really need to wake up."
"What?" I ask, confused.
"Wake up, Rose."
I jolt up in bed, frantically trying to collect my wits. That's the first dream in a long time that was pleasant, all the rest have been nightmares.
The memory of that day is still vivid in my mind as reality sneaks back into my conscious, my eyes adjusting to my dark room.
It takes me a moment to remember the events of the day, and I snap my head over to check the clock.
10:47 p.m.
"No!" I shout, jumping out of bed. I burst out of my room and find my mother and Elizabeth watching TV in the living room.
"What time is it?" I ask them, in case my clock is wrong.
"What?"
"What's the time?"
"Like a quarter to eleven, what's wrong?"
"The plane! I missed the plane!" I smack my palm against my forehead.
"I thought you said it left at eleven thirty?" Elizabeth asks.
"No, it was ten thirty! I must have fallen asleep, oh my God..." I begin to pace. "And I don't even have Harry's new phone number to tell him..."
I feel my eyes begin to water. Even if I did have his new number, he's on the plane now and wouldn't know until late tonight.
"I'm such an idiot," I groan.
"You can catch a flight later in the week, baby, you'll be okay," my mother says.
"But..." My bottom lip trembles. Truthfully, I had been excited to go on a plane home with Harry. We'd have caught up on everything we missed in each other's lives and made jokes about plane rides. I can picture it in my mind.
"Look at you, you're exhausted," my mother says, standing up and walking to me. She wraps an arm around my shoulders. "No wonder you passed out, you've had a crazy day. Harry would understand that, wouldn't he?"
I nod, shrugging. He would, she's right; but I'm upset with myself. I swear, I lied down for a minute just to relax before I finished packing, but I guess sleep had other plans.
"Harry's probably asleep too, anyway," my mother says. "He's a boy. Boys like sleep."
Memories of Harry sprawled across my bed fast asleep surface in my mind. I remember the way his mouth hangs half open and his face is so relaxed, his curls messy from sleep. The way his eyes blink open lazily and a sleepy smile crosses his face when he finally awakes in the morning.
"Rose?"
I snap out of my daze and look back at my mother. "I just want to go home."
She smiles at me, her arm still wrapped around me. "Home is where the heart is, and it's obvious your heart is with him."
She's right, and a small smile crosses my face as I look up at her. "Thanks for putting up with me."
She kisses my forehead softly. "You're my little girl, of course I'll always put up with you." She pats my shoulder. "Now, go get some sleep. You've got to get on that plane home soon."
"Got everything?"
I nod, slinging my carryon over my shoulder. The airport isn't too busy today, which is good. The wedding was four days ago, and I haven't been able to find a decent flight home until today. I'm excited and nervous to get back to Portland after all these months.
"Have fun back in PDX," Elizabeth says, pulling me into a hug. "I'll miss you."
"I'll miss you too," I say, squeezing her tight.
"Tell Harry hi for me," she says slyly as she pulls away, smirking.
I roll my eyes at her and reach for my mother, who embraces me tightly.
"Tell Harry hi for me, too," she says. "And bring him back soon. I'd like to meet this guy who we thought was dead for five months."
I laugh, pulling back. "I definitely will." My nerves increase slightly as my flight is announced over the intercom.
I wave goodbye to them one last time before picking up my things and walking through the gate to hand the attendant my boarding pass.
I settle into the seat on the plane, pulling a magazine out of the seat pocket in front of me. I take a breath, checking the time. It's past three p.m., so I should be back in Portland by eight New York time, or five Portland time. This time change is so annoying.
As the plane takes off, I begin to think.
Harry told me he wasn't sure if I still loved him or not at the wedding. What could have made him think that? Was it something I said?
Are his fears confirmed with me missing my flight? Did he think that I didn't want to come home with him?
I should have gotten his new phone number at the wedding. Idiot.
I do some work on the flight, managing to focus enough on the manuscript to get through it. I get fidgety at the three hour mark, my nerves still bouncing around my system.
At long last, the plane touches down on the tarmac, the sun high in the sky in beautiful Portland.
I manage to get my baggage and hail a cab within the hour, arriving back at the apartment building just past six.
I stare up at the tall building, realizing just how much I've missed living there. I see Harry's car parked in its usual spot, and my car a few rows over. I see the piano in the lobby as I walk in, and the laundry room off down the hall.
I take the elevator up, letting a smile cross my face as I step into the hall. It's so surreal to be back here, after all this time.
I unlock my apartment, dropping my bags in the living room and looking around.
Everything is the same, one of my jackets draped over the sofa, the pillows arranged on the couch the same.
I step into my bedroom to find the bed neatly made, when I know for a fact I left it messy and unmade. I bring one of the pillows to my fave, smelling it, and sure enough, it has the faint smell of spearmint and cologne on it.
I imagine Harry stumbling in hare in the middle of the night when he had a nightmare, tossing the pillows off the bed and pulling one close to him to hold, his eyes shutting with sleep.
I run my fingers over my dresser, frowning at the small ayer of dust that has accumulated. My eyes trace over the pictures in frames of me and my family, internally cringing at the fact that a photo of Aaron and I used to sit amongst these.
I look to my mirror and stop moving, my mouth falling open slightly.
The strip of photos from the photobooth of Harry and I is wedged into the corner of the mirror. It's the one in black and white, the one of us laughing.
I let out a small laugh, pulling the strip out of the mirror and turning it over.
3 June 2014
Idiot One and Idiot Two
I laugh at Harry's caption, carefully replacing the strip to my mirror. It looks so good there, I can't help but think.
I walk back out into the living room, debating whether I should unpack now or not. I decide against it and step into the hall.
I stare at Harry's door, chewing on my lip. I'm excited and nervous all at once as I reach out and knock.
I listen for footsteps, but I hear none. After waiting for five minutes, I dig for my spare key in my pocket and unlock the door.
I step inside the apartment, taking it in. It hasn't changed a bit, everything looking exactly the same. I can tell he's not home, or he would have heard the key in the lock.
I sit on the couch, deciding I'll only stay for a few minutes and try knocking again later. I've missed his apartment, too, and the painstaking neatness he keeps. He's so organized, I admire that about him.
I peek into his room, smiling at the neatly made navy sheets on his bed, a few magazines piled on his nightstand. The TV is still on his dresser, the screen blank.
My eye catches on something on his dresser and I swallow a gasp.
It's a photograph, in the frame that previously held the picture of Violet. Except, it's not Violet in the picture---it's me.
It's from when we went to the zoo, my hair falling past my shoulders in loose waves. I'm looking over my shoulder at him, my mouth half open in a laugh. I have no memory of Harry ever taking a photo of me, and we went to the zoo before we were even together.
Smiling, I set the picture back on the dresser and walk back out to the living room, taking a seat on the couch.
Just as I sit down, the door opens and I look over to lock eyes with Harry.
He's holding a bin of laundry, and he drops it when he catches sight of me, his eyes widening.
I break into laughs at the scattered laundry on the floor, and stand up to turn toward him.
"Jesus Christ," he says, pressing a hand to his chest.
"Sorry," I giggle, bending down to he'll him clean up the clothes.
He shakes his head and smiles, and we refold the laundry together, stacking it back in the bin.
He sets the bin on the couch, turning back to look at me.
He wears a white Rolling Stones t-shirt and dark jeans, his cheeks flushed with a healthy pink. As much as I liked seeing him in a suit at the wedding, I love seeing him this way, in his everyday attire.
"Not going to lie, you scared the shit out of me," he says and I laugh.
"Sorry, I meant to leave and come back later," I say.
"When did you get back?"
"Not even an hour ago," I shift. "I was going to come back with you the night of the wedding, but I fell asleep and missed the flight. I'm an idiot, I know. I'm sorry, I'll pay you back for the ticket."
Harry doesn't say anything and I go on.
"Also, I think it's really romantic that you put the picture in my mirror. I really love it. I think you're more romantic than you give yourself credit for." My cheeks flush and Harry smiles.
"I missed you a lot, more than I think you understand," I say. "These five months have been the hardest I've ever had and I don't ever want to repeat them again so can you just please promise me that you won't get involved in any shady shit again and that you won't get shot again."
Harry laughs, his eyes light with humor. "Alright, I promise."
My eyes fall to his right arm. I step forward, pushing up the sleeve of his t-shirt slightly.
"Is that...is that your scar?"
He nods, eyes trained on me as my fingers trace over it. It was obviously stitched up, and it's quite the wide scar, on the front of his bicep. I lightly touch the smooth scar tissue, my heart in my throat. Reminders of the bullet tearing apart his flesh cloud my mind as I look at the scar.
"Does it hurt?" I whisper, looking back up at him.
"Not anymore,"" he answers.
"Did it used to?"
He shrugs as I drop my hand to my side.
I look at all the filiar tattoos On his arms, the ones I've traced with my fingers over and over. The lock and key, the small cross on his hand, and---
"New tattoo?" I ask, furrowing my brow slightly as I try to decipher the shape in the middle of his left arm.
He turns his arm toward him to get a better look. "Yeah," he says. "It's a---"
"Rose," we say together. I smile, reaching out and touching it. It's bigger than mine, and it's so artfully done against his soft skin.
"Copy cat," I say and he laughs, looking down at me as I examine the ink.
"Imitation is the finest form of flattery," he says and I smirk, looking up at him.
"When did you get it?" I ask.
"March."
I nod.
"I got it because I love you," he says so casually I almost want to faint. My cheeks flush and I look away, fighting a smile.
"You can never say you're shit at romance ever again."
He laughs and I step back, dropping my hand to my side. He watches me for a few moments before sighing.
"Well, I guess the only thing I can say now is..." He sticks out his hand for me to shake. "Welcome home."
I look from his hand to his face. "You're joking, right?"
He looks confused, dropping his hand back to his side.
"There is no way in hell I'm settling for a handshake."
I step forward and engulf him in a hug, almost knocking him over as he responds, laughing and wrapping his arms around my waist." I bury my face into his shoulder, trying not to cry as I breathe in his scent, the fabric of his t-shirt soft against my skin.
I feel his lips press against my hair and pull away, looking up at him.
"By the way, if you think I've stopped loving you, then you really are an idiot."
The smile that crosses his face is the biggest I've ever seen as he pulls me back toward him, lips lowering to mine in a kiss I've been dreaming of since the day I left for New York five months ago. His lips taste like spearmint gum like they always have, and I'm so grateful he's such a person of habit. It's obvious these past months have changed us both, but the little things have stayed the same about Harry, and I'm so glad for that. I almost want to cry all over again.
We pull away too soon and Harry smiles at me, walking around the kitchen counter to open the fridge.
"Have a seat, Rosie. I was just about to make dinner."