Song: "How Did We End Up Here?" by Five Seconds of Summer
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Harry and I spent Friday cozied up in my loft with the wind rattling at the windows. We started a game of Scrabble, a game at which I excel due to my love of words and reading, but I soon realized that Harry was going to be tough competition. It was when he added gob onto my word smacked that I challenged him. "Gobsmacked? You totally made that up." I crossed my arms and gave him a smug look.
"You're kidding, right?" He asked. "You've never heard the word gobsmacked before?"
"No I haven't, because it's not a word," I replied.
He pulled a rather nice iPhone out of his pocket. "Siri, what does gobsmacked mean?"
Siri answered in a polite voice, "It means utterly astonished, astounded."
"Fine," I huffed playfully. "Since you have like a million points and I only have 70 or so, I guess you win. Besides, I only have x, v, and e left."
Harry chuckled at my exaggeration of our scores. "It's not that bad. We can have a rematch later if you'd like. As long as I don't overstay my welcome."
"This is a bit odd, isn't it?" I mused. "I don't normally invite strangers into my apartment. And then invite them to stay overnight and to play Scrabble the next day." I dropped my head and laughed.
"Well, that's a good thing," Harry replied. "But we're not exactly strangers, are we? We've gotten to know each other a little over the past few weeks, right?"
"You only told me your name two days ago," I reminded him.
"Yes, well there is that," he said with laughter rolling out of his chest. His face fell quickly, though, and he opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn't come out right away. "After the anniversary of my wife's death, I had a bit of a breakdown. Suffice it to say you didn't catch me at my best."
I didn't know what to say. I wanted to ask how she died, was it sudden, how long had they been together, how did they meet. But I didn't feel like he had opened up to me enough to want to go into all the details. So I simply repeated the only thing I knew to say: "I'm sorry."
"Yeah, thanks," he said. He stood up and stretched while I put away the game. "You're right, though. This is a bit odd. But at the same time, it isn't. It's nice that we can just be comfortable together, just two friends getting to know each other." He paused, clearly wanting to say more. Finally, "Thank you," came out with a contented sigh.
He sat down on one end of the couch and I sat on the other, facing him with my knees pulled up in front of me. I grabbed the wool blanket he had used in the night and placed it over my knees. I offered the other end to him and he turned and sat the same way facing me, pulling the other end of the blanket over his lap.
"It just feels like it shouldn't be so comfortable though, you know? But I'm glad it is," I admitted.
"Me, too." He smiled warmly and leaned his head against the side of the sofa. I did the same and soon we had both hunched down, using the arm rests as pillows, legs still crossed so we weren't in each other's space. And we slept while the rain drove hard against the windows.
When I awoke a few hours later, I timidly got up off the couch, not wanting to disturb him. I assessed the contents of my fridge and pantry, wondering what I could possibly offer for dinner. Between mac and cheese, a few freezer meals, and canned soup, I didn't have much at the moment.
"Why don't I order dinner?" I heard Harry's sleepy voice behind me. I spun around, holding my hand to my chest. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you. It seems I keep doing that."
"No, it's okay," I said, laughing it off. "What did you have in mind? We can split the cost."
"No, please, it will be my treat," he insisted. He said he wasn't working but it wasn't really my place to wonder how he had any money.
"Do you like Thai food?"
"Love it," I answered.
He pulled up a menu on his phone and we chose a few different things to try. Once the order was placed, I pulled my record player out from under the table behind the sofa. Grabbing two albums, I asked, "The Eagles or Fleetwood Mac?"
His mouth dropped open and his eyes went wide. "Vinyl?" He asked excitedly. "The Eagles, for sure."
I pulled Hotel California from the sleeve, placed it on the turntable and set the needle on the very edge. The opening riff of the title song began to play. Harry sat down on the couch, closed his eyes, pretended he was running his fingers over the strings.
"Do you play real guitar or just air guitar?" It was amusing to see him slouched back against the couch, getting lost in the music.
He kept his eyes closed. "I play for real, too. Not recently, though."
That was understandable; I guessed he probably hadn't done anything normal in the past year. I felt an ache deep inside of me when I tried to imagine the pain of losing his wife. I couldn't imagine losing one of my parents or siblings; losing a spouse had to be agonizing.
I stood there watching him as the music carried him away. I wished I had words to say to him, but I didn't. And I wouldn't expect him to just open up to me about her; I shouldn't expect it anyway. We were having a good time together, but that didn't make me his confidante.
When the food arrived, I set the table and poured us some wine. For most of the past four weeks, I had thought that Harry was homeless, and now here we were, having dinner and drinking wine, and it was lovely.
"So," I asked, "What brought your family to the US?" I took my first bite and listened.
"My dad was an automotive engineer in England. He was hired on a ten-year contract with Ford in Dearborn. They just moved back to England last year, in fact." He scooped a bite into his mouth after that and commented, "Mmm, this is really good. I'll have to remember this place."
"Did they move before or after she died?" The words made my throat go dry. It was hard for me to imagine that the man before me had just lived through what had to have been the worst year of his life and that I still couldn't begin to grasp the magnitude of the pain he must have been feeling.
"After."
"That must have been awful," I sympathized. I stopped eating for a few moments and just focused on him.
"My mum stayed on for a few extra months, actually. They were supposed to move back to England just before the holidays, but they knew I wasn't doing well. Dad went ahead and Mum stayed until February, at least, long enough to celebrate my birthday."
"When's your birthday?"
"February 1," he said, putting his fork down. "She basically took care of me like I was a child again, made my meals, did my laundry, cleaned my house. I was a wreck."
"I just can't imagine going through that. I'm sorry, " I said. "I keep saying that, but I don't really think there's anything else I can say, is there?"
"Not really," he conceded. "Thank you, though."
We finished our food and I began to clean up. Harry went to the record player and chose another album. With the music playing, he danced a little on his way back over to the kitchen area. I appreciated the fact that while he was still grieving, he could still enjoy something as simple as dinner and music with a friend.
"I was actually starting to do a little better by the time my mom left," he told me. "It was almost six months after my wife died, and I felt like maybe I'd been through the worst of it. I started to get out and go for walks, I went to the gym, I started to cook for myself again instead of just eating pizza almost every night. Of course, it still hurt, but I started to occasionally catch little glimpses of normal life again and I began to believe that maybe, just maybe, I could go on without her, as much as I didn't want to. I'm not making sense, am I?"
I refilled our wine glasses. He took a seat on the bar stool right across from me. "No, it makes a lot of sense," I assured him. "I'm sure it's part of the process of letting go. So you were doing okay until the end of summer, Labor Day, you said?"
"Mmhmm," he nodded. "It was actually about a week after that, but Labor Day was the last weekend I had with her, the last moments I had her in my life. After that, everything else was a blur."
"How did it happen?"
"Car accident," he answered, his voice somber. "Truck driver fell asleep at the wheel. She died instantly."
"How awful," I whispered. I held back, wanting to say I'm sorry again, but I was getting sick of hearing myself say it, and I'm sure he was, too. And I resisted the urge to say something cliche like, 'At least she didn't suffer.' It was true, but certainly trite and probably not welcome when his grief was still somewhat fresh.
He nodded. "I fell back down into this mire of depression and I've been kind of stuck for the past number of weeks." He paused to look at me and his eyes lit up a bit brighter while his dimpled grin appeared on his face. "But I think I'm starting to feel a little better. It's nice to have someone to talk to."
"I'm glad you're comfortable enough with me to talk about it. About her, I mean. I just feel bad because I don't know what to say. I know I can't say anything to make it better."
"That's probably the wisest thing anyone has said to me yet," he answered, his breath on the verge of a laugh. "It's so uncomfortable to watch someone trying to come up with something to say when you're the one who's suffering and you almost feel like you have to put them at ease because they're so clumsy about it. And then, as you said, there's nothing they can say to make it better. So don't tell me she's in a better place or this was God's will because that does nothing to make the hurt go away. You know?" With his last few words, a tear trickled down his cheek but he laughed through it and said it again. "You know?!" As if he was forcing back more tears by laughing.
"Right. No one can fix it, but at least they can acknowledge the pain you feel, not just wipe it away with some self-righteous platitudes that mean nothing at all."
"Exactly!" He said, laughing a little more. "That's exactly it!"
I took a sip of wine and enjoyed the feeling of warmth as it slid down my throat. I contemplated this man before me, certainly no longer a stranger. How did we end up like this, talking and laughing and him opening up to me?
"Are you all right?" Harry eventually asked. "You seem pensive, like you disappeared into your head for a while."
"Mmhmm, that's exactly what I did," I admitted. "Pensive. That's a good word. I like people with a good vocabulary."
"What were you thinking about?" He pressed a little further. "I guess I get a little self-conscious when I start talking about pain and grief and people just kind of zone out eventually because they can't relate."
"Well, that's not what I was doing," I answered. "I was thinking that I appreciate the fact that you can laugh a little, even while the pain must still be so real for you."
"It feels good," he agreed, raising his glass and letting the last of his wine swish down his throat. "Laughing is good. Come, let's dance." He took my wine glass, set it on the island and led me to middle of the living area. He went to the record player and set The Beatles' Please Please Me to play. He grabbed both of my hands and we danced to "I Saw Her Standing There," as well as a number of tracks following. Neither of us really knew what we were doing, but we pretended like we knew how to swing with him spinning me around and out and back to him.
By the time we finished, we were laughing like maniacs, panting like dogs and covered in sweat. I finally fell back onto the couch and said, "I'm done. I'm so out of shape."
He filled two glasses with water and ice and came back to sit next to me. "You should join my gym. It's small, but it's a nice facility."
"I like to spend my hard-earned money on things that I enjoy," I retorted, expressing my displeasure at the very idea. "Working out on purpose is the equivalent of having a root canal, if you ask me."
"Okay," he said. "Fair enough. But maybe we could, I don't know, take a walk together from time to time or get some coffee again."
"I'd really like that, Harry."
"I should probably get going," he said, standing up suddenly. We were having such a good time, I wished he wouldn't leave, but I didn't want to suffocate the poor man either.
I walked to the door with him, where he took his coat from the hook and put it on. "Thanks for everything, Regan. This has been really good for me."
"Thanks for rescuing me," I said. "I had a good time."
"Me, too," he agreed, nodding emphatically. "Me, too." He stood there for too long, not reaching for the door, not saying anything, not moving at all. I wasn't sure how I noticed the subtle difference in the way his breathing changed, but as his chest rose and dropped, his mouth opened slightly. All the while, he was studying my face, and when he glanced down at my lips, I knew he wanted to kiss me. And I knew that, although I wasn't quite sure how we'd gotten to this place, I wouldn't resist one bit.
But he didn't. Instead he stepped forward and hugged me firmly. "'Bye, Regan."
"'Bye, Harry."
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We're almost at 1000 reads - you guys are awesome! <3
I don't know how most authors use music in their stories, but I just think certain songs match the feeling or mood of the chapter. Listen if you'd like or if it helps you to get into the chapter. If it doesn't, that's all right, too. Doesn't matter either way to me ;)
By the way, for those of you who aren't Americans, Labor Day is the first Monday of September, so the weekend before the first Monday of September is always a holiday weekend. It's like the "unofficial" ending of summer for many Americans.