In the days that follow, Harry's never felt so alone. It's an odd thing to say, considering he's spent every day with his son the same way he has for the past five years. But there's something missing this time—something that makes him feel less than part of a whole. The loneliness is deep in his chest now, and the emptiness echoes through his body until he feels a shiver run underneath his skin until he's nothing but hollow.
He's never felt so cold in his life.
The hollowness grows deeper when Harry thinks about how most of this is mainly his fault. Because he has become so in tune with Ryan's feelings in such a short amount of time, sensing her unease before she even knows she's started fidgeting in front of him. And maybe that was his problem—he spent most of his time making sure she was okay, and in turn, forgot how to even act in front of her.
It's not like he didn't try to speak to her on more than one occasion. After Ryan left his flat with his tea mug, he couldn't stop thinking about her. He could barely sleep that night, going back and forth in his mind of whether or not he should just knock on her door and kiss her. And the restlessness didn't stop—the next morning he heard a crash on the other side of his bedroom wall, and his mind started reeling, wondering if she was on the other end of the abnormally thin plaster. Was she up all night thinking of him, too?
And then when he knocked on her door and she was wearing big glasses and her hair was a messy knot bound together by a flimsy pen and she looked so cozy, he's not quite sure why he didn't kiss her then, either. Because he wanted to—it was all he could fucking think about. It was as if his body movements were in sync with his heart, because they moved closer towards her on their own accord without asking his brain for permission, and it was only when he could feel her short spurts of breath on his neck when he realized he could kiss her right then and there if he truly wanted to. But her brown eyes were blown out and her bottom lip was quivering and her hands were shaking, so he backed away. He figured she was uncomfortable and how could he kiss her when he was asking her to watch his kid for a few hours?
He was a blushing mess that entire afternoon. And when he finally had the entire flat to himself and grabbed his guitar, plucking strings and making melodies that faintly sounded like Ryan's giggles, he never wrote a song faster in his entire life. Harry found himself scribbling dark eyes and olive skin and scraped knees, messy hair and big jumpers and hallways in his leather journal. And when he pieced them together and finally started singing, the song was so obviously about her that he couldn't even believe it. Has she always subconsciously been in every lyric he's written since he's met her?
Harry couldn't stop thinking about the song until he was standing right in front of her a few hours later, looking into her dark eyes underneath big lenses, her olive-skinned shoulder poking out of her oversized jumper. His heart took over again, and when they prompted his lips to blurt out an invitation for dinner, he couldn't even be angry with his head for not kicking into gear. He had never been more nervous for a date in his entire life—was it even a date? Did he even say the word date?
His mind was in overdrive. Harry cleaned his already spotless flat twice over, and when he looked at the clock and saw that he only had thirty minutes until she was knocking on his door, he panicked and jumped into the shower. The entire time he was shampooing his knotted hair, he couldn't help but wonder if she was panicking, too. Was she staring at herself in the mirror, deciding what shade of lipstick to wear? Did she change her outfit three times? Did she want him as badly as he wanted her?
After changing out of jeans and a corduroy pair of trousers, Harry knew he was fucked. His confidence was slipping, and he almost laughed at how much of a teenager he was being. It felt like he was fourteen again getting ready for his first date—giddy and nervous and practically shaking at the knees. Ryan felt like a lot of firsts for him, if he was being honest with himself. Did he feel like that for her, too?
God and when he saw her. Her dark hair was falling down her back and the color matched her twinkling eyes, and when he noticed the subtle shade of lipstick she was wearing, it looked as if she had just eaten a perfectly ripened raspberry that stained her pouty lips. He couldn't stop staring at the tangled gold necklaces around her clavicle—he saw the year 1993, a Greek letter that he assumed was her astrological sign, and a pendant that looked as if it had been on her neck for her entire life. He was fascinated—completely and utterly transfixed with the girl standing in front of him in the hallway.
Kissing her seemed inevitable with the way they were dancing around each other in his kitchen, the way her bare shoulder brushed against his forearm when she leaned over him to grab the rolling pin, the way she looked at him underneath the curtain of her eyelashes when she was on all fours in Jackson's bedroom. The way she cleaned up without hesitation, the way she seamlessly fit in his living room, the way she flirted with him to the soft sounds of Joni Mitchell playing in the background.
But then he was talking about Rachel and feeling things he hadn't felt in a long time. Talking about his unearthed hidden emotions he kept buried for five years, and suddenly Ryan was looking at him with the saddest look on her face and he couldn't bring himself to admit that he was fucking terrified.
Because she was there and sitting in front of him and it was everything he could have ever wanted—but then she started talking about her parents and her breathing pattern shifted in a way that made Harry nervous. And when her hands started trembling and her cheeks were painted red and she couldn't bring herself to even look at him, he knew she was panicking, so he grabbed her hand to bring her back to him. To them. To sitting on the couch with their knees touching and being surrounded by the comfort of one another.
And he wanted to kiss her—so fucking badly that his entire body was shuddering with anticipation. But it didn't feel right to him, not after he just unloaded his past relationship with Jackson's mother, not when she just told him about her parent's divorce, not when she was shaking so hard underneath his hand.
He wanted the moment to be perfect, and for the first time in days, he listened to his head instead of his heart.
But when he saw the look on her face, all downtrodden and blank eyes, he immediately regretted it. And when her hand left his and she ran out of the flat without even putting her shoes on, Harry had never been angrier with himself.
In trying to find the perfect moment, Harry let the actual one slip right through his fingers.
And he deserves it, he supposes. Harry's always been a suffer in silence type of person, and after the way he treated her in his living room, he's never suffered more. Because being with Ryan, even for the short amount of time he was given, made him feel alive again. She was quirky and different and somehow burrowed herself into his life without even truly knowing it, and when she left, he felt her absence everywhere.
Where Ryan was scared of the unknown, Harry was afraid of reliving it. Afraid of letting somebody into not only his own heart, but also his son's, only to just leave in the end. He was afraid of needing somebody—because raising a child without much help forces you to become acquainted with the feeling of solitariness. Before he met Ryan, he felt as if he was swimming in an abyssal ocean, floating his way through life. But with one chance meeting, one awkward run-in in their shared hallway, it's as if he's come up for air—breathing in all the possibilities of what could be.
Being alone is scary, but being left is even scarier—and even though he was never in love with Rachel, Harry tried his hardest to make it work because he assumed it was what was expected of him. He never wanted his son to suffer in the end, to feel neglected, to feel not good enough.
He knows in his heart of hearts that Ryan would never treat him the way Rachel did. But for a split second, his mind went into that dark space. The space that warned him not to let his heart, or more importantly, Jackson's, fall into the wrong hands. Because giving somebody else that power allows for the pain he shoved deep inside his chest to come back up to the surface, and he isn't quite sure if he wants to relive it.
But the crippling feeling of regret after he saw Ryan hold back tears in the hallway was enough to make him hate himself just a little bit more.
It wasn't supposed to happen that way. Harry had been building up the courage ever since he told her he wanted to kiss her when she was in the lift to knock on her door and make it right. He wrote everything down, for fuck's sake. An entire list of all of the things he had done wrong, of the things he wanted to do to make it better, of the ways she made his heart beat loudly inside of his chest like the bass drum to a rock song.
But then Rachel shows up at his door unannounced, giving him the worst type of news he could have ever received.
Without warning, she drops a napalm bomb on his front doorstep, informing Harry that she was offered a job position at her firm's New York office. Before he could even hear her out, Harry instantly falls into defense mode—closing the door a few inches behind him so that Jackson remains unaware of his mother's presence, folding his arms over his chest in a lame sort of protective armor, frowning deeply through his dried lips. Because once again, Rachel was choosing herself over her son. And once again, Harry was left to pick up the pieces.
So he tells her this.
"I can't fucking hear this right now," Harry whispers harshly, cutting her off just as the words temporary position falls from her lips. He didn't even acknowledge it, didn't even comprehend the string of sentences she was trying to explain to him.
"Harry, would you listen to me? I haven't finished explaining. It's only for a few—"
"—No! I don't want to hear another excuse, Rachel! I'm the one that's left to pick up the pieces whenever you fuck off to go do whatever it is you're so passionate about. I'm the one that has to tell your son where his mum is. I'm the one who constantly puts Jackson first while he's second, hell, practically fucking third on your list!" With every locution, he's watching Rachel grow redder and redder with anger, and he knows it's because he hasn't let her get a word in edgewise.
But he isn't in the mood to speak rationally. He's had a week from hell, and just when he was about to go and make it better, Rachel had to show up and ruin it with ease.
"Don't you fucking dare accuse me of anything without even listening to what I'm trying to say to you! God, Harry you're so bloody thick sometimes! I'm trying to speak to you like an adult, yeah? Like the way we always said we would talk to each other when we started co-parenting!" Rachel points a long finger into his face, waving it with each stressed syllable that falls out of her rogue-painted lips.
"You have to actually be a parent in order to co-parent, Rachel," Harry spits out, and the minute he sees Rachel's stony expression falter, he almost takes it back.
He watches her take a deep breath, shaking the sadness from her eyes before the harsh expression replaces it. "Are you always going to make me the villain in your story, Harry? We came to the agreement two years ago that Jackson would stay with you while I finished law school. And for the past year, I've been doing the best I can, taking Jackson on long weekends so that you can have a break and I can spend time with him. We knew this would only be temporary until I became a practicing solicitor. This job will expedite that—I'm only needed there for six months, and then when I come back, I'll permanently be in London. I'll be working lesser hours, I'll have more flexibility," she pauses, eyes staring straight into Harry's. "I can see Jackson for more than one weekend of every month."
Harry's head feels as if it's about to explode, and suddenly he doesn't want to be reasonable anymore. He wants to be angry. He wants to be upset. He wants to be irrational.
"Do whatever the fuck you want, Rachel. You've been doing it all along." He knows he's being unfair, because even though Rachel has always been more selfish than Harry, she's still a good person. She still tries her best to be a good mum to Jackson even when she's buried in mountains of paperwork. She still tries to be a good friend to Harry even after all of the shit they've been through.
But Harry feels angry with the world, so he decides not to remember these attributes. Instead, he makes her the antagonist in his story—because being angry at her makes him a little less angry at himself.
And when he sees messy brown waves behind Rachel's shoulders in the hallway, it's as if everything happens in slow motion. He watches Jackson run after Ryan, he hardly processes what Rachel says to him from his doorway, he watches Ryan comfort his wailing son with concerned eyes, and before he can even speed up time, Rachel's yelling at Ryan, and Harry's not sure how he hears it all over the sound of his heart dropping to the floor with a loud crash.
Ryan's gone just as quickly as she came and Harry's left to pick up the remnants of his and Rachel's disaster once again—scooping up Jackson with one arm to try and quell his chest-heaving sobs, closing the door on Rachel and telling her he'll speak to her later, falling into bed with a heavy head and an even heavier heart.
That was three days ago.
Now he sits in his dark flat, curtains completely drawn, lights still off. The wick from the sandalwood candle on the end table flickers from his position on the couch, the tiny flame creating swirling patterns along the slate grey walls, the crooning sound of Van Morrison from the record player the perfect backdrop for Harry's dismal mood.
Gemma came to pick Jackson up for a few days after video chatting Harry and noticing the paleness of his face and the purple bruises under his eyes from lack of sleep through the grainy screen of her mobile. Her concern was evident, and after hearing Jackson mumble that daddy's been sick for a few days (a lie both siblings chose to ignore), he didn't even fight her when she told him Jackson was going to stay with his cousins for the weekend.
Now that the flat is empty, void of Jackson's high-pitched laughter and tiny bare feet slapping against the hardwood flooring, the loneliness is practically unbearable to Harry. He can feel it eating away at him, and sitting on his couch listening to Astral Weeks for the third time through isn't making him feel any better.
Harry knows he needs to do something about it—because Ryan isn't sitting in her flat feeling sorry for him, and out of everybody who was hurt by what happened in the hallway three days ago, she deserved it the least.
Because thinking of her messy hair and big eyes, small hands swallowed by oversized knitted jumpers, pouty lips and red cheeks, small quips of smiles and dulcet giggles, secret tattoos scattered on olive skin—thinking of those things makes the heaviness in his head feel a bit lighter.
And even if he ruined any hope of them ever having something, he knows she deserves an apology. Because all of this agonizing waiting and tiptoeing around feelings is only making his head spin faster and faster like a brand new top on a granite counter, and Harry can't bear feeling like this anymore. Not when there's any inkling of hope left.
Harry remembers hearing the sound of Ryan's heavy oak door close almost an hour ago, and ever since she moved in practically two months ago, he's picked up on her habits. He knows that she delegates Friday's as her food shopping day, and before he even realizes what he's doing, he opens the curtains and flicks the living room light on, waiting by his front door near the peephole to try and catch brown hair whipping past.
And when he sees it almost fifteen minutes later, he has to blink to make sure he didn't miss it. But there's no denying Ryan's tousled locks, and without hesitation he opens his door, meeting her in the hallway where it all began.
"Ryan," Harry starts, watching the way she starts shifting her shopping bags into one hand so she can reach for her keys in her jacket pocket with the other, seemingly ignoring him. She's trying to get out of this conversation with everything in her, and Harry knows this. But he needs to apologize. He needs to talk to her—even if it ends with her slamming her door in his face. "Ryan would you please—"
"—I really don't think you have the right to ask anything of me right now, Harry." It's short, clipped, absolute. She still isn't making eye contact with him, and Harry feels as if he's going to burst. Once she allocates her keys it's as if Harry works in fast motion, grabbing her elbow that isn't anchored down by shopping bags, practically begging her at this point to just fucking look at him.
"I know that. And I'm sorry. Just—fuck, Ryan—I need to speak with you. Please." It's the waiver of his voice that forces Ryan to finally look into his eyes, noticing the way his skin looks taut and the bags underneath are more pronounced now than ever before. The pallor of his face is almost disturbing, and even though Ryan is still upset, the sight of him pleading with her is enough to make her concerned.
His hand is still grasping her elbow, and when she tears her eyes away from his face and down in the direction of his hand on her body, he gets the hint and drops it, backing away slowly. Her door is ajar and with a silent nod of approval, Harry's following her into the flat.
Luna, upon noticing a new figure entering the flat, treks over to him happily, rubbing her body against his shins and purring loudly. He crouches down and pets her quickly, watching Ryan settle her bags down on the countertop. When she spins around with her lower back resting on the counter, her arms crossed over her chest defensively, he stands up quickly and rubs at the back of his neck timidly.
"Go on, then." Her voice has never sounded so distant, and Harry's suddenly panicking at the thought of her wanting nothing to do with him ever again. Not even for his own selfish reasons, but for Jackson. Because he'd never forgive himself if he ruined things with his son's new friend due to his own idiocy.
"I'm sorry. What happened in the hallway was entirely uncalled for. Rachel had no right to speak to you that way, and I should have done more than just stand there and watch it all unravel. You didn't deserve that." His voice is scratchy from lack of use, and he begins wringing his hands in front of his waist due to the onslaught of nerves flushing through his system. Suddenly he's terrified of what Ryan is going to say.
"Yeah, you're right. I didn't deserve that." He feels the knife lodged into his chest start to twist, a pinching gut-wrenching pain shooting through his body. He hates it.
"I know, and I'm so—"
"—You're sorry. I know," she cuts him off and he's left standing there completely unsure. His mouth opens and closes as he tries to formulate something, anything, to get her to stop looking at him like that.
But before he can find the words, Ryan's voice carries from her kitchen into Harry's position in the middle of her living room. "Jackson didn't deserve that either. And I'm not trying to wedge myself into your lives, because trust me, the message was received loud and clear. But you don't get to stand there and judge me, psychoanalyze me, just to go off and talk about me to your mates or your ex-girlfriend. You don't get to voice any other insecurity I have to the people in your life, to put into your songs or whatever the fuck you do with that information. Because you've lost that privilege. You've lost every and all privileges to get to know me." Harry flinches, his eyes squeezing shut at the rib-racking pain that echoes through his entire body.
"You've lost that privilege when you told your son's mother that I was the nanny. That I was kind to you with the ulterior motive to fuck you. And even if that were true, you have no right to tell people that. Because I'm fully aware that my social anxiety is crippling at times. I'm fully aware that I'm better off on my own because people intimidate me. I'm fully aware that I'm not the type of girl who ends up with boys like you. And that's fine. I can live with that. But what I can't live with is you deciding that on your own, and judging me just because you feel like you can. Because that's cruel, Harry."
It's the most she's ever said to him without stumbling over words or breaking eye contact. Ryan's standing strong in front of him, cheeks void of a crimson blush, lips in a straight line. Her hands are still and her feet aren't shifting and Harry's never felt worse about himself in his entire life.
Her words crush through his body, bulldozing any inkling of self-guilt and anger. Because suddenly, he's overwhelmed with the feeling of self-hatred. He want to scream, kick, and punch through every fucking wall because he's made this woman feel like complete and utter nothingness, and the only person who deserves to feel like that is him.
He's fucking heartbroken.
Before she can send him on his way for the last time, he suddenly finds the words to speak. He needs to fix this, to salvage any inkling of hope between them. Because he's never thought of her that way, and the fact that she thinks so lowly of him because of the false things Rachel said to her when she was angry gives Harry the push he needs to tell Ryan the truth.
The whole truth.
"I had no right to make you feel like that, and I'm sorry for that. Truly fucking sorry. But I never, ever, referred to you as Jackson's nanny. I never spoke a word about you to Rachel or to my mates. If anything, Jackson probably talked about you and Luna with her, because god knows that boy is in love with you. That was just Rachel making presumptions and taking her anger with me out on you, and I'm so sorry she made you feel like that, and I'm even sorrier for not intervening. I would never judge you for being who you are, I just—fuck." Harry runs an exasperated hand through his messy hair before looking at Ryan, taking a deep breath and inching closer towards her.
"I panicked. Because everything was happening so quickly and for the first time since Jackson was born, I wanted to cradle you against my chest instead of him. And that's a fucked up thing to admit, because he's my fucking son and he was crying and he needed me, and all I could think about was how your heart was breaking and I needed to shove that feeling down before it took over. Because it fucking terrifies me."
There's a sudden silence between the pair, with nothing but mahogany eyes staring into emerald. Ryan's aware that in all of her time knowing Harry, he's never been this open and honest with her. He's laying all of his cards out on the table, and that revelation alone is enough to make the empty hole in her chest start filling up with each subtle beat of her heart.
Harry takes a tentative step forward, and once he realizes that Ryan isn't backing away, he takes two more so that he's standing directly in front of her.
"I'm not used to wanting to be around somebody else besides Jackson. It's been almost five years, just me and him, and then when you came into the picture, I suddenly wanted to be around you. Every second. Of every fucking day." When Harry acknowledges that her eyes haven't diverted to the ground, he can feel the hollowness in his body start to dissipate, the coldness in his veins start to thaw out with each beam of light that radiates off of the girl standing in front of him.
"It scares the shit out of me, Ryan. I've never felt this way about anybody before. And I know I messed it all up by not kissing you, and I know I made you feel like I didn't want you. But I just—I'm so scared of you leaving me, of leaving Jackson. Because no matter how many times I deny it, I'm so fucking scared of being left again. I don't know if my heart can handle that."
Ryan nods slowly, processing Harry's biggest fear being laid out in front of her. She starts to feel bad for him all of a sudden, because maybe she was wrong in thinking that he didn't want her. Because even though he's in front of her and he's here holding his heart in his shaking hands for her to have, part of him is terrified because he can't only think about himself, he has to think about Jackson, too.
And that's something Ryan possibly overlooked. Because she's never been left the way Harry has, she's never had to put all of her love and care into another human being who looks at her as if she hung all of the stars in the sky, she's never had to be a parent by herself.
There's no rule book for that—no step-by-step instruction manual to describe how difficult that process truly was. And Harry did it because he had to. Because he needed to. Because he wanted to.
And when she looks at him—really looks at him, at the small wrinkles around his brilliant green eyes that she wants to smooth over with the pad of her thumb, at his curly hair that somehow is still fluffy and tempting to touch, at his dried lips that she still wants to put on her own with everything inside of her—she's mystified at how he could possibly think that.
How could anybody ever leave him?
With a small smile that somehow makes him feel whole again, she says, "Who said I was leaving you?"
The weight that lifts from his shoulders practically makes him float through thin air. Harry takes a small step forward, testing the waters ever so slightly to make sure that she doesn't cower away. And when she stands tall, looking at him as if she never wanted to blink again, he takes two more.
With one final step, he's toe-to-toe with Ryan, so close that he can see the obsidian specks in her irises, the gold flecks when the light hits them just right, the gentle swoosh of her ebony lashes. He can feel her warm breath fannings against the column of his throat, and suddenly he's reaching out, wrapping one long finger around a stray tendril of her dark hair.
"You're wrong about not being good enough for boys like me. You're wrong about being better off alone. Because I've done that, Ryan, and loneliness is shit." His voice is low and deep, sweet like honey that seeps through her concrete walls. Ryan can feel them breaking apart inch by inch, and when he brings his other hand up to cup the underside of her jaw, she can practically hear them cracking, disintegrating beneath their feet.
"You're so stupidly made for me, it's fucking terrifying. And I know that I have Jackson. And I know that's probably not in your plan. And I know this is going to sound absolutely insane," with one last breath he leans down, the tip of his nose brushing against hers ever so softly. "But imagining another day without you is nearly impossible."
Ryan tries her hardest not to gasp at his confession, and before she can conjure up the right words to say, Harry's mouth is on hers.
His left hand is cupping her jaw and the right is holding the back of her head gently and suddenly Ryan can feel the empty hole in her chest come back to life—thumping so loudly against her body she's almost certain Harry can feel it against his own.
Harry's practically sweating at the rush of heat that swarms his insides, and when he feels Ryan reach up on the tips of her toes so that her chest is flush against his own and her arms lock around the back of his neck, he almost topples over at the feeling of it all.
It's everything and more, and part of him can't believe that he waited this long to finally feel it—because he could write fucking symphonies about the way her lips feel against his own, the way the little hums in the back of her throat make his spine tingle, the way her fingers weave through the hair on the base of his neck so that she can anchor herself to him completely. The way he's never felt this way kissing somebody.
The way he never wants to let go.
But they have to at some point, and begrudgingly he lets her go, watching the way she blinks against the apples of his cheeks. The flush that he's grown to admire is back on her face, but this time it's from another reason completely, and Harry's almost positive that this is his favorite version of it yet.
"Should've done that a week ago," Harry mumbles against her lips.
Ryan giggles and Harry's almost certain he's in love. "You've done it now, that's all that matters."
And when he brings his lips back to hers and wraps his arms around her lower back, hoisting her up and spinning her around until he's swallowing her giggles with his own mouth, he knows that she's right.
All that matters is them. Right now. Together.