Take It to Heart

When I signed up for classes two months in advance this year, and made sure none were before 9am, it was so I could stay out later at night and, that in the mornings, I would have the house to myself. I never planned on my mum’s live in boyfriend—of two years—proposing and them having a microscopic ceremony four weeks later. And, I definitely didn’t plan on his daughter, who’d previously lived down in Essex with her mum, to move in two weeks before uni.

At first, it was fine. Naomi was nice enough. She signed up for uni also, a year above me, and we didn’t see much of each other the first couple months. Then her schedule changed the second week in November to around the same times as mine and we suddenly had to share the bathroom and carpool to the university.

“Mum, if she doesn’t get out of the shower in the next minute, I’m turnin’ off the water heater, this is ridiculous.” I was already cutting it really close with how late I’d gotten up, I didn’t need Naomi’s inability to take a fast shower making it even worse.

A millisecond later and I couldn’t hear the pipes running anymore. I sighed in relief and ran up the stairs. Naomi walked out of the bathroom a moment later and slipped into her own room. The water was cold by my turn, but I only needed the necessities. I managed to get in, out, dressed, and down the stairs in as much time it took Naomi to put on her makeup.

“You sure you don’t want a tad more blush?” she asked, grabbing the keys off the rack.

I grabbed my bag. “I didn’t put blush on in the first place. Can we go? I’d like to make it before my professor locks the door, if that’s alright with you.”

My stepsister is like any other stepsister. She’s not unfriendly, but she’s not kind either. It was as if she had mood swings. When Naomi first moved in, everything was good. We got along, and I knew what she was like because she’d spent holidays with us before, but once the second month of her living here passed, she switched on the personality changes and hasn’t switched them off yet. Maybe it’s just because I’ve always been one to suck it up and deal with a situation that I never put Naomi in her place.

See, when we started having to spend the better part of the morning together, my mum didn’t see this as anything bad. It was bonding time, is how she’d described it. I put up with this bonding time because it made my mum happy to see Naomi and me getting along. When her and Charlie—my step dad, who I will never refer to as a father—got married, the only worry they had was Naomi and me. I wouldn’t be the one to make that an issue. I guess you could say I’d risk my mental stability for my mum’s marriage.

“I’ve plans right after class,” Naomi said as she cut the engine. “So you’ll have to get a lift home.”

“Right,” I mumbled. I figured as much.

Two hours later after my class, I couldn’t find my best mate anywhere. I had phoned her twenty minutes ago about picking me up and she swore it would only take her ten minutes. Normally, I wouldn’t mind, but I’d rather not be standing outside of uni any longer than need be. Another five minutes passed before her silver car pulled up. I lugged my bag over my shoulder, walked to the car, and slipped into the passenger seat.

“Sorry, Rose, I got distracted,” my friend, Anna, said and smiled as if that fixed anything, “and I sort of have to stop somewhere else before I take you home.”

“Might as well,” I replied and buckled myself in.

Five minutes later and we pulled up to Sheffield Music Shop and wandered inside. I followed behind Anna as she made a b-line to the vinyl records. “I need to find something for my dad’s birthday,” she said as she began to rifle through the stacks, “what does your dad listen to?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know, I haven’t been around him in ages. I just know he likes oldies, and a lot of American 80’s bands.”

“Maybe they have CD compilations of all that old crap.” Anna moved from section to section before she finally gave up on the vinyls. As she headed towards the CDs, I lagged behind, browsing through the different bands and albums.

Maybe it was habit from working at the library, but I started to turn around backwards CDs and move them back into their actual spots. Anna raised an eyebrow at my actions but shook her head, fumbling around with a few of the CDs I was putting back into place. Anna would randomly hold up a case and show it to me. I’d always give the same response of a shrug.

“What the hell? I think I know this guy,” I mumbled, staring at the back cover of a CD I’d just picked up. Five people stood grouped together, but there was no mistaking the one in the middle. He had the same hair, same painted skin, and same lanky frame.

Anna craned her neck to see what I meant. “Whatever! That guy is probably too famous to know you.”

“Well, not know exactly, but this is the sod who slammed his door in my face after I returned his ID.”

“The one with all the tattoos?” She asked, now standing at my side.

I nodded. “He’s not hard to miss.”

She took the CD from me and flipped it over to the front cover. “Ewe,” she muttered, “I’m not exactly a fan of intestines outside of the body. What does Bring Me the Horizon mean anyways?”

“How am I to know? I’m not best mates with the guy. Last time I checked he wanted nothing more than me out of his hallway.”

“Whatever, I doubt you’re going to see him again, so what’s it matter?”

She set the case back on the shelf—in the wrong spot I might add—and went back to search for her dad’s present. She was right though, I’d never see him again so I the whole band thing didn’t matter, but I guess it explained why Oliver Sykes had such a rotten attitude and complex about him. I grabbed the CD, put it back where it belonged, and continued to tail Anna.

After about twenty minutes, she gave up and decided she may as well just get her dad a tie or something. She asked what I usually would get my dad. I just shrugged like normal. Anything about my dad usually resulted in a shrug. To be honest, I didn’t even know when my dad’s birthday was. The last time I had seen him was two years ago on my 17th birthday, when he and my brother drove up to Sheffield for a night.

I never thought that was fair, splitting up my brother, Josh, and me. After my mum and dad split when I was seven, my dad moved down to Reading just outside of London, and my brother, who was eleven, decided he wanted to go with. After the whole divorce ordeal, I only saw my brother twice a year when he’d catch a train to Sheffield in the summer and the week before Christmas. I saw my dad once a year—at most.

We hardly talked, either, my brother and me. He was busy with school and this fancy new job at some company I’d never heard of. Computer tech was what he said his position was. He fixed things, I guess. Last time I’d heard from him was over the summer when he called to say he wouldn’t be able to make his semiannual visit. His girlfriend’s family had invited him to Spain—how could he refuse? I guess I really don’t know Joshua anymore, just like my dad is only someone with a title who sends cards on holidays and support money to my mum even though I’ve already passed age eighteen.

It seems like, when my parents split, it split our whole family.

Back at home, I had my history coursework laid in front of me. I was sprawled out on the floor in front of the tele watching Dr. Who reruns and attempting to write an essay. I say attempting because everyone was walking in and out of the room and Naomi had her music on loud and my mum and Charles—her husband—were bickering in the kitchen about him forgetting to run to the market.

Mum was clanking dishes around, her voice high. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but Charlie stomped out of the kitchen moments later, grabbed the keys out of the dish near the door, and left, saying something about groceries on his way out. I can’t believe Mum is that upset over something so silly.

And then there was Naomi, who had Dizzee Rascal on full blast. The beats were vibrating through the second floor, right down into the living room. I closed my eyes slowly, opened them, and then scooped up my book and notebook and pushed them back into my purse. I stood from the floor and grabbed my own keys from the dish. I didn’t start work for another hour, but the library was where I was headed.

Broomhill was nearly empty, as usual. The only other people inside were Pam, my boss, and two elderly women perusing the romance novels.

“No one else was scheduled today, then?” I asked, pen in hand. I was now half way through my assignment, much faster than if I was at home.

“No,” Pam replied, “not tonight anyways. I’ll cut you a deal: clock in early and close up and I’ll give you doubly pay today. Nine quid an hour, what do you say?”

“Give me fifteen minutes. Are you going home?”

“Yes,” she said, already getting her purse and keys ready to leave. Pam was the laziest person I’d ever met. She’d rather pay to have someone take over he shift and close up for her than do it herself. She was the type of woman to shove her plump feet into tiny heels in order to make a statement, if that gives any insight.

Pam disappeared into the back room just in time for the bell above the entrance to ding. She probably saw whoever was coming through the glass and decided she didn’t want to deal with it. I looked up from my essay on the Enlightenment only to lock onto hazel eyes belonging to a tattooed body and a messy mob of hair. I rolled my eyes—not wanting to deal with someone’s bad attitude today—and kept on writing. A moment later, somewhere between mentioning John Locke and his philosophies, Oliver Sykes’ tattooed fingers appeared in front of me as he set them up on the counter.

“Hi, er, I’ve a book on hold—”

“I’m not on clock at the moment,” I said, eyes focused on my essay.

His hands slipped off the counter, but I still didn’t look up. “So that means you can’t help me? ‘Cause you’re not on clock, but you’re sittin’ at the counter?”

“Yes.”

I finally looked up and brushed my fringe out of my eyes. He made a face, “Oh it’s you. Look, about the other day—”

“What, apologizing now so I’ll make time to find your rubbish book on hold?”

Pam strode out from the back, purse slung over her shoulder and tight heels clacking. “I clocked you in, made sure to lock the back entrance at 5:30.”

Then she was gone, and the only people left in the library were the old ladies, Oliver, and me. When I looked from the closed front doors back to Oliver, he had a smirk on his lips. Wanker.

I felt defeated and sighed. “What book do you have on hold?”

“Invisible Monsters,” he replied, shoving his hands into his pockets.

He watched me closely as I pulled out the hold bin from under the counter and set it on top. I sorted through the different stacks of books and tried not to feel uncomfortable with him staring at me. I made it to the bottom of the bin without finding it. “There’s no Palahniuk book in here. You sure you reserved it?”

“I phoned in about it yesterday—”

One of the elderly ladies walked up and stepped in front of Oliver as if he wasn’t there. He stood tall behind the old woman and stared down at her, throwing his arms out in a questioning manner.

“Pardon me, where can I request to have a book transferred from a different branch?” she asked and smiled kindly. She tucked her purse in tight under her arm while she glanced back at Oliver.

“You’ve just got to fill this out,” I replied and picked up a paper from the trolley next to me. I turned to Oliver, “I’ll check the computer, hold on—”

“Do you have a pen, dear?”

I looked back to the woman. She was driving me mental. I handed her one, earning and “oh bless” from her. I turned back to the computer and searched the title through the system. “It says it’s been checked out for a week,” I said.

“You’ve to be jokin’,” he groaned. I shook my head and turned the screen around so he could see for himself. “It was meant to be held. Could you maybe check for it?”

I pursed my lips. “You want me to sort through all the returned books?” I asked. “Can you see in that back room? There are loads of them, just from today. It could take ages. And I’m not exactly in the mood for giving favors.”

“What if I look with you?”

I blew out a breath of air and looked behind me, into the back room. Books were scattered everywhere. My patience was already as low as it could get. I definitely wasn’t in the mood for this, but the quicker I dealt with Oliver, the less I’d have to see him again. “Yeah, right, okay. I guess that could work,” I compromised.

Only a few minutes later, I was digging around in piles of unsorted books. Oliver’s back was to mine. If I took a full step backwards, I would have bumped into him. It was weird being this close to him, especially since I didn’t know him and didn’t really like him. I doubt he had a problem with it though. All he wanted was his book and that would be good with him. I heard him sigh and next thing I knew, he was standing beside me and pulling books from my piles.

I glanced over at him, ready to tell him that it probably had been checked back out. I paused and let my eyes wander over him. He had a little puncture hole near his lip where a hoop must have once been and the tattoos painted down his neck couldn’t have felt very good. But other than piercings and tattoos, which I usually found unattractive, Oliver was a really good looking guy. Something about his narrow nose, defined jaw, and constant smirk was somehow appealing. I wouldn’t go as far to say that I was attracted to him, but something had me intrigued.

I didn’t have much time to contemplate reasons for finding him attractive, especially since he was so different from my “type,” because the little bells above the library door jingled and a voice cut through the silence.

“Rose, where are you?”

I turned my head towards the door, catching a view of Naomi through the frame. “Why are you here?” I questioned, walking out from the back.

“Your mum just dropped me off so I could get the car. My dad’s isn’t bloody working again, so she said I could use yours,” she began to explain, and then her eyes flicked behind me. “Blimey…”

Oliver walked out from the back, book in hand. He had a smile on his face, obviously oblivious to the feud that was near. I looked from him, back to Naomi, and wondered how bad it looked for him to walk out after me. Instead of giving her the satisfaction of knowing I was pissed that she could just come and take my car, I reached under the counter and grabbed my keys and lobbed them in her direction.

“You better stop by the petrol station before you bring it back,” I told her.

She nodded, flashed an unwelcome smile my way, and turned on her heel, swishing out of the library. I sighed and turned around to face Oliver. He held up the book, “Found it.”

“Brill,” I muttered sarcastically and took it from him. I mimicked the process from earlier and scanned the front bar code.

“So, who was that?” he asked, his fingers brushing mine when I handed over the book.

I reeled back, and looked towards the door as if Naomi was hardly out the door. “My step sister,” I replied. I didn’t feel the need to describe how she wasn’t really my sister by any means.

“Well thanks,” Oliver started to say and he held up the book to signal what he meant, “sorry to make you stay open past hours.”

I shrugged, locking up the computer and register. “It’s whatever.”

This was my cue to disappear into the back again. I locked the back door slowly and began shutting off all the lights. If I planned it right, he’d be gone when I made it back out to the front. I grabbed my purse and stepped out the front door, locking it behind me. When I headed out into the car park, Oliver was leaned against the trunk of his nice, black car.

“I realized you didn’t have a car,” he said, “and no ride home?”

He said it like a question, like he was asking me if I wanted a ride. I chewed on the inside of my cheek, looking him up from head to toe. Did I want him to take me home? “You don’t have to,” I said, hoisting my bag up onto my shoulder, “I’m not all that far.”

“How far is far?”

“Off Carr Road,” I replied, “It’s like thirty minutes on foot, it’s really not bad.”

Oliver nodded slowly, piecing the visual map together in his mind. It honestly wasn’t that far. I’d walked in loads of times. “Well,” he said, “if you don’t mind detouring for about thirty minutes, I need to swing by my work, but Carr isn’t far from my flat. You should know.”

I nodded, I did know. But last time I was there he was less that friendly. “I really don’t want to inconvenience you. You’d probably be able to run to work faster without me.”

“I could honestly use your help. I’ve loads of boxes that I need to move down to my car. If anything, it would be convenient. Plus, it’s going to downpour any time now.”

The small sprinkles beginning to fall onto my head and nose were the only reason I agreed to get into his car. By the time we reached his work, clouds had covered the sky like a quilt and rain was pattering against the windshield. He pulled his car up into a drive and the headlights illuminated an industrial garage covered in spray paint.

“Drop Dead?” I questioned. I unbuckled myself and cautiously opened the door, instantly feeling drops against my shoulders.

“It’s my company,” Oliver replied.

I nodded even though he was walking in front of me up to the garage. He punched in a pin to the side and the metal moved up and back into the building. I ducked into the garage before it was fully open, escaping from the rain. “Company?”

“Clothing.”

I nodded again without needing to. His back was turned to me again. He opened some door into a stairwell that led to the office of his “company.” Inside the main room, mannequins—some dressed some not—, graffiti, and clutter were sprawled everywhere. Glossy posters and pinned up designs lined the walls, along with dozens and dozens of photos tacked to the wall.

I walked over to a mannequin and ran my fingers along the hem of the shirt, sporting the same name as the graffitied garage. “You own a clothing company?”

“You sound shocked,” he replied from somewhere in a pile of boxes.

I shrugged, “Not like I know you.”

He ignored my comment and five minutes later, I was carrying boxes down the small staircase, out into the rain, and piling them in his backseat.

“What are all these for?” I asked, struggling to carry two down the. Oliver grabbed the one on top and trudged down the stairs, his keys clinking together with each step. “Cheers.”

“They’re jeans, maybe some shirts,” he said. When the last box was in place, we climbed back into his car, “want one?”

“A shirt?” I asked. He nodded, muttering something about me being dim under his breath. “Not really my style.”

“None of it?” he asked. Instead of starting the car, he got back out, opened the garage again, and ran inside. I waited awkwardly in his car for a couple minutes before he returned and threw pieces of clothing at me.

I held up the plain, grey crew-cut sweater with Drop Dead scribbled across the front in chicken scratch writing. The other was a black tee with gold writing: Fresh ‘til Death.

“Your style?” he asked, starting the car and putting on the heat. He pulled out of the drive and started heading towards my neighborhood. When you grow up in the Tapton area, you never really need to ask directions to other streets. You just know.

“I can work with it,” I muttered, “but I can’t just take them.”

“Consider them a truce,” he told me, asking which house number mine was, “see you around.”