Those Maudlin Days

When I was twelve, though I argued with a pout ever so ferociously, my father pushed me into seeing a therapist. The divorce between my parents had been hard, I couldn’t lie. But somehow it wasn’t as traumatic as it should have been for a twelve year old; I had seen it coming and thusly prepared myself. So when we moved to Wolverhampton, an ocean away from the life I had had with my ‘family,’ my father figured it would be best for me to vent to unknowing ears. If I had anything I couldn’t say to him, I’d tell my doctor. The trouble was, I didn’t have anything I didn’t tell him – at least, not involving the divorce. What I ended up venting to Dr. Shells was just a series of woes by any typical wallflower. I didn’t like meeting new people because I hated to disappoint. I refused to speak up for myself because it kept others pleasant and that’s all that mattered. In my head, as long as others around me were smiling, I’d be fine. In her head, I had a mild case of anxiety that pushed me to avoid ‘being myself’ for others.

I figured she was just looking for a diagnostic in someone who didn’t have an illness.

Nevertheless, sometimes I wondered if she’d been right. As months wore on, I managed to convince my father I was fine and Dr. Shells was an unnecessary factor in my weekly routine. But as the years ticked into the next, I found myself Googling ‘anxiety’ anytime I was reaching a breaking point of sorts, whether it involved hurt feelings or work related stress. Anyone was susceptible to panic attacks and though I knew that in the back of my head, with ‘anxiety’ tucked away into my medical file somewhere, I couldn’t help but feel connected to the mental illness. Sometimes the symptoms came in strange spurs, like when I met new people and instead of ‘blossoming,’ as Dr. Shells used to say, I closed up and pushed them away. It was just a tactic I had always used; if you push away the new, you don’t need to deal with change. Change was scary.

Another time I felt the symptoms showed though, more often than any other time, was through phone calls. I hated phone calls. Even if caller ID gave me a warning, I couldn’t help but build it all up in my head. Why did this person need to call me? What was so urgent that they couldn’t text me instead? Had I done something wrong? It obviously stemmed from a fear of confrontation, but nevertheless, phone calls drove me up the wall. And as I sat on my bedroom floor, Cat purring beside me, I stared at my cellular device as if it had produced Hell all by itself.

I felt horrible.

I had a set routine I had been following, broken only by my couple meetings with Liam. Yet I felt like with the news that had crashed around me just three days prior, my life should have been placed on pause. I felt angry somewhere within me that the world didn’t stop revolving for my grief. And that’s where the hatred for myself stemmed from, the horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wasn’t mad at time not stopping for my father – I was mad at it not stopping for me. I felt like I needed a week to just sit in my bed and practice breathing. I couldn’t even fathom the idea of what my father felt, since he only showed so little. I felt selfish and dirty, but those emotions had me digging a deeper grave. I didn’t want to confront myself and my woes – I didn’t want to call my own father and check up.

I decided my subconscious had gone up and beyond and decided if I ignored Laura and dad for the week, everything would twist back to normal. The surgery would go well, it’d all be finished with and I could blame work or something petty for my absence. I’d feel relief but mock assurance that I knew everything would be alright from the start, that was why I hadn’t checked up. And then things would go back to normal and I’d have my life back in my hands. I’d feel clean again.

But it wasn’t that easy; it never was. And as I had the stare down with my phone, I realized I was more lost in my thoughts than preparing myself for a phone call. I wasn’t tugged out of my chain of self-hatred, though, until said phone buzzed once, twice and then three times on my floor.

My heart almost stopped, but I saw caller ID just in time: Amber.

“Hello?” I attempted to hide the relief in my tone, relief that I now had an excuse not to dial that familiar number.

“Erin, hi,” Amber managed to say over what sounded like a crowd. My eyebrows knit together, but I knew what was coming. Muffled, I heard her annoyed tone angrily bite, “Chase, what did I say? You’re on register, I’ve got drinks.” But a split second after that, my manager’s voice was clear as day as she promptly got to business, “Alright, so Tahi called in sick with food poisoning and we could really use an extra set of hands here. I know you spend the next couple hours practicing your violin and stuff, but I’m begging you here. We’re in the mid-day rush and it’d be nice if we had two people on drinks.”

My eyes darted to the forgotten instrument in the corner of my bedroom. I had taken time out of practicing to take on Mission: Clean Up Pop Star Mess previously and I had planned on going into overtime, less for practice and more for the therapy of letting my mind wander through music notes rather than the current situation at hand. Something stirred within me, though. I could sit here in my bedroom, beside the phone that was taunting me for being so rotten. Or I could go to work and be distracted entirely, with an excuse on the tip of my tongue for my behavior and my phone out of sight and out of mind.

It took not a second more for me to make the decision, “Be there soon.”



Thankfully, I had been right.

Upon entering Costa, I was whisked away into thoughts of only double shot espressos and whipped cream. Order after order was all I zeroed in on; I probably had made the best lattes of my life that shift. The only moment that tore me out of my concentration was the heart-stopping moment when my brick of a phone vibrated in my pocket. I cursed at myself for not leaving it in my purse, in a locker in the backroom and then again for even considering the idea of just ignoring it. For whatever reason, I felt like not calling was bad, but avoiding an incoming call was even worse. Nevertheless, I took the momentary break to conquer my fear and check who was trying to contact me. But to my delight, it was nothing but Abigail, asking if I’d bring home the dried up, leftover croissants we threw away at the end of the night.

Mid-day rush calmed only around six, when instead of caffeine, businessmen and teenage girls alike resorted to their homes or to hot spot sushi places.

“Hey, Erin, look,” Chase nudged me, pouring the foam of a practice latte into his paper cup. The coloring, above a sweet beverage, ended up forming a penis and he laughed hysterically once he was finished. "It's a chode."

I didn’t even stop to roll my eyes or comment on his stupidity. Instead, I turned to wipe down the counter, taking a second break between that and grabbing an overflowing trash bag to push my bangs out of my eyes.

“Cool it, man. Just because you’re doing all the work doesn’t mean you’ll get paid anymore than I will tonight. Just chill,” my coworker scoffed, probably at my cold exterior than anything else. But I ignored him, as per usual. I didn’t think my efforts would give me any extra cash; that wasn’t what I needed. What I needed was a reason to be busy, to keep my mind off things, to avoid the burning in my pocket of a phone that could have been of some use.

Tying the top of the bag into a knot, Costa’s door rang loud, indicating the first customer in the last thirty minutes. I jolted upright, ready to take on the order, hoping it had far too many words in it and needed much preparation. I nearly knocked Chase over in my quest to get to the register. But my eyes landed on a familiar mop of dark curls and immediately, my heart began racing.

Luckily, Harry’s gaze was towards the door, where two men stood with cameras, taking their final shots. Before he could turn to me, I had my hand around the trash bag and the other one shoving Chase in front of me as I attempted to swiftly fall out the backdoor.

I don’t know what it was. I had said my apology – which I admit, I knew was cowardly doing so through Liam. But it had been laid out on the table and I had figured that was the end of my own fifteen minutes of fame. I had my shot to befriend someone new and friendly and I blew it. It was my own fault and for whatever reason, though Wolverhampton wasn’t entirely too big, my mind was set on this delusional idea that I wouldn’t run into the One Direction boys ever again. This had me feeling secure, like I had no reason to feel ashamed for that past night and what was done was done. But seeing Harry was a wake up call of guilt. So naturally, I fled to avoid confronting it.

Pushing past dirty dishes and shelves of beans and syrups, I managed to find myself in the back alleyway. The air was crisp and chilly, instantly biting the skin along my arms and cheeks. But as I threw the trash bag into the dumpster, I found myself lingering against the door, palms spread wide against the even cooler metal. When had my life become a race to get away from problems? Routine used to be my everything. I was never running unless I was rushing to my next scheduled appointment of sorts. Now I found myself out of breath with no plans and no idea what to do. People often said that routine could wear a person out; they obviously underestimated the consequences of spontaneity as well.

My eyes had closed somewhere in my self-pity, but I was alert when a cough came.

“Did you get away from whoever you’re hiding from?” Harry questioned spitefully, lips twisting up as he took a small step forward. His hands were placed somewhere behind him, green eyes boring into me. And while he wasn’t very threatening looking, I found myself feeling caught between a rock and a hard place.

“Hiding? I was just taking out the trash,” I bit back defensively, standing upright and smoothing out my apron, as if it served my point. I mean, what else would a Costa girl be doing in the back alleyway?

“Save it. I saw you scurry out behind your coworker. You’re not a sly as you think you are,” he noted, but it only caused me to curl my upper lip in annoyance, as if I had a reason to be.

“I wasn’t trying to be sly,” I lied. And obviously, it didn’t sell. But Harry let it go, as much as he could. Instead, he looked over his shoulder, at the bodies passing by on the sidewalk, without much interest to what was going on behind a large, green dumpster.

I waited a moment, wondering if he’d say anything. Maybe that’s all he wanted from me, to tell me that he caught me. I was confident in my delusions and was just about to slip back inside when he spoke up, “You know, we haven’t really talked much. But somehow, I’m surprised.”

I had been staring at him before, taking him in while his gaze was away. It was easier to look at him now, when he was turned. I felt less embarrassed and shameful, and it felt nice to just watch him. Tall and seemingly broader underneath the setting sun, hair pushed back, there was something different about Harry, this pensive Harry in the alleyway. I felt like the cheeky quips were something of the past and I was wondering if I was bothered by it. Cheeky Harry had me interested and delighted for verbal sparring. Thoughtful Harry had me nervous.

I waited patiently for him to go on.

“I’m surprised because I didn’t think you’d be so cowardly,” he finished, giving me a reason to feel so anxious. I felt the waves of heat come over me then. Confrontation was having its way with me. I was just about to sigh in defeat and walk away, leave the moment hanging and keep Harry from his stupid closure, but he interrupted me. “I mean, I get it. Everyone has their sloppy nights. But apologies passed through friends?”

I, again, wanted to stand up for myself, but, again, was cut off.

“And not a single phone call to your father?”

My throat closed up then. Words were beyond me. I felt blinded by anger and sadness all at once; guilt, self-hatred, shame, pity. They were running through my veins, but all I could focus on was a chant in my head, crying, ‘Liam said he wouldn’t tell.’

“Excuse me?” I managed to choke out, and he immediately took the chance to go off.

“You’re standing there thinking it isn’t my place to say a thing, but you know, you were throwing pillows and punches at me over it. You were yelling at me to get out and leave you alone over this. And you won’t even pick up the phone for it. You’ll make a stranger feel bad for looking out for you, but you won’t even clear the air.”

He was suddenly much closer, leaning down to get to my height, to look me dead in the eye. His voice was slow and calm, but there was heated anger behind it, I could sense it. And though I felt completely responsible for hurting his feelings, I hardly thought I deserved to be treated this way.

“Who are you to tell me how to deal with this? You’re exactly what you called yourself, Harry. You’re a stranger,” I spat at him, set on fire with resentment – at the time, I thought it was resentment for the one boy who was calling me out. But I later realized it was resentment for myself, for wanting to stand up for myself when I really had no right to.

“You’re right, I am a stranger. And trust me, when I heard the pitiful apology from my band mate, I figured I should forget it. But I couldn’t,” he took a step back then, and I felt the need to take an exaggerated breath, feeling suffocated by him. “I tried to see it your way. I knew if it was my mum, I wouldn’t take the news very well either. But I wouldn’t be a coward. I wouldn’t flee from her or others. And stranger or not, I felt like you deserved to know that. I felt like you deserved to know how much you’ll regret this.”

He was right, he was so painfully right. And I knew it. The phone in my pocket knew it. My guilty conscience that had me awake at night knew it. But there was a fight in me that wasn’t going out, that didn’t want him to be right. I had been trying to pretend like I was stronger than he was depicting me, but now I was grasping at straws for excuses. Tears were brimming my eyes. I felt like a toddler who wasn’t getting her extended bedtime as I pouted, “Well, sometimes people aren’t as courageous as they need to be. Sometimes they’re weak in times of struggle.”

Harry watched me then, with my arms crossed over my chest now, my eyes growing red behind their frames. He seemed patient though, with a sense of self-assuredness, like someone in a poker game with a full house.

“Yeah, sometimes people aren’t courageous. And sometimes, it’s okay to feel small and weak. But sometimes, it’s not. Sometimes they’re stronger than they give themselves credit for, and they need to be reminded that their cowardly behavior isn’t okay.”

My eyes looked up at him then, view slightly blurred by the tears that seemed far too common as of late.

He finished his thought softly, “Even if that’s all they want to believe.”

I tasted the salty residue on my chapped lips before I realized my act of defense was up. My arms dropped finally, the shield and walls falling with them and barely above a squeak, I breathed out, “I’m terrified.”

He placed a large, warm hand on my arm, “And that, you have a right to feel.”