Those Maudlin Days

For a considerably ‘smaller’ city in Britain, Wolverhampton had a knack for seeming like New York City at the worst of times. Instead of rushing through measly traffic on any other day through the main streets, I felt like I was pushing through a parade in Central Park as I used my cased violin to rush people along. I wasn’t a violent girl, but when people were expecting me, I was hardly patient.

“Sorry, I just – I need to get through. I – sorry,” I sputtered between many strangers yelling after me in angry tones. I didn’t take a moment to look back at them, though. The watch on my wrist was ticking louder in my ears than anything else. It was 4:58 and I had two blocks to go.

I somehow managed to get to Ashmore Ave. at five on the dot, but just to my luck, a street performer had a crowd captivated right beside the building I was almost crying to get into. I wasn’t inside safely, with air to breathe, until ten minutes past.

The music that sounded rough around the edges indicated that our orchestra was just settling in. But as the doors clanked shut behind me, the street performer’s own tunes fading away, it all came to an abrupt stop.

“Why, look who it is. Erin Coyne, how nice of you to join us,” my conductor snipped, his voice echoing through the auditorium, and causing a red to appear in my cheeks. I had never been late to rehearsals before. Mr. Waldakut wasn’t one to stand for mistakes. A simple slip of the bow or the time could place a member on his bad list for the rest of eternity and I never wanted to be that member. I was a quiet girl who often played the role of the teacher’s pet, because it was easier. But time was lost on me earlier as it had been for the past week.

I tried to explain, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Waldakut. I was at work in the morning and I went home to call my father, and then –“

But his hand raised, then fell, as if my mouth was an instrument and he was conducting me to stop it. I followed suit, pressing my lips together as a few giggles came from the other members in my section.

“Apologies won’t take back the thirty seconds you’ve wasted already, Miss Coyne. Just get to your section as quickly as you can before I find a new concertmaster,” he commanded before his back was turned to me and pointing towards Genevieve, principal violin two, to take my place.

I felt the heat form drops of sweat as I scurried up the steps of the stage. The music had started up again, but as I shimmied past cello players and the like, they all missed a note or two and the noise rang in my ears, causing my face to turn a more vicious shade of red. When I finally found my seat, I was quick in pulling out the violin I had lovingly named Misty and her bow.

I knew it from the moment the plastic felt odd against my chin that I had grown rusty. As I attempted to keep form, my arm suddenly ached, itching to be placed back at my side. My eyes stared at the notes before me, scrambling to line them up with the place the orchestra was at. But even once I found it, the bow against the strings didn’t sound as melodious as I remembered. Instead of Korsakov’s Symphony No. 2, my violin sounded more like Kermit the frog. It croaked and creaked, but between Genevieve’s alarmingly well-practiced concertmaster notes and the cellos in the back, I seemed to blend in.

Until, of course, Waldakut began breaking us off into sections.

“Starting from the inside out, cellos, play.”

“Violas, your turn.”

“Violins: Section one.”

My heart raced, seemingly perfectly in tune with the rush of the notes of the piece.

“Violins: Section two.”

My nerves couldn’t have been helping, because as I stared down at my booklet, hoping somehow Misty would sound as glorious as she once did, Korsakov’s piece was screeched rather than played.

The violins beside me stopped, and my eyes drifted up to Waldakut, who had long since placed down his baton.

“I’m sorry, I guess I’m just a little rusty,” I muttered without confidence, but the silence was overpowering and my small voice echoed within the big auditorium. I could feel the tension in the air, from the entire orchestra. Heads turned from me to our conductor, to our conductor and back to me. I pressed my lips together, pleading that the embarrassment would pass already.

“Right, you are, Miss Coyne,” Waldakut smugly stated. “But this is a renowned orchestra. You auditioned to get in, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And at any moment, did being a part of my orchestra feel like a right to you, instead of a privilege?”

I paused, his use of the past causing me to sputter, “No, of c—“

“Because, Miss Coyne, if you feel as if you belong in this orchestra simply because you managed to make it through your audition, you’re wrong. No one belongs in this orchestra, unless they’re consistently well-played. And that takes practice,” his tone was calm, but his words stung, as he wanted them to. “Are you practicing, Erin?”

Truth be told, I wasn’t. It’d been at least half a week since I’d even touched Misty, which was the longest I’d gone since getting her. Being a less than social person, if I wasn’t at work or school, I was most likely driving Abigail up the wall with Chopin’s ballads. But with my father’s illness and a certain pop star returning to my life with his new band mates, I’d found myself over-confident and decided my day to day practicing could be put off. Obviously, I had been wrong. And that was what had me more ashamed than anything else.

“I mean, I have,” I stuttered, blue eyes darting to those around me. Genevieve glanced down to her notes, as Michael pretended to find something fascinating within his bow. My eyes darted back to the silhouette of my conductor. “Just… not as much, as of late.”

“Not as much – I see, I see,” Waldakut’s head bobbed, as if he understood, as if it were fine. But I knew it wasn’t. “Well, I guess my requirement of practicing is too armature for your delightfully professional ways. I apologize for expecting as much.”

“No, it’s not like that. There’s just been—“

“No, no, Miss Coyne, don’t explain yourself,” he interrupted. “We don’t see eye to eye on something; I completely understand. When you conduct an orchestra, then I’ll gladly sit in the audience and listen to your unpracticed bunch. But unfortunately for you, this is my orchestra and I require daily practicing to avoid ever having to hear whatever piece you were attempting to play. So I guess I’m going to have to let you go; come back when you start seeing things my way.”

My mouth was agape, my ‘excuse’ sitting on my lips. I’m sorry, I’ve just been dealing with an illness in the family. But it never came out. Just moments later, the flutes were up, and not a single player dared to miss a note. I sat in shock for at least a minute. I wanted to stand up and argue, say the words that were pounding in my head. I wanted to tell him that I did see things his way. I wanted to pick Misty up and keep on playing.

But I didn’t dare.

Instead, my hands were slow as they packed the instrument into her case. I muttered apologies and ‘excuse me’s as I passed by my section and with my head down and a permanent red to my cheeks, I dashed out of the auditorium as quickly as I could, wondering if I’d ever return.



Hours passed into days.

I found myself gladly accepting my new routine: work, class, a phone call to my father, then endless practice with my violin. It was easy, surprisingly so. After the first call that I had done in the presence of Harry, who held my hand through all twenty two minutes and thirty four seconds, a small check in didn’t seem as daunting as I had made it out to be. As a matter of fact, it was the same every day. Laura would pick up and tell me briefly how he was actually doing – normally, it just consisted of a constant headache. On a bad day, his entire left side would go numb, leaving him paralyzed for any amount of time. But the surgery was coming up and with each phone call, and the happiness in my father’s voice nevertheless, I didn’t seem as horrified as I had before.

Optimism had overtaken me completely. The cheerful guy on the other end of the line who had been updating me on his new obsession with Game of Thrones couldn’t possibly be in too much trouble. The surgery would come. The tumor would be removed. Life would move on and I’d find myself on that couch watching the show with him, like nothing had ever been wrong.

Another part of my routine that I had yet to notice was a certain boy’s curious texts.

I didn’t think much of it when it began. The day after he had bombarded me at work, Harry took to checking up on me via cellular device. A simple ‘How are you doing today, love? x’ was all the first message had consisted of; sweet, brief, to the point – he was obviously making sure I wasn’t being a coward and also making up for his rather blunt behavior the previous day. But when that simple text turned into an entire conversation, it became constant.

I’d fall asleep texting Harry and if he was the last one to send a message, it’d be me apologizing the next morning, explaining that I had knocked out. And of course, we’d carry on. Abigail had been having a field day with it. I’d gone from being ‘the girl who wouldn’t pick up a bloody cell if her life depended on it,’ to being the girl who couldn’t live her life without a screen in front of her face. I said nothing against these accusations, though, merely shrugging it off and replying to whatever message was awaiting within my inbox.

Which lead me to the evening before my father’s surgery.

It was date night between roommates, that really only happened whenever either me or Abigail was feeling less lazy than normal. One of us would cook dinner, the other would set the table and we’d enjoy each other’s company, as if we didn’t spend every waking moment together otherwise. Abigail claimed to not have plans, but I knew that she had cancelled whatever was on her party agenda to keep me company the night before the big day. I didn’t call her out on it, because I did feel like I needed the distraction and that was something I didn’t want to admit to myself.

She made her infamous vegetable pasta – which was basically our broke way of glorifying pasta and veggies doused in extra virgin olive oil and pepper. And with a cheap bottle of wine, we found ourselves at our small dining table that was normally neglected for the couch.

It wasn’t much of a date night, considering Abigail was going on and on about my face being in a tabloid beside Liam and I was too concentrated on my phone to tell her to change the subject.

“They’re actually calling you Liam’s girlfriend; I mean, that’s just the Daily Star. They get things wrong all the time. I went onto Sugarscape this morning, though, and they apparently did their research, as they do. Had your secondary school’s name up and everything, claiming you were ‘a thing of the past’ and all that rubbish,” Abigail went on and on between bites of mushrooms and green peppers.

“Hmm,” I mumbled, as I attempted to hide a smile at Harry’s recent text. I figured noises were all Abigail ever needed. Normally in these situations, I had my nose buried behind a textbook and she would ramble on and on about Justin Bieber or whatever celebrity was doing whatever stupid thing these days. But it seemed since her news involved me and I had a cell phone between us instead, she was less inclined to let it go.

“Yeah, and then I called Sugarscape and told them they were spot on, but they missed the part where you fell helplessly in love with Harry Styles instead,” she pursed her lips.

“Uh-huh,” I mumbled, before my thumbs began navigating T9. The words processed finally, and only then did I look up at her, “Wait, what?”

Her eyes rolled into the back of her head as she dropped her fork dramatically, “You know, I liked you better when you were helpless with cell phones and boys alike.”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” I stated in a matter-of-fact tone as I pushed ‘send’ and placed the distraction in my lap, as if it’d been there all along. But she was obviously not about to let me get away with the topic at hand.

“Oh, do you not? Who is it you’ve been grinning at through your screen for the past two days then?”

I ignored the question, but my phone buzzed just a moment later.

“Bloody hell,” she griped, before diving back into her plate of carbs.

I pretended not to be eager, but just seconds later, my hand was itching and I couldn’t help it. I opened the text, allowing Abigail her moment of smugness as I adjusted my glasses and read, ‘So what are you up to tonight? The lads are all going out to the Canal Club later, if you’re interested.’

Somehow, I knew bringing it up to my already annoyed roommate wouldn’t be the smartest move, but I couldn’t help myself, “Didn’t someone get stabbed outside the Canal Club like, two months ago?”

Abigail replied merrily, “Wasn’t it called Uberra?” Then a moment passed before she was quirking a curious brow, “Why are you asking?”

I decided to shrug it off, “The boys are going tonight. Harry invited me, but I’m going to decline. I was just wondering, is all.”

Of course, when did that ever fly by Abigail? Before I could comprehend what was going on, she was attempting to grab at my phone, pleading, “What? Why would you do that, you mad girl? We’re just sitting here in our pajamas, half past seven. This is pathetic! Tell him you’ll go.”

I shoved her away, shoving my phone underneath my leg in a hurry, but I was quick to argue, “Are you honestly asking me that right now? Abigail, the last time I went out with these guys, I ended up making an ass out of myself. And for Christ’s sake, my dad is getting surgery tomorrow. That’s not exactly cause for celebration.”

She backed off, finding her way back in her seat, but a pout was on her lips, “C’mon, Erin. One night out isn’t going to make your father any better or any worse. You can come back early and still catch your father’s surgery tomorrow. And maybe it’ll even fool the lads into thinking you’re not such a dud after all!”

I narrowed my eyes at her blatant insult, but I was more focused on her words about my father. It was true, I had been putting anything fun on hold. Of course, that had always been my lifestyle. I just had a routine that I liked so much and found so much joy in with orchestra, I found no need to waste my nights without sleep, replaced by booze and loud music I didn’t enjoy. But as of late, I had used the ‘dad excuse’ as a way to weasel out of anything Abigail mentioned – which hadn’t been much, other than a dinner with her fellow Art History majors, that I simply didn’t want to attend because they all seemed pretentious. It still didn’t seem right to go out the night before the surgery; I felt, deep down, that something would go wrong, no matter how little I drank or how responsible I was about timing. And yet, while all this ran through my head, I was also wondering why Abigail felt the need to fight so hard for me to go. Did she honestly care so much about my social well-being?

“What does it matter to you if I go or not?” I didn’t understand why I was asking. It had to be one of two possibilities: either she wanted to tag along, or she wanted live vicariously through me. Both had their potential cons, but I wanted the clarification, I guess.

“I imagine if you did go, you wouldn’t want to tag along with five boys to a large club alone,” she stated, raising her eyebrows suggestively. And I rolled my eyes, my assumptions confirmed.

“Abigail, if you think I’m going to bring you around to hangout with One Direction, you have another thing coming,” I argued, hoping it didn’t sound as insulting as I felt it was. It wasn’t that my roommate embarrassed me so much as I knew she was filter-less and would easily kill others through second-hand embarrassment alone. But luckily, she had never been a particularly sensitive girl.

“Erin, if you think I’m the one between us you should be worried about bringing ‘round a group of boys in a club, you have another thing coming,” she countered easily. Her point was well made. As I glanced down at my half-eaten meal, I knew if the bar-setting had been off for me, a club wouldn’t be much better. I’d been to my fair share, but somehow, a tight body con dress only fit me so well with my glasses and inability to dance.

“You’re not making me want to accept the invite, you know.”

It seemed my own point clicked within Abigail, because it took only a moment later before she was at her knees by my seat, pouting with a puppy dog look that took me entirely by surprise. Normally, Abigail fought with metaphorical fists (and sometimes, not so metaphorical). But as she sighed in defeat, I seemed more inclined to listen, “If not for yourself and your petty little boy band crush, then please, for me. How exciting does my life get ever? I go to class or I sit on my arse ‘round this bloody apartment, Erin. I want a story to tell for a lifetime, like I partied with One Direction one night at Uberra.”

“The Canal Club,” I instantly corrected her.

Her face dropped, but now it was my turn to sigh in defeat. Truth be told, I had always felt a little bad for Abigail. It wasn’t as if my life was jam-packed with adventures, but I found my routine to be more pleasing than she found hers. And as of late, with everything on my plate, I found myself contributing more to conversation than her, simply because I had more to share. Filter-less as she was, embarrassing and the sort, I knew she deserved her one big night. So I caved.

‘You think the boys will mind if I bring a plus one?’

Just a couple minutes passed before my phone buzzed and Abigail was rushing to her room to get ready in delight.

‘As long as it’s a plus one of the female gender, I’m sure they’ll be more than pleased. See you soon. xx’



The Canal Club had never been so packed. Wolverhampton was hardly a place for night life and while bars and clubs could be found within the city, they never held much excitement. Especially after the stabbing, it seemed less people feel inclined to enter such a tragic scene. But word must have gotten out that a few familiar faces were inside somewhere, because the line was curling around the building and instead of just one bored bouncer, two stood behind the receptionist at the door checking for names.

“I don’t feel right cutting everyone,” I muttered to Abigail as I tugged at my dress. My eyes drifted to the others in line, who were scowling at us with each step we took closer to the front. But Abigail kept her shoulders square as she strutted in her heels, smug smile flaunting on her face.

“Harry said we were on the list; don’t feel guilty about your connections, Erin,” she reassured me. But as we stepped forward and the girl beside me scoffed took close for comfort, I heard her casually say our names as her words of advice did nothing for my nerves.

It took a minute, but the rope pulled back and the bouncers were parting ways as we were ushered in, despite a few protests from the crowd. Abigail simply flicked her dark locks over her shoulder confidently, but I managed to stumble over my feet as I found my way into the dark room.

The club wasn’t much different, if not less impressive, than other clubs. Loud music played, remixes of songs that couldn’t be found on my playlists even if they had been the original tracks. The bar was illuminated in the back, filled with people pushing and struggling to grab a drink. On the dancefloor, a few flashing blue lights managed to light up the rest of the building. Couches were full, strangers shoved and scurried about within the humid area. I hardly understood why people spent every weekend within these environments. But nevertheless, I glanced around for a familiar face besides Abigail.

“Up there, look!” Abigail nudged me with her shoulder, pointing over our heads and my eyes followed.

Two faces stared down at us with smirks over a ledge and I instantly recognized them as Harry and Louis. Drinks in hand, they waved down at us and it was Harry who motioned towards the staircase at the other side of the club, closed off by security and, of course, that menacing rope. I was hesitant, but Abigail took no time in grabbing in my hand and leading me through the mass of warm bodies. It took a thumbs up from Louis to get us past the obstacle that every girl in the club was probably hoping to get around, but before I knew it, I found myself standing before the boys and a few random faces.

“Boy, you lads really have this place on lockdown,” Abigail said over the music as they greeted us with smiles.

“What can I say? We bring the party wherever we go,” Louis smirked. “Can I get you birds anything to drink?”

Abigail ordered her typical vodka tonic, but I simply shook my head. Drinking seemed like a bad idea and while Louis raised an eyebrow at me, obviously putting two and two together, he didn’t argue. With a wave of his hand, a waitress walked over and he gave the order before she disappeared down the steps.

“Who comes to a club and doesn’t drink?” I heard a voice behind me, louder than normal, but still deep and charismatic as ever. Immediately, my own grin appeared and as I spun around to face him, Harry was inching closer and closer.

“Someone who didn’t want to come at all,” I shared without remorse and he slumped his shoulders dramatically.

“What, you didn’t want to see me? Do a guy a favor and lie next time, Erin. Much easier for the ego,” he mused, but the smile that was still bright under the dim lighting told me his ego could take it just fine.

“Will your ego be pleased if I say that it was less about you and more about what tomorrow holds?” I questioned. I didn’t particularly want to bring up my father’s surgery, feeling like a club was hardly the place to bring up terminal illnesses, but I couldn’t pretend I didn’t feel guilty for being in the VIP section at the Canal Club the night before the big day. I had told Abigail I had every intention of leaving her sometime around twelve, or one, but she shrugged me off by telling me I was a ‘party pooper.’ I wore the title gladly.

“My ego isn’t pleased with it, but he understands,” he joked and while it was completely horrible, I couldn’t help but laugh. It was a light response to my heavy reminder and it was exactly what I needed. Harry looked proud with himself, but moved on past his victorious moment, “Still, you could nurse or something of the sort. Drinks are on us.”

I was about to protest again, but as Harry’s gazed moved past me and his grin widened, I found myself curious as well as he laughed, “I mean, your friend seems to understand that rather well.”

Abigail, who had found herself somewhere between Louis and Niall, had her vodka tonic in one hand but between her laughter and commentary, managed to take a shot with the other. They cheered loudly for her as she used the vodka tonic as a chaser, but my face dropped – so maybe I was a little embarrassed by my roommate.

“I’d like to apologize now for anything that may come out of her mouth tonight – word vomit and vomit alike,” I sighed, turning back to Harry but he didn’t seem to mind. He watched for a moment longer, grin wide as ever, before looking back to me.

“She seems like a laugh. The boys are obviously enjoying her company. No need for an apology,” he assured me before quirking an eyebrow. “So how about that beer?”

I should have said no, if only to sell Harry on the idea that I wasn’t much of a drinker as I must have seemed that messy night. But his offer was sweet and one beer couldn’t do much harm; at least, that’s what I told myself after hearing my roommate take her second shot. So finally, I sighed, “Alright, alright. You’ve convinced me. One beer and that’s all.”

He smirked, but as he waved over the waitress of the night, he ordered two Newcastle beers. I turned to look back to Abigail, my cheeks burning a pink. We’d been here for no more than five minutes and while Abigail had always been the social butterfly between us, I couldn’t understand how she was already two shots and a vodka tonic in. Louis had ventured off back to the table where Liam was sitting with Danielle and a few others I didn’t recognize. When my eyes scanned over them, he gently waved to me and I kindly waved back. But as I turned back to my plus one, I took a notice to the way she was staring at Niall while he finished off his own beer.

Behind me, Harry chuckled, “That’s his fourth, if you were curious. Irish boy; it’s in his blood to drink up.”

I nodded slowly and as I turned back to him, I found myself rolling my eyes. Of course it was that simple, “She must be attempting to play catch up. For such a small girl, she can hold her own.”

“Oh, he’s going to have a ball with that,” Harry claimed as he watched over my head, but as I contemplated whether to be worried about that, the waitress returned with our drinks. Harry thanked her, tipping her well before he handed me my bottle. Tipping it my way, he pursed his lips, “We need to have a toast for the first drink of the night.”

I was inclined to argue that it would be my only drink of the night, but instead, I mulled it over in my head. And finally, I raised my glass, “To unexpected twists and turns.”

He paused, but the half smile that sprawled across his face had me confident in my choice. He raised his own beer and tapped it gently against mine, “To unexpected twists and turns.”

With that, we tossed back the first sips, just as the songs changed.

“I love this song!” I heard Niall call behind me and while I was hardly one for pop culture, I recognized Justin Bieber’s voice immediately. It wasn’t long before I was being pushed aside, Abigail not even taking a second glance my way as she pulled Niall behind her. Red cheeks and drink in his free hand, he danced along, but his eyes met Harry’s for an instant and his eyebrows raised suggestively, a wide smile on his own face.

I knew it was all Abigail, confident and taking her wild night to all the extremes she could, but the fact that Niall was just reveling in it had me laughing. Harry must have sensed it, too, because when our gazes met, he was smiling almost as wide as his blonde band mate. We stood there for a good moment, cold beers freezing our fingers, and it was him who broke the happy silence as he offered his hand out to me, obviously wanting to follow the other pair’s idea.

The song dropped and the dancefloor went crazy, which hardly seemed inviting in my six inch heels that I had been forced into. But for whatever reason, with his lax presence and that goddamn half smile, Harry had me. I gladly accepted his hand, taking gentle steps behind him as he marched down the stairs and pulled me close.

The crowd opened up to him easily, girls tossing sultry smiles his way, boisterous guys patting him on the shoulder as we passed. But once we found ourselves comfortably surrounded by a mass of strangers, he took in his smug moment by leaning down, body moving to the beat and singing the lyric directly in my ear, “Take a bow, yeah, I’m the hottest ticket now, oh.”

I lightly shoved his shoulder, rolling my eyes through my laughter at his playful cheekiness, but the silly behavior made me comfortable enough to start moving myself. Despite the bodies around us, Harry and I found a good rhythm, filled with stupid moves on both parts and slowly but surely, I was thinking less of tomorrow and enjoying myself in the moment.