Safe & Sound

Leaving the house has never been more difficult for Kennedy. She throws countless apologetic looks at Edith as Addison clings to her shoulder, whining about not wanting to stay with the babysitter today. “Call Mister,” she pleads with her, “So you can stay with me.” It takes all of Kennedy’s strength to insist that she can’t. She has to go. She doesn’t say it out loud, but she has to get in today’s shift if she wants to even get close to making this month’s rent. She’s been slowly sinking bit by bit each week, scraping past the empty corners of her bank account in search of some relief. Cutting back on food and other necessities that Addison needs is out of the question completely. Leaving her like this every other day for work is a sacrifice she has to make if she plans on staying afloat.

At the restaurant, she calls Edith every hour on the dot for updates, bombarding her with the same questions on repeat. How is she? Is she eating? Is she sleeping? Is she in any pain, any at all? Each time, Edith assures her she’s doing fine. But it’s hard for Kennedy to put any of the awful qualms in her mind to rest.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Ellis,” Edith routinely tells her in a gentle voice, “Addie is fine, I promise. I put her down for a nap just a few moments ago.”

Kennedy tries to tell herself that Addison’s in good hands. Edith cares for her, there’s no doubting that, and she knows what she’s doing. But Kennedy can’t help having her nerves constantly on edge when she thinks of how horrendously traumatizing the last afternoon at treatment was.

Her boss scolds her for being distracted during shift. He sympathizes with her because of Addison's situation, but he’s never been one to let her off easy for anything when it comes to her work. She struggles to stay focused on her customers when her heart and mind are back at home.

“Kennedy, sweetheart, those frown lines will give you wrinkles when you’re my age.”

Mrs. D’Angelo is at her regular table with a cup of earl grey tea in her hands, looking the same as usual. Her dress and flowered hat are dated. You wouldn’t see such an outfit walking down the streets of London. But that’s her style, and Kennedy has always thought it to be quite pleasantly adorable that she looks fresh out of a 1950's newspaper.

“I know, Mrs. D’Angelo. Just have a lot on my mind lately is all.”

“Rita,” she corrects her sassily, “How many times do I have to tell you, dear? 'Mrs. D’Angelo' makes me sound sixty years old.”

“But you are sixty years old.”

“And nobody needs to know that!”

Kennedy chuckles genuinely for the first time today, but the ends of her eyes still point downwards in a sadness that’s more than obvious to her outgoing customer. She eyes the opposite chair, expecting to see the quiet Mr. D’Angelo patiently listening to their conversation, awaiting his chance to voice his order, but all that sits in her view is another cup of tea, full to the brim and still steaming. Rita goes on drinking her own, oblivious to the oddity.

“Rita?” Kennedy catches her eyes and motions to the empty seat, silently asking for an explanation.

“Oh,” she seems to suddenly realize, “He’ll be around shortly…”

The shift in her voice doesn’t go unnoticed. Kennedy’s been serving the D’Angelo’s for years and they’ve always shown up on the same day of the week at the same time together. Hand-in-hand, never once apart. This is the first evening she’s seen one without the other.

“Is everything alright?” she asks.

“Oh, you know,” Rita smiles, “Bickering like an old married couple.”

“You had a fight?”

She nods, pretending to be amused by it all but the shame is obvious on her face. “A horrible fight. Over something quite silly as well, but bless him, we argued for hours.”

Kennedy is fully aware that her face is a poster of surprise. In all her time knowing him, she never witnessed the quiet Derek D’Angelo ever raising his voice, not even to call her to the table when the restaurant was busy.

“He left,” Rita continues, “Said he wouldn’t be here for supper and not to wait up for him. He's never seemed so angry.''

She looks up at her sympathetic waitress after setting her cup down on its saucer and folding her hands over each other.

“But you know,” she says warmly, “If they love you, they always come back.”

Kennedy tries to smile, humbled by the woman’s wisdom but fully convinced that old age has turned her far too optimistic for her own good.

“I’ll be back in a bit to take your order,” she tells Rita politely before turning on her heel and starting for the back to pick up a cleaning rag and wipe down the last of the tables.

She feels sorry at first that her favorite customer will be dining alone tonight. She almost clocks in her time sheet early just so she can eat with her and save her the loneliness. But another part of her is testing her own optimism, secretly crossing her fingers behind her back that Mr. D’Angelo will show up. Amidst fighting her urges to run to the phone and call Edith for the hundredth time, she checks the door every few minutes and is disappointed each time.

Rita cheerfully thanks her each time she refills her water glass and she wouldn’t seem sad if she didn’t quickly wipe off her fake smile so obviously every time Kennedy turned her back. Whenever it came time to order, she delayed herself, asking for more time in case he was running late. Kennedy would nod and give her a few more minutes mostly out of pity. The poor thing.

“It’s getting late, Rita,” she eventually reminds her, motioning to the darkened sky in the window, “You’re sure you don’t want to order now?”

Rita’s eyes are distant, glued to the cup of cold tea across from her, still untouched and still full, until finally she smiles a smile that depresses Kennedy even further.

“You know what, dear? I’m not hungry. I’ll just have the bill.”

Kennedy sighs softly. “I’m sorry, Rita.”

“Oh, it’s alright. Nothing to fret.”

After collecting the few dishes on the table, Kennedy slowly walks back to the kitchen. She drags her heels all the while, feeling just as disappointed as if she’s caught the contagious dejection just by being involved. She sees Rita wiping the edges of her eyes with a tissue from her purse and suddenly she feels the need to do something, anything at all, to help her.

With a brief word to one of her coworkers and an extra spring in her step, she returns to the woman with a plate of chocolate cake and all the trimmings, setting it down in front of her with a gentle smile. She rests her hand kindly on her shoulder and meets her slowly brightening eyes of gratitude.

“We’re better off without them, Rita,” she tells her, “It’s on the house.”

She leaves the woman to her dessert and turns back to the rest of the tables that need wiping, hoping that however small and insignificant, her gesture helps to ease some of the heartache.

But as she stares down at the plastic, smoothing the surface down until she sees her reflection, she catches something in the corner of her eye and glances up.

Mr. D’Angelo is entering the restaurant, producing the toothiest, most dazzling smile in his wife that practically lights up the entire establishment. Kennedy can do nothing but look on in both pleasant and completely dumbfounded surprise as he meets her and takes a seat, holding both of her hands in his and placing a kiss on her lips. She starts to feed him spoonfuls of cake as if everything has suddenly gone back to normal.

In that moment, for reasons she can’t fully understand nor does she honestly want to, she thinks of Harry. She’s unable to figure out why. His image simply pops into her mind out of nowhere and it’s sudden. It catches her off guard, sending her off into a daydream almost instantly. She replays Rita’s words in her head. If they love you, they always come back.

But she shakes the idea off. Love and Harry are two words she can never use in a sentence anymore. Maybe in another life but not this one. She knows they’ll never be that old couple sharing cake in a restaurant. He’ll never come back, at least not as the Harry she used to know.

And she hates that the very thought bears a hole in her chest.

She handles the rest of the D’Angelo’s meal as distractedly as ever, and when the time comes to finally close, she couldn’t be quicker on her feet. She practically throws her apron off and sprints down the street to her flat building, breathlessly unlocking the door and entering.

“Edith?” she calls out in a loud whisper in case Addison’s already asleep, “I’m home.”

“Hey, Mrs. Ellis.” The teen rises from her spot on the couch and approaches her.

“How was she? Good?”

Edith nods, reaching for her jacket draped on the coat hanger. “She was fine. Played with Charlie, watched a bit of telly, had some of that chicken in the fridge. Same old, really.”

Kennedy sighs, relieved. “Thank God.”

“Except,” the girl remembers, looking off to the side as she explains, “She slept for ages. I thought she’d never get up.”

She says it jokingly, but the thought sends a shiver down Kennedy’s spine.

“But she didn't say anything hurt, right?”

“Right.”

''Okay,” Kennedy nods, accepting this much as good news, “That’s alright. Sleep is fine, she sleeps a lot.”

“I also meant to tell you,” Edith throws in as she starts for the door, reaching for her bag on the floor, “I have to start taking actual classes starting next week. My parents drove up the wall when I told them everything I’ve been doing has been online. You’d think they’d be happy I’m even doing so well. Anyway, I might have to cut back on hours a bit. I’ll let you know the schedule when I find out, alright?”

Kennedy tries not to show how hectic the news has suddenly made her life. How can she do anything at all without Edith watching Addison? Her stomach turns as she thinks of the possible horrid outcomes of this situation. She could lose her job or have to keep Addie with a stranger or, worst of all, endure Harry and his godforsaken Miranda looking after her.

“Alright,” she quickly nods, forcing a smile, “No problem at all.”



The table is dressed in a lavish white cloth, complete with glasses full of red wine, four different kinds of forks, and pâté on little squares of sourdough. Miranda sits across from him, decked out in too much lip gloss, scrolling her manicured fingernail up and down the touch-screen of her cell phone. Her appetizer has barely been touched and he tries not to reach his hand across the table and finish it for her.

''So,'' she sighs, setting her phone aside and taking a sip of wine, ''How was your day?''

He tries to think of something somewhat interesting to tell her that he did, but he can't come up with anything except the truth.

''Good, I watched a few movies.''

''That's...nice.'' She bites the tongue that wants to ask if he honestly spent his entire day in front of the television while she was at work.

''I wanted to go and see Addie, but she was with Edith.''

''Who's Edith?''

He doesn't fail to hear the suspicious shift in her tone. She turns into Miranda the Interrogator whenever another woman's name is mentioned.

''She watches her,'' he says.

''And you've met this Edith?''

''Once,'' he chuckles, remembering her shyness, ''She has a crush on me evidently.''

Miranda's eyes narrow slightly.

''Ran, relax. She's sixteen.''

Her face seems to soften slightly at the new information, but the cold hardness of her eyes doesn't go anywhere.

''Well,'' she takes a deep breath, ''That's alright, you saw Addie yesterday anyway. Can you pass the bread?''

He obeys, reaching for the basket of rolls. ''And it was awful. I had to hang my shirt out to dry from all her tears.''

Miranda says nothing, searching through the basket in her hands and then quickly setting it down once she spots the entrees being brought over. The waiter sets down a plate of blackened tilapia and mango salsa for Harry and a bowl of some kind of tropical salad for Miranda.

''Thank you,'' he nods politely to the waiter.

''Wait,'' Miranda calls out before the man turns away, ''This isn't what I ordered.''

Harry's eyebrows crease together to look down at her meal. It resembles what she asked for, but amidst all of her finely tuned details of extra-this and hold-the-that, he can't tell if it's right.

''I said no onions and light dressing.''

''Sorry, madam,'' the waiter apologizes and reaches for the bowl, ''I'll fix that for you.''

She rolls her eyes dramatically and the moment they're alone, she scoffs.

''You'd think a bloody waiter would know how to get an order right.''

Harry merely shrugs, taking a bite of his dish.

''Working in a restaurant is hard,'' he tells her.

''How would you know? You haven't worked in one,'' she laughs sarcastically.

''So? I can imagine. Plus, Kennedy’s told me some things. Long hours, not that much pay, rude customers...''

''I was not rude,'' she objects.

''You didn't have to glare at the poor guy.''

She stares him down for a moment, debating whether she should pursue this argument, but she decides against it, rolling her eyes once more instead.

''Whatever,'' she sighs, ''Anyway, I went shopping while you were out yesterday and I found the sharpest polo for you, it was to die for.''

''Ran, I don't need any more shirts.''

''Of course you do,'' she smiles, ''When we go somewhere nice, you can wear it.''

''Where do I go besides home and to see Addie?''

''Out with me,'' she reminds him, ''And home with me.''

He doesn't respond to the sly smirk on her face like he usually does. He's not quite in the mood for that this evening.

''Oh, come on, Harry. Find an excuse to wear it then.''

''Okay,'' he quickly settles just so that he doesn't have to hear more on this subject anymore, ''I'll wear it to the hospital, alright?''

''Not if she's going to cry all over it and ruin it...''

His fork ceases immediately and he tries to hold back a rude reply. She catches his narrowed eyes and rushes to defend herself.

''It's an expensive shirt, Harry!''

He doesn't say a word, maintaining his self-control. He keeps his head down for a long while as Miranda's picky salad is returned and she hesitates taking her first bite.

''Now don't be cross with me,'' she warns, ''It'd be so much easier if you didn't talk about her all the time. Constantly, Addie this and Addie that. I don't think a minute's passed without you saying her name.''

''And a conversation all about clothes and shopping is so much better,'' he says quietly, keeping his attention on his food.

''At least I have some substance in my life. I work and earn money like a normal person, not sit around and watch movies and obsess over my long lost daughter all the time.''

Suddenly his fork falls and his containment fails. ''Do you ever hear yourself talk or is your voice that loud for you, too?''

Her mouth flies open. ''Excuse me?''

''Listen to yourself! You sound completely daft! Going on about clothes when there's a child dying and you couldn't care any less!''

''Keep your voice down,'' she warns him in a threatening whisper, looking around at all the scattered stares from other tables.

''No,'' he bellows, “You know what? I’m not hungry anymore.''

He pulls out his wallet and digs through it until he finds a wad of cash most likely more than he needs to cover both meals.

''What are you doing?'' she rushes to ask.

''What does it look like?'' he pinches the napkin on his lap and tosses it on the table before rising. ''I'm going home..''

He stalks out of the restaurant into the chilly air without his jacket, fuming at the mere thought of her insulting him and his child so deeply and not even realizing it.



For reasons that don't quite make sense but simultaneously make all the sense in the world to him, as he's speeding down the street and taking his anger out on the accelerator, the thought of visiting the flat building on street he's driven past many times so far in his circles around town crosses his mind. He pulls into the parking space and notes the time. It's late. But something is telling him he needs to knock on that door and find a way inside.

After a few deep breaths to simmer his frustration, he does what his heart tells him. He gets out, climbs the steps, and greets her front door.

It takes a moment for it to be opened after his initial pattern of knocks. Before him stands Kennedy, still dressed in her work uniform but judging by her hair that's been let down, she was in the process of changing that.

''Harry? What are you doing here?''

He tries to smile and nervously shuffles his feet. ''Just came by to say hello. I know it's late, sorry.''

She eyes him suspiciously before looking around him, past his shoulders, prepared for the annoying girlfriend to pop up out of nowhere.

''She's not here,'' he promises her before the pleading begins, ''Listen, I know you're probably still mad at me. It's okay. I get it. But I had to stop by and see how things were.”
Kennedy shivers and uneasily opens the door wider. “Come in, it’s cold.”

He enters graciously, thankful to be in her heated apartment and that she let him inside to begin with.

“She’s already asleep,” she sighs, turning the lock, “Edith watched her from here today. Just in case. You can come back to see her tomorrow if you want.”

“I’d like that,” he tries to smile, “But…”

He trails off as if nervous to get the words out and she waits expectantly, wrapping her arms around her torso out of the awkwardness of the situation.

“I thought a lot about what you said,” he tells her, “About being friends. And you were right. I’d much rather be that than a complete stranger, Kenn. Or someone you hate.”

“I never hated you.”

He eyes her for a moment and it’s obvious she’s a forlorn mixture of tension and exhaustion, but there’s honesty in her cloudy eyes.

“Gemma knocked some sense into me,” he admits, “She said I need to think more about Addison and that’s what I’m doing. But I realized that being a part of Addison’s life means being a part of yours, too, and I’d rather it be a positive part than anything else. So,” he extends a courteous hand in her direction, “Friends?”

She’s hesitant at first, but eventually her palm gets pressed against his and she nods.

“I could use a friend right now.”



In a way, initiating a friendship with Kennedy means starting all over and it’s difficult for Harry. It’s hard not to stare extra long during conversation at the features he’s known and loved for so long, especially the wide chocolate waves of her hair that he used to tuck behind her ear when they were together. Putting that relationship with her completely behind him and doing this the right way isn’t exactly a walk in the park, but for his purposes tonight he’s not doing too badly.

They decide on turning on a movie after Kennedy changes out of her uniform. For reasons she doesn’t pry on, he doesn’t seem to want to go home. Despite Addison being asleep and unknowing of his visit, he stays. Mostly for the sake of having company and keeping his mind off Miranda, if he’s being honest with himself.

“How was work?” he asks casually once she takes a seat beside him, trying not to think about the last time they both sat in this couch.

“The usual,” she answers, “I was worried for Addie the entire time though. Probably hiked up Edith’s cell phone bill.”

“I was worried, too. I couldn’t get her face out my mind.” He pauses to note her permanently anxious fingers and tapping foot. “How are you handling it all?”

He already knows the answer. Bloody awful is how. But he wants her to know that he cares enough to ask.

“Fine,” she lies.

“Kenn…”

“How’s Miranda?” she asks sarcastically, living up to her strategy of consistently bringing up the girlfriend whenever her own issues are being discussed. “Practicing her glare in the mirror back at home, I’m guessing.”

Strangely, he has to stifle a laugh, but he doesn’t let it show.

“Hey,” he warns, trying to appear firmly against her pointing fun.

“Sorry,” Kennedy chuckles.

“She’s alright if you’re actually concerned.”

“Honestly, Harry,” she turns to look him in the eye, “All jokes aside, yeah, I don’t like the woman. But if she makes you happy, then I’m happy for you, just like I said before.”

“That’s what Gemma said as well…”

“But Gemma will be civil around her,” she notes, “I promise I won’t.”

Holding back a smirk, he asks her why that is and to be completely honest.

“She’s crazy. I thought it was just her being upset that first night she came over here, but that’s her all the time, isn’t it?”

He tries not to agree. Despite their earlier argument, he does feel a bit guilty trash talking Miranda behind her back.

“She’s not all that bad most of the time,” he tells her, “She just gets in some moods sometimes.”

“If you say so,” she laughs.

“Maybe one day you two will be friends.”

Kennedy turns to him, astonished, with her mouth wide open. “You’re joking.”

“I’m serious,” he chuckles, “You never know.”

“I would rather eat dirt.”

He laughs louder and she joins him until they realize Addison is sleeping in the other room and quiet down.

“Ah, I should go,” he mumbles, catching a sudden glimpse of the clock on the wall, “It’s been nearly an hour, I didn’t realize. You must want to get to bed.”

“I’m alright,” she assures him before her eyes relax and she softens her voice, “Honestly, it’s nice having you here. I like not fighting.”

“Believe me, so do I.”

He pulls out his phone to recheck the time out of habit and he’s unpleasantly greeted by dozens of missed calls from Miranda. She’s left angry texts and a handful of voicemails, and the last thing he wants right now is to confront that while she’s still fuming. He knows he said some pretty hurtful and uncalled for things to her back at the restaurant, and even though she arguably deserved it, he feels bad. But he decides he’ll deal with it later because for reasons he can’t decipher right now, he’d much rather be on this couch with Kennedy than have Miranda scream at him back at his flat.

“On second thought,” he mutters before she grips the remote control for the television, “Let’s finish the film. It’s almost done, right? I’ll go after.”

Kennedy nods, appreciative of the company. Oddly enough, spending time with him tonight makes her feel safer, much less nerve-racking considering how her hectic day went. So she resumes their DVD and sits back in her seat, letting him do the same beside her.



There’s something ringing in his ear, but it’s not an alarming noise. It doesn’t startle him in the slightest. Instead, it’s quite relaxing. Soothing, almost. He focuses on it for a moment, isolating it in his jumbled mine so he can determine what it is and where it’s coming from. He hears what sounds more like tiny chirrups than anything else, and when he finally puts two and two together, it makes sense.

Birds.

There must be at least two of them, perhaps three, all conversing with each other in tiny cheeps, interrupted only by the sound of a gentle breeze hitting a window. A window not far away judging by the proximity of the swishes.

Gently, he opens his eyes. The chirping fades into the background as he tries to recollect where he is. The familiar walls of the living room give him his answer, and he’s not sure if it’s good news or not.
It takes a brief moment of confusion for the rest of his body to awaken and regain feeling. There’s a weight on his chest and he tries to get up, but it only gets heavier the more he moves. His eyes finally meet the hindrance and his heart nearly stops.

Kennedy’s head is resting on him, covered enough by delicate waves of hair that he can’t see her face, but the gentle rise and fall of her shoulder tells him she’s still fast asleep. The blanket she escaped under during the movie has fallen down to cover merely her legs that are curled up beside him, squished between his thigh and the back of the couch. It doesn’t resemble a comfortable position at all, but oddly enough she seems at peace.

He won’t deny that this feels right and normal. There’s a part of him that wants to pretend to fall back asleep just so he can stay like this with her for a while. But he remembers what he told her last night. They’re friends now, nothing more and nothing less, and if he wants to make that permanent he can’t put her in situations like this. Maybe it was her own doing. Maybe she was the one who nestled her head against him like this, but he doesn’t know. He remembers her casually leaning on his shoulder once midnight rolled around and the yawns began. That alone quickened his heart, but he dismissed it as a friendly gesture. He remembers glancing down at her and seeing her eyes closed in sleep, and at some point after that, against his will, his own came to match. He must have sunk down against the arm of the couch at some point. But how and when is beyond him.

For her sake, he tries to sit up on his elbows as much as he can. She doesn’t stir at all, content in her warm spot against his chest. But when he starts to gentle shake her, murmuring her name all the while, she feels the hypnosis of sleep begin to wear off.

“Kenn,” he gently whispers, “Wake up.”

Slowly, she awakens, rubbing her face against him while the slumber wears off. Then, as if the realization occurs in a split second, she springs up.

“Oh, my God,” she utters with her eyes wide and hair frizzed around her head. Harry holds back a smile at her muddled appearance. “I’m so sorry.”

She starts to pull away from him nervously and he can’t help but feel colder once she detaches.

“It’s alright,” he assures her.

“No,” she shakes her head, “It’s not. Wow, I’m…God, this is awkward.”

“Not really.”

Quickly, she kicks off the blanket and rises to her feet.

“This is wrong. We shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have stayed.”

“Kennedy,” he exclaims apprehensively, “We didn’t, you know, sleep together or anything. Well…technically we did but—"

He doesn’t ignore her wide eyes that only widen more in embarrassment.

“You know what I mean!” he says, “It’s okay, really. We just fell asleep.”

“It’s not okay. You have a girlfriend. We’re friends. This kind of thing isn’t supposed to---"

“Relax.” He stands, shaking away the knots from his hair. “Still friends. No big deal.” He notes the wrinkles in yet another t-shirt and jeans he’s slept in at her house and laughs. “I should just start leaving clothes here.”

“Harry!” she cries out in humiliation, only making him laugh harder.

“Good God, Kenn, take a deep breath. It’s fine. I’m going, alright? See, on my way out the door.”

He turns to pick up the jacket still on the couch and her good manners catch her.

“No,” she sighs, rubbing at her temples, “Addie will be up soon. You can see her. I’m…going to take a shower. Let’s just pretend this didn’t happen.”

“Okay,” he nods, still amused by her reaction.

“Alright,” she hesitates, “Okay, bye.”

Quickly, she turns on her heel and escapes into the bathroom to get even more mortified over how red her face has turned, leaving him in the living, half chuckling to himself and half wishing with all his heart that such an encounter that made him so blissful wouldn’t make her so uncomfortable.