Witness

Harry appeared at my door the next day at ten thirty, dressed in his athletic gear with a scone for each of us. Despite my protests that it was counter productive to eat a scone before a run, he insisted. And repeated the same event the next day. And then again the next day.

“I only ever see you during our morning meetings here,” he commented as I pulled off my shoes in my doorway post-run. “Do you ever leave the house aside from spending time with me?”

After a pause, I shook my head. I was petrified to leave the home alone, fearing that someone with it out for me would be hiding around every corner. As stupid as it sounded, I felt safe with Harry – even after just a few days, he was proving to be a worthy friend.

“I don’t really have much reason to leave,” I muttered lowly, slipping my hair from the tie that held it in a ponytail. A toothy grin spread across Harry’s lips, though he appeared to try and quell it with a more suave looking smirk, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

“I think we should change that.”

I turned to him with a look of curiosity, eyebrows poised upwards and lips curled at the edges. Admittedly, I’d begun to enjoy spending time with someone, even if it was chatty Harry from across the way, Harry who insisted on bothering me about every detail of my life and subsequently ended up with a lifetime of lies about me.

“What do you suggest?” I questioned coyly, leaning against the foyer wall.

He was quiet for a moment, like he hadn’t quite planned out what exactly he wanted to suggest. “Manchester,” he said finally. “I want to take you to Manchester. Let you see a big, British city.”

“How big?” I asked almost immediately. I was dying for a taste of something anywhere close to New York. The thought that one could be close to me was thrilling, the bustle and smog just ghosting my fingertips.

“I reckon a couple million people live there,” he observed thoughtfully. My heart skipped a beat. I could only assume that the ‘couple million’ fell short of New York City’s totally underestimated eight million, but anything with skyscrapers and street vendors would do. But then another thought struck me, disheartening my hopes even just slightly.

Was it safe to go? Leaving Holmes Chapel was something that had never been discussed at the O.E.O., seeing as I had never really thought it to be an option. I wasn’t aware that a major city was less than half an hour away. Before I did anything, I would have to call to see if I could leave. And that would require me going through my belongings to find the number.

“When would you want to take this grand adventure to Manchester?” I asked, earning a grin from Harry.

“Tonight? I would ask if you are free but I have a sneaking suspicion that you are.”

My heart sunk even further. That night was my first night of work at the ever-glamorous Red Lion, my shift starting promptly at six and going long into the night. There was no way I could make a worthwhile trip to the city before six.

But explaining that to Harry was an entirely different problem. I was so deeply embarrassed about the state of my employment that I couldn’t bring myself to tell him. Not to mention he would probably show up and harass me all night, knowing him.

“I uh… I have to Skype my parents,” I blithered, watching as Harry screwed up his face into a disapproving glance.

I don’t even have parents.

“You don’t even have internet,” Harry observed.

Just another hole in my story that I’d entirely missed. That Harry had the memory of a fox.

“The man is coming today,” I improvised, picking at my nail polish - my current favorite pastime. “Can’t we do another tomorrow?”

He rubbed at the back of his neck in an awkward bought of silence. “I was trying to try and find the right way to tell you,” he muttered, casting his gaze to the ground. “But I have to head out of town for business again. But only for a week. Then I can come back.”

“Oh,” I murmured. “Well, in a week then?”

Harry sighed in mock frustration. “I suppose. Only for you, Miss Lilia.”

Hopes restored, I broke out in an involuntary grin. “That sounds wonderful, Harry. I’ll wait on bated breath.”

He laughed his dry yet somehow indistinguishably rich laugh. “I’ll see you in a week then.”

“One week.”

He left with a glancing grin over his shoulder, leaving me to get ready for my very first shift at the Red Lion – oh how exciting! But as I tried to busy myself, my mind kept trailing back to the thought that as much as he could drive me crazy, I was going to miss Harry. I was going to miss the company of my only friend in Holmes Chapel, my only reason to get out of the house other than now to work. Much to my chagrin, I didn’t quite know what I was going to do without him.

Maybe do stuff on my own. Maybe that would be practical. But then again, practical things had begun to terrify me. So maybe I would actually call the Internet man to come install my Wi-Fi.

I grumbled bitterly while pulling on my uniform of all black – there was no set outfit, only the color, which I found odd – and while brushing my hair into a lazy up do, as I believed that’s what everyone who worked in food establishments had to do. This was not how I was planning on living the rest of my life, but it was something I would have to get used to.

It was hard when I worked as hard to get where I had in the city. After struggling to keep my grades in the questionable quality of my high school, I was admitted to NYU on an enormously generous need-based scholarship. Sometimes being a foster kid paid off. Just kidding. That was probably the only time being a foster kid paid off.

Ever since I first saw Woody Allen’s Annie Hall on late night television when I was thirteen years old, I knew I wanted to write screenplays. And though I could never really afford any equipment to make films, I wrote and I wrote and goddamn it I wrote until my friends thought I was becoming a hermit. And when I showed the Director of Recruitment some of my best work, she said she would do just about anything to have me study at Tisch. And so I did. For a year.

And then I ended up in Holmes Chapel, walking to the Red Lion, praying that Harry wouldn’t see me.

It wasn’t that I didn’t think that being a bartender wasn’t a good job – it was a good job, for someone who wasn’t me. But then again, I wasn’t myself anymore. I was Lilia George. Maybe being a bartender was what Lilia George was born to do. I told that to myself over and over as I walked through the front door to the old, white building.

The inside was surprisingly nice, not at all what I was expecting from the rather uneventful exterior. Wooden tables and floors and a full bar were all features of the already busy pub, nearly every table already full at dinner hour on a Thursday. Frantic and a little overwhelmed, I bee lined for the bar, spotting a beautiful girl in all black stationed behind the beer tap.

“Hey,” I greeted the tall blonde in a breathless state. “I’m Lilia, the new girl. Today’s my first day.”

“Ah the mysterious new American,” the girl chirped with a wink. “The whole town is talking about you.”

I paused, taken aback as I watched the girl pass a pint to a man at the bar with a wide, charming smile. The whole town was talking about me? Seeing as I had hardly talked to anyone aside from Harry and the lovely people at the fish and chips shop, it was hard to believe that anyone was talking about me. But when I looked out at the dining room, I noticed several sets of eyes focused intently on my every move.

Lilia George, local celebrity. I almost liked the sound of that. Almost.

“Uh,” I floundered awkwardly not quite sure what to say from there. “Yep. That’s me, fresh from Richmond, Virginia. And you are?”

“Mary,” she hummed, giving me that same charming smile she gave the man. “Mary Cunningham.”

Mary Cunningham was classically gorgeous, with long blonde hair, and doe-like brown eyes surrounded in a thicket of luscious dark lashes. Even her lips were close to ideal, full and baby pink, only flawed by a thin scar running from the corner of one side to the peak of her perfectly pointed chin. And for a Brit, she had pretty damn near perfect teeth.

“Nice to meet you,” I greeted softly, still stunningly aware of all the eyes trained on me. “Should I check in with the manager or something?”

“Sure,” she agreed. “Nick. He’s probably in his office in the kitchen.”

Upon meeting Nick, I realized that the Old Red Lion was probably not going to be the easiest gig I’d ever held down. It was the only hip and happening hot spot Holmes Chapel boasted – hah – and Manager Nick was excruciatingly proud of that fact. I would mostly work afternoons after I completed my training alongside the vivacious Mary Cunningham, aside from the ever-busy Sunday, Monday, and Wednesday trivia nights. Not to mention the occasional Saturday. And the customers, it appeared, were very demanding of their brews.

“Amos Thorpe will always order a Stella,” Mary instructed, nodding softly in the direction of a man in the corner. “And Esther Thatcher can handle about three gin and tonics before we need to call her husband to escort her home. But she mostly comes in on Wednesdays for trivia night. Just you wait until trivia night. And don’t bend too far over in front of Turner Jones – he tends to have a wandering eye. But he does tip well, so I guess that’s your choice.”

“Is that why the dress code is so lax?” I questioned, watching the waitresses mill about, each of their black tops individually revealing in their own way. Nothing outrageously inappropriate by any means, but I could certainly see how Mr. Jones could get his thrills from my new coworkers curves.

I glanced to Mary, cocking my eyebrow at her dangerously low scoop neck tee. “I never said I was a role model,” she teased with a wink. I smiled, returning to my tequila laced cocktail. I liked this Mary Cunningham.

Suddenly, a great commotion came from the door, an uproar of cheers erupting from the patrons. Glancing up as I garnished the drink with a sword-stuck cherry, I caught a graze of brown curls and wide, winning smile. Panic struck. I immediately glanced to Mary, only to realize she was cheering too.

It appeared I was in fact not the local celebrity. That title belonged to my dear friend Harry.

“Mary, you have to hide me,” I begged.

But before she could respond, the men at the bar were demanding a pint for their wildly grinning friend. With a sigh, I boldly faced him, my lips pressed together in a thin line. His smile faltered a little bit upon making eye contact with me, his lowly barista, the realization that I blew him off sinking in. But he bounced back quickly, his smile even wider than ever.

“Skyping, huh?”

I groaned. “Nick!” I called to my manager. “I’m gonna take my break now!”

Pushing my way through the crowd, I managed to make my way out the front door. The warm early September air wrapped me up in a comforting embrace, urging me that there was no point in being so embarrassed. I should have just told the truth from the beginning. It would have saved me the awkward explanation. Harry had no idea of my prior life – to him, it was probably a perfectly acceptable occupation.

The door opened and closed beside me, Harry appearing by my side. He was still sporting that smile, proving that outwardly there were no hard feelings about my lie.

“You are a liar Lilia George,” Harry teased, flicking boldly at the nametag resting just above my chest. “I knew from the start you were Amish. Strictly against the Internet and always running everywhere. Explains why you don’t own a car… not to mention a telly.”

“Oh shut up Harry,” I mumbled, looking down at my alcohol splattered shoes.

He actually was quiet for a minute, a delicious relief from the constant present of his painstakingly slow, and admittedly sexy, voice. “Why didn’t you just tell me that you were working here? This is the hottest spot in town!” He raised his voice at the end for emphasis, as though there was a roar coming from inside that was making it difficult for us to hold a conversation.

In reality, you couldn’t hear anything from the outside of the building.

I sighed. “I was a little embarrassed, yeah,” I admitted. “You live in London and go travelling for work, and I’m here… uh… trying to have an adventure and paying for it by working in a bar.”
It really was the best I could do on short notice. Running with the romantic, free spirited world traveller mantra was going to have to be my saving grace, as much as I hated stringing Harry along on a thin line of lies.

He ran his deep green eyes all over my face, scanning every surface for some hint of inset emotion. A thin crease came between his eyebrows as he furrowed them in my direction, mauve lips pursed in contemplation.

“You know you can always be exactly who you are around me, right?”

No I couldn’t.

“Right. I’m sorry.”

“No worries,” he hummed with a grin, placing a firm, large hand on my forearm in some sort of sign of comfort. “Let’s go back inside. Let me get one of your first drinks here.”

And as I followed him inside, I’d never felt so guilty. But that was only just the start.