Crooked Heart

With Niall staying at home for the month, Fiona could actually get away with watching as many awful soap operas and Food Network programs as she pleased, because he didn’t swoop in and put on the news right in the middle of some dramatic argument or the judging segment (he really did have impeccable timing when it came to these things). Her newfound freedom allowed her to spend the whole afternoon sprawled across the couch with a bag of crisps on her stomach and a beer dangling from her fingers, feeling very much relaxed and content.

Until Harry came home.

“What are you doing?”

Fiona tilted her head, just glimpsing Harry’s curls and startled expression over the top of the couch. “Enjoying myself, what does it look like?”

“You’re watching Coronation Street.”

“Yes? And?”

“I would’ve thought you’d hate that kind of show,” Harry mused, looking amused now. “You remind me of Niall, by the way. The beer really completes the look.”

Fiona raised an eyebrow. “I would’ve thought it was the crisps all over my chest.”

He shook his head at her. “I think I’m having a crisis, because I still find you attractive right now, looking like that.”

Popping a crisp into her mouth, Fiona grinned broadly at Harry. He snorted and turned toward the kitchen. She heard the rustle of groceries and wondered what he was going to cook today. He was in a fish phase, and every day there was a new kind for her to try. Though she knew next to nothing about food, Harry still seemed to value her opinion, or at least her ability to tell him whether or not the meals he was cooking were shit without feeling bad about it.

“Do you want to help me?”

“Are you still trying to teach me how to cook? You know it’s useless,” Fiona replied, not moving her eyes away from the television screen. It went blank a second later, and she glanced up to see Harry hovering by her head. “Oi, I was watching that.”

“And now you aren’t. Come on, you’ll just be chopping up the veg.”

“Please don’t call it that,” Fiona said, reluctantly getting up and brushing the crumbs off her shirt.

Harry raised his eyebrows. “What, veg?”

“Stop, you sound like Jamie Oliver. I hate Jamie Oliver.”

Harry laughed, closing the gap between them and pressing a kiss to Fiona’s forehead. “That’s a pity, because the recipe we’re cooking is one of his.”

Leaning back so she could look him in the eyes, Fiona scowled. “Okay, now I’m definitely not helping.”

“Remember the curry I made last week?” Harry asked. Eyes narrowed, Fiona nodded. “That was Jamie Oliver’s too.”

“Fucking hell.”

He hooked an arm around her shoulders, guiding her across the room to the kitchen. “So I need you to cut the ends off the green beans and halve those tomatoes. No heat or large knives involved, you’ll do fine.”

“I could still poke your eye out with that small knife.”

“Only if you aimed.”

Fiona stationed herself in front of the cutting board. “This is a Jamie Oliver recipe, so I just might.”

As was his habit, Harry put on his cooking mix when in the kitchen. Fiona could identify the songs sometimes: Miles Davis here, John Coltrane there. There were a few big band numbers on his playlist, but it was mostly subdued, relaxing background music. It wasn’t all jazz either, though that was what dominated. Whenever Harry heard something he liked, it went on the mix. The thing had to be at least a hundred songs long by now, if not more. Jazz, blues, folk, rock — Harry certainly had a love of American music.

A few of the cherry tomatoes burst while she cut them, sending juice across the counter, but otherwise she did her job without any serious damage. Harry dropped the beans into a pot with potatoes he’d cleaned earlier. While he finished preparing the dish for baking, Fiona went and sat atop the table. She could watch Harry’s back while he cooked for ages, probably, as long as she reminded him not to hunch over so much.

“Let’s go for a run in the morning,” she said, while Harry carefully laid the seasoned salmon fillets into the baking tray atop the vegetables.

“Can we change our route up a bit? There’s a bakery I want to try.”

Fiona folded her arms over her chest. “You want to go to a bakery in the middle of a run? That sort of defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?”

Harry sent a challenging look over his shoulder. “So does eating crisps and drinking beer, Fee. I want to get freshly baked sourdough. Do you have a problem with that?”

She stayed silent and watched as Harry’s shoulders rose in triumph, a smirk edging its way onto her face. Before they’d started dating, and even for a little while afterwards, one of things that bothered Fiona most about Harry was how smug he got after winning any sort of battle between them. Now, she also became incredibly smug whenever she won, but that wasn’t the point. Harry’s dimpled grin and the sway in his step whenever he got his way had irritated her endlessly, and now it was sort of funny. Fiona liked how instead of yelling at him, she could tease him about it. She felt lighter, quicker to smile.

A routine had formed in the days since Niall had gone home that whenever Fiona and Harry were at hers for dinner (usually) and it was a nice evening (lately, also usually, much to their surprise) they ate on the balcony. The flat woven rug from Fiona’s bedroom was the perfect picnic blanket, and the night before last Harry had come back with a string of fairy lights to wind around the railing.

While dinner baked in the oven, Fiona and Harry sat outside and sipped wine. She read a book and he scribbled in his journal, accompanied by nothing but the sounds of the city and a guitar someone was practicing a floor above. These in-between, quiet moments were some of Fiona’s favourites. She liked watching Harry’s brow furrowed in concentration as he wrote, maybe modifying the recipe they’d just made or coming up with something new. Harry’s journals were a record of all the different kinds of creativity inside him, and Fiona couldn’t help but wonder what else was in there that he didn’t share with her. It wasn’t that she expected him to tell her everything, because god knows she didn’t share all her thoughts, but that didn’t stop her from being curious. At one time, months ago, she thought that she had figured Harry out. But she’d turned out to be wrong — so wrong, in fact, in her judgment of his character. And now, even when they were honest and open and told each other things they’d never admitted to anyone else, he was still something of an enigma.

Though it frustrated her sometimes that she didn’t really understand him (mostly because he seemed to know her so well in comparison), Fiona was starting to appreciate the element of surprise that came with Harry. She had trouble reading people to begin with, and tended to let her struggles to comprehend behaviour get on her nerves. But being around Harry helped her turn that around, slowly but surely.

“How’s work?”

When Harry looked up, Fiona tried not to focus on the fact that the crease between his eyebrows deepened as he stared at her. “Same as always,” he replied. Fiona tilted her head to the side, unsatisfied with that answer. “Management being dicks about everything, pretentious visitors turning their noses up at perfect food, some new people in the kitchen. There’s a conference at the hotel this weekend and Sophie keeps finding something new to freak out over, today it was macaron flavours.”

Fiona tucked her toes under his ankle. “Thanks for being more specific. Ever since I came to see you there I’ve been curious about it.” Neither of them mentioned how she’d gotten him in trouble because she wanted to get back at a rude waitress, but the memory hung heavy in the air. “When will I get to meet Sophie? She’s like your mentor, yeah?”

“Couldn’t ask for a better one,” Harry said. “Maybe I’ll have her over for dinner? At my house, of course, the kitchen is much nicer.”

“And yet you keep coming back to use this one,” Fiona mused.

Harry leaned his head back against the wall, gazing over at her with an amused smile. “God knows why, my services are never appreciated.”

“If I gave you too many compliments, they wouldn’t mean as much.”

“I thrive on attention,” Harry countered unabashedly. “Especially yours.”

Fiona grinned. “Well, that solves just about everything.”

He took advantage of the moment and ducked his head, catching her by surprise as his lips found hers. Fiona gravitated closer, her hand sliding up his chest to his shoulder. The loose collar of Harry’s t-shirt exposed his collarbones, and Fiona’s thumb traced a line up to his jaw, fingers tangling in his hair. Harry hummed; it was a sound of contentment. With one last kiss he pulled back, just enough to see her properly. She thought he’d done so in order to say something, but he stared in silence. Fiona kept waiting, growing unsure as the seconds passed.

“What?” she asked, barely making a sound, her lips forming the word communicating it instead.

Harry hesitated. “Nothing,” he said.

+++

Allison was carrying a Starbucks bag and drinks when she met Fiona for pedicures. She handed over a scone and a chai latte, which Fiona was suspicious of, but ended up enjoying. They picked their colours and settled into comfy chairs while the technicians set up, exchanging pleasantries with the ladies who knew them well. This was their favourite salon.

Fiona dipped her feet into the hot water, fiddling with the buttons on the massage chair. “How’s the tour thing going, then?”

“Good,” Allison nodded, mouth full. She finished chewing before she continued, “I’m bloody exhausted all the time now, though, working two jobs. I thought school was a pain to balance, but when you’ve actually got to talk to people all day it’s totally draining.”

“You’ve got a much higher tolerance for interaction than I do,” Fiona said. “But now you know how I feel.”

“I wouldn’t call it a higher tolerance. I’m just nicer,” Allison replied jokingly.

Fiona scoffed. “I can be nice.”

“Yeah, and it takes most of your energy.”

“Fair enough.”

“What about you? Are you going to find other work for the summer?”

Fiona picked at her scone, shrugging. “Suppose I should’ve started looking months ago, but I’m keeping an eye out, yeah. I don’t think I can handle working at the cinema much longer. I feel nauseous whenever I smell popcorn.”

“What do you want to do? That’ll help narrow the search.”

“I’m not picky, I just want money,” Fiona said.

Allison grinned. “Well, you want something with minimal social interaction, yes?”

“Obviously.”

“You could be a housekeeper, like at a hotel or something. Or catering?”

“That involves people, Al.”

“No, I mean in the kitchen. Wash dishes. I’m sure Harry has connections, or knows someone who does.”

Fiona mulled over the suggestions. “I’ll look into it.”

They ate their scones and chatted while their feet were done, agreeing that it was better when Cassidy could come along. She always had something interesting going on to tell them about, and they had the chance to live vicariously through her and get a glimpse of what it was like to be successful in a career she loved. But she was busy with some exhibition at the gallery (said interesting thing) and couldn’t afford to take extra time off. Fiona had been listening to Zayn’s complaints for weeks about how he hardly ever got to see his girlfriend, but they always ended with him feeling bad for wanting her to prioritize him over her dream career. Fiona never really knew how to console him, so she left that up to Harry.

When she spent too much time listening to Zayn she ended up wondering what the situation was with her and Harry — he did work a lot, but it wasn’t like he left the country every few months like Cassidy. Harry’s life revolved around work, even when he was at her place, he was cooking or writing down cookery things in his journal or talking about food. But Fiona had never really seen it as a question of priorities. Quite the opposite, in fact: she loved Harry’s passion. Admired it. She hoped that one day she’d find her passion, and he inspired her to not give up that hope. So did Cassidy, when she thought about it.

“Any developments with that repeat customer?” Fiona asked, referring to the boy who’d been frequenting Allison’s work and lingering by the counter to chat, even after his drink was up.

“No,” Allison sighed. “But it’s probably for the best. I saw his lockscreen the other day, and it was a picture of a car. A Mustang, I think. It was red.”

“Good lord.”

“I know. Dodged a bullet there.”

Fiona laughed, enjoying this new version of Allison. Ever since things with Niall hadn’t worked out, she’d been much more carefree about dating than before. It was an unexpected change, but Fiona liked how happy her friend seemed.

“You’ll find someone eventually,” Fiona said, attempting to be helpful. Allison sent her a look that told Fiona it wasn’t really working. “Someone nice. Really.”

Then it hit her.

“You know what, I think I know just the right person for you.”

“Hmm?” Allison raised her eyebrows, licking crumbs off her fingers. She swallowed, then narrowed her eyes. “No, wait. I don’t know if I want someone you’re recommending.”

That made Fiona just as suspicious as Allison. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just…well, up until Harry, you haven’t exactly had the best taste in romantic partners.”

“Excuse you,” Fiona scoffed. “I happen to have great taste. I just ignored it most of the time because I’m shallow and was never looking for anything serious. You want serious, so—”

“Actually—”

“What?”

Allison fidgeted in her chair. “I think I’d like to date. Casual, like. Not get worked up about someone before I know, y’know?”  

It took Fiona about thirty seconds to decide that her choice for Allison still worked after this revelation. “That’s fine. He’ll be up for that.”

“Okay. Who is it?”

“Liam.”

“For god’s sake, Fiona,” Allison groaned. “Liam Payne? You call that ‘great taste’? More like sheer madness! He was in love with you for a year, Fiona.”

Fiona waved a hand, that was inconsequential. “That wasn’t love. It was a crush, and that was probably just at the beginning. Honestly, I think he was just bad at accepting rejection.”

Unfortunately, Allison’s expression hadn’t changed. “And you think he’s right for me?”

“Yes. Absolutely. He’s not a prat as we once assumed. We hang out all the time, you know that.”

“You study together. That’s different.”

“And through studying, I have determined that he is a nice boy,” Fiona declared. “Fit for you, my best friend. Do you really think I’d bring it up if I didn’t think it was a good idea?”

There was a pause, during which time Fiona tried to determine what Allison was thinking. Usually her emotions were fairly clear, but all Fiona could see was indecision. “Give me time to think about it,” she said.  

“Take all the time you need. He’s here for the summer, working some promotion gig for a club. I know, it sounds like a red flag, like repeat customer boy with his Mustang lockscreen. But with Liam, you have to get past the backwards hats and the fact that he knows the lyrics to every Drake song in existence. He really is quite lovely.”

Allison was still cautious, and Fiona couldn’t blame her. Because all the time Fiona had spent with Liam had been separate from the rest of her friends, there was no way for them to get to know him like she had. And although she told Liam certain things about her life, which included her closest mates, she realized that she rarely spoke about him to them. Despite the trials it had taken to reach this point, their friendship was surprisingly simple, in that there was rarely anything of note to share.

“I’m going to give you his number,” Fiona said, reaching for Allison’s mobile. “Don’t think of it as a pressure to text him, but in case you decide to, this way you won’t have to ask me first.”

“Okay.”

+++.

Late night baths were very necessary after an awful shift at work. Showers somehow didn’t help her feel less greasy, but lavender oil and the bubble bath Harry bought (he’d claimed it was for her, but they both knew he used it more) helped erase the memories of all the rubbish people left behind under their seats. She lay in the tub until the water started getting cold, her fingers and toes turning into prunes, then dried off and put on the silky robe she’d picked up while shopping with Allison a few days before.

She had gone back to her room when someone came home, and she heard the distinctive thuds of Harry kicking off his boots and dropping his bag. “Fee?” he called out. All the lights were on, and she rarely fell asleep before two, so he didn’t try to be quiet.

“In here,” she replied.

It was immediately clear that Harry was a fan of Fiona’s robe. He got that look on his face — half smirk, intent, bright gaze — that she used to interpret as something more self-satisfied, which she now knew was excitement. Harry used to look at her like that when she was all riled up, insulting him into oblivion, and it had only made her more furious.

“If you’re planning on walking around in that when anyone else is here, know that they will be able to see your ass if you so much as lean over to pick up your tea.”

Fiona raised an eyebrow. “Noted.”

“When it’s just me, though, please never wear anything but that ever again,” he continued.

“Are you telling me I’m not allowed to flash whomever I please?”

“Go right ahead,” he said, coming around the bed to stand in front of her. “But I will have to step in if they try anything.”

She patted his arm. “We both know I throw the better punch, but it’s nice of you to say that.”

“I’m here for you, Fee,” Harry said, laughter in his voice.

“I’d like you to be over there,” she replied, looking at the bed.

“Getting right to it, then.”

She just grinned.

When it came to her relationships — serious, casual, whatever it happened to be — the sex was easy. There were never any major problems in that department, because Fiona was much more adept at the languages of physicality and sensuality than she was with emotions and words. That didn’t mean it was always good, but the point still stands.

And yet, no one she’d been with could read her body as well as she could theirs. Not until Harry.

She could tell he’d had a frustrating day, just like her. She’d gotten her relaxation in the bath and was feeling much better than she had an hour before, but Harry was tense and tired and his mind was elsewhere. He was terrific at pretending, but while she found his expressions difficult to read sometimes, she could feel this, her hands on his skin, responses not quite there when she did the things that usually had him groaning and swearing.

So she rolled off him and sat up, running her tongue over her teeth and staring at him expectantly. Because Harry was better than this, and always had been, he knew without asking that she’d caught him. “So?” she prompted.

“I’ve always told myself that it’s mostly just luck that’s gotten me where I am,” he told her, pushing himself up so he leaned back on his elbows. “Things keep on getting better and it really shouldn’t happen like this, nobody just succeeds without any bumps in the road. It feels too good to be true, y’know? All day I’ve been questioning whether or not I deserve this. I’m twenty-one, for fuck’s sake, there’s no way that anybody takes me seriously.”

This was important, and she didn’t want to fuck up her response. “I don’t think they’re paying attention to you,” she began carefully. Harry looked at her immediately, totally focused. She’d said something he didn’t expect. “The job you have, I don’t think it matters who you are. What matters is that you cook brilliant food, yeah? These people you work for, that’s what they’re looking for. Haven’t you paid attention to those cooking competitions I’ve been watching all week? The contestants come from all sorts of backgrounds, some of them carry a shit ton of baggage. But the food is what’s important. And for the record, you’re a pretty fantastic person too, so I think that probably helps.”

“Thanks, Fee.”

“I only said that so you’d pay attention to me instead,” she joked.

“I’m sorry. I thought that robe had done me in for sure.”

Fiona leaned over and picked it back up, sliding her arms into the loose sleeves. “Better?”

“Yes,” Harry said, reaching for her.

The robe ended up back on the floor eventually, but Fiona removing it a second time ended up giving Harry more fervour than before.

+++

It was nearly dawn and Fiona was awake again, after only a few hours of rest. This was okay, though, because Harry was also awake, and leaving a trail of kisses along her shoulder blade. Though neither had bothered to get dressed before they fell asleep, his kisses were lazy and sleepy, and not going anywhere. She’d probably never admit it, but Fiona liked these almost as much as the feverish, open-mouthed ones he’d left on her skin a few hours before. Though she wasn’t all that tired, Fiona closed her eyes and slowed her breathing, enjoying Harry’s warmth. She was looking forward to a long morning, since he didn’t have to be at work until the evening. Maybe they’d go for a walk, buy croissants, have a picnic in the park. She smiled just thinking about it.

At first, the gravelly, whispered tone of his voice made her think that she wasn’t meant to hear him. But the words, mumbled against her bare shoulder, were clear.

I love you.

Immediately, she felt altered. Gone was the hazy contentment, the warmth, the possibility of lying in bed until noon.

One of the things Fiona hated most about her brain was how it instilled doubt in her; the kind that was hard to shake, seeping right down to her bones, even with reassurance from the people she trusted most. Sometimes it came out of nowhere, other times it was jogged by a bad memory. A painful one. This was one of those moments. For the first time in several days, she was itching for a cigarette. The relief smoking used to give her had been fading as she cut down on the habit a little bit at a time, but now she felt herself falling back into that old crutch.

Before she knew what she was doing, Fiona was out of bed and pulling on the first thing she found: the satin robe with flower detail on the sleeves and hem. She was certain she had a spare lighter somewhere. Her other one was freshly out of fluid, but she always kept a spare hanging around for that specific reason. And given that she’d been cutting down anyway, it didn’t seem possible that she’d already used up that one too. Focusing on finding the lighter was her brain’s way of shutting out what had just happened. The problem was, even if Fiona wanted to think about it, she couldn’t. Her body was acting for her, trying to protect the fragile girl behind the scowl and sharp tongue.

“Fiona?”

“I need…” she mumbled, finally finding a book of matches at the bottom of one of her desk drawers and fleeing the room without looking at him. She knew he’d follow, so she didn’t bother shutting the balcony door, instead leaning heavily against the wall next to it and fumbling with the items she’d carried out with her.

Fiona felt terrible for just walking out of the room like that, and coupled with her doubts and fears surrounding those three words, she wasted two matches before she finally got her cigarette lit, trembling hands making everything more difficult than it needed to be. She dropped the pack and the matches onto the chair, running a hand over her face while the cigarette burned between her fingers.

Nothing prepared her for the dread that sunk low in her stomach when Harry stepped out onto the balcony. He was fully dressed, and she couldn’t help but think about how lovely he looked in the early morning, the pale light making the angles of his face seem sharper. But whatever his face looked like, she knew there was chaos inside his head, because she hadn’t said it back.

Even now, she couldn’t do it — the words would not form, regardless of how she felt. The last person Fiona said those words to had never loved her back, not really. They were tainted for her now, and that pesky, heart-wrenching doubt running through her veins made it hard to believe that anyone really meant them. Even someone like Harry. Part of her heard him, wanted to say it back, but it wasn’t the part in control of how she acted. Fiona felt like she was watching from a distance, seeing his confusion and sadness, her standing there unable to tell him what he wanted to hear.

“I thought…” Harry said, his eyebrows coming together as he frowned at the building across the street. “I only said what I said because I thought we were in the same place. I thought you were…but I guess I was wrong.”

“Harry…” He looked up at her, but Fiona’s throat closed up. She took a pull from her cigarette to calm herself down, but it wasn’t working. She was feeling too much all at once and it was fucking up her control, making her spiral. She was glad to be leaning against the wall, her knees felt weak. The doubt didn’t always affect her body, but this was important. It mattered because he did, and now she was paying for it.

He waited for longer than she expected him to. “I’m not mad,” he said, when it was clear she wasn’t going to finish her sentence. “And I think it’s best if I leave now, because I can’t stand here and look at you and not even get a reply. You have my heart in your hands now, Fiona Kingsley. Please be careful with it.”

After he left, Fiona realized she should have told him a long time ago never to trust her with something so good, because she’d only ruin it.