Crooked Heart

It was early. Maybe five, maybe six. Fiona hadn’t bothered to check the time when she drifted out to the balcony to sit and breathe. She had on thick, knee-high socks and a jumper to combat the cold, but there were goosebumps on her exposed thighs. Even in the winter, Fiona couldn’t sleep in anything but shorts or knickers.

Because it was so late in the year, it was also dark. The street lamps below illuminated an empty street, except for the parked cars. Fiona could see Harry’s rusty silver shitbox of a vehicle half a block down. While she was still looking at it, the door creaked open and Harry stepped out. He came and crouched next to her, tongue darting across his dry lips. “I’m feeling up to a run,” he said casually. “You?”

The question, though innocent enough on its own, was laden with understanding. Fiona couldn’t sleep. In fact, she’d been tossing and turning for hours, but Harry had slept through most of that. Now he was awake, and because he was Harry, he wanted to help. Rather than let her sit out here and burn through a pack of matches, he came up with an alternative. One that she enjoyed, but had been slacking off on lately for whatever reason.

“Yeah, okay.”

They changed into cold weather running gear, Harry more bundled up because of his terrible circulation. He’d finally learned how to dress appropriately for runs, after weeks — months, maybe — of t-shirts and worn out shorts that he mostly nicked from Niall’s closet.

Fiona followed a familiar route, one of the easier ones she had catalogued away in her head. She listened to Harry jogging along next to her, reminding him how to breathe properly so as to not exhaust himself, and slowing when her own legs started to tire. It’d been at least a month since her last run, because of changing schedules and life patterns, it wasn’t high on her priority list. She was glad for Harry in this moment, the steady thrum of her heartbeat and the solid ground beneath her trainers helped her escape the tension of the last few hours.

They walked the last few blocks. Fiona took in a deep breath of the crisp, early morning air, spotting the first signs of sunrise over the tops of the buildings. “I picked up some extra shifts at work,” Harry said. “Don’t know how much I’ll see you, a few of them are early mornings. I’ll be starting around this time four days next week.”

“Just next week?”

He shook his head, adjusting his beanie. It, along with an elastic, held back his curls. “Till mid-December. There’s some shuffling around with the staff, and I’m overseeing every other morning. I, um, I’ve been promoted.”

Fiona stopped, grabbing Harry’s arm. “What? Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I only found out last night. And it isn’t an official promotion, I’ve still got the same title. There’s just more responsibility.”

“Still,” she said, and smiled at him. Harry’s lips curved upward, evolving into a grin when she kissed his cheek. “That’s brilliant, Harry. I’m proud of you.”

“Even though you’ll see me less?”

“I think I’ll be able to manage,” she said, and meant it. Fiona might have been heavily reliant on Harry, on the effect his presence had on her, a few months ago, but things were quieter now. There were more good days than bad. His shoulders eased, and she hadn’t noticed they’d been tense. This made her worry that he had stopped himself from celebrating this informal promotion because of her. Fiona, unsure of how to communicate that it really was okay that he couldn’t be around as much verbally, dropped her hand from his shoulder and weaved her fingers between his. She leaned in, ignoring the cold sweat from their run that was present on both bodies, and pressed a kiss to his jaw.

Harry must have understood, because there was no longer a deep indentation between his eyebrows when she pulled back to smile reassuringly at him.

+++

When Fiona woke up, she smelled eggs and sausage frying in the pan. There was also a sharp note of coffee. At first, her mind went to Harry. But then she registered the fact that he was still asleep, his body sprawled over hers, head nestled under her chin and gangly limbs tangled with her own.

This particular way of sleeping was a favourite of Harry’s. More often than not, his hair ended up in her mouth, which wasn’t altogether pleasant, but he did smell nice, at least.

“Harry,” she whispered. When he didn’t move, she smacked his arm. “Harry!”

The curly-headed boy in question jolted awake. His hair, which he hadn’t cut in months, was basically the same length as hers. Fiona realized the last time she came home from the hairdresser that if Harry were to put a flatiron to his curls, it would end up at least an inch longer than her much straighter hair. This wasn’t a bad thing, Fiona loved his hair, she just couldn’t believe he had the patience to grow it out this far, and wondered when he’d finally chop it all off.

“I smell breakfast,” Harry said, blinking accusingly at the closed door. “Breakfast is my territory.”

“Maybe they got tired of all the crepes and souffles.”

Harry whirled around, eyes narrowed. “I can make a fry up, Fee,” he defended.

“I know you can,” she replied, amused. “You just choose not to.”

“Correct.”

“Then we’re in agreement,” she said, and Harry grumbled to himself. “Come on, you can still make me tea.”

“I’m not going to eat Liam’s betrayal eggs,” Harry muttered, rolling out of bed and following Fiona down the corridor.

It was Allison who stood in the kitchen, poking at the sizzling food in a pan, and not Liam. Granted, Liam was the one who’d complained that he wanted something more hearty for breakfast yesterday, so Harry’s comment wasn’t off base.

“You’ve got the heat on too high,” Harry said, striding over and adjusting things. Allison took a step back, meeting Fiona’s still-amused gaze and rolling her eyes. Fiona shrugged at her.

“Hey, Fiona, did you do the reading for Byron?”

Fiona went and sat on the ugly green couch, one leg tucked under and the other swinging along the floor. “I’ve read Don Juan before, Liam.”

“So I’m guessing that means no.”

“I haven’t done any reading for that class all term,” she replied. “Because I’ve read it all before.”

“Then can you explain it to me?”

“Sure, but let’s do it later. How’s the Beat Writing course going? I heard you don’t even read Howl.”

Liam, who had his books and notes splayed out on the coffee table, found the syllabus for the course. “No, not Howl. There’s a few other Ginsberg poems on here. The only, like, iconic Beat work we read is On the Road. I think the prof tried to touch on the lesser known stuff.”

“That’s cool, I guess.”

“What was that course you were really looking forward to taking? You haven’t told me what it’s like. The, um, what was it called?”

“It’s a course on feminism and queer identity centred around Tilda Swinton,” Fiona said, and Liam nodded. “I only took it because this is the first time I’ve seen a course like this, so that was kind of exciting, but I dunno how I feel about focusing a whole course on Tilda Swinton. It’s just so white and Euro-centric. But I’m thinking of writing my essay on that, so I guess I’ve got that to look forward to.”

“Are you two done talking about school?” Allison asked, apparently done with Harry’s nitpicking. She dropped onto the cushion next to Liam, grabbing one of his hands and pulling it into her lap so she could trace the tattoos (that Fiona detested, but bit her tongue whenever Allison, who knew this, sent a pointed look in her direction) on the back of his palm and winding up his forearm.

“We can be,” Fiona replied. “Why did you let Harry take over? He’s going to put spinach in whatever gorgeous thing you were cooking.”

“Spinach is green,” Liam stated. They both looked at him to further this very obvious sentence. “You said there wouldn’t be anything green.”

“Spinach is good for you, Liam!” Harry hollered from the kitchen, over the sound of something crackling in the pan (it was spinach).

Liam’s head dropped against Allison’s shoulder. She patted his hand comfortingly, trying not to laugh. Allison looked at Fiona, drawing her attention away from the still bumpy and unbelievably itchy tattoo on the inside of her elbow. It was a match, a little flame curling up from the head. Zayn had done it last week.

“When’s Niall coming to visit?” Allison asked.

“Next week. He’s just in for a night, though, and he wants to go to The Gallery.”

“Of course he does.”

“Well, they do have that deal on Thursdays.”

“Are you up for The Gallery next Thursday?” Allison asked Liam. He shrugged, then nodded once. “We’ll be there.”

+++

The plan was to meet at The Gallery at eight. Harry was coming from work. Niall, who had arrived in town at midday, would be heading over with Zayn, Cassidy, and Louis. He was staying at theirs for the night, because the couch was more comfortable. Fiona found this ironic, considering it was Niall who had bought the shitty couch Harry always slept on in the flat they used to share, which she now shared with Alilson (and, usually, Liam). The latter two were coming together, of course. That left Fiona.

Her shift at the library info desk was supposed to end at eight, and it was only a ten minute walk from there to the pub. Ten minutes was no big deal. Zayn would definitely cause his group to be at least fifteen minutes late, unless Cassidy managed to drag him out of the house on time. However, where Fiona was concerned, fate had other plans.

Fate, in the form of a pretentious dickhead (that Fiona had taken to calling Derek because she almost slept with an absolutely terrible person called Derek once) who would not leave her alone.

It wasn’t even because he was trying to get her phone number or anything like the previous Derek had wanted from her. This Derek expected her to tell him where to find all twenty of the books he needed for some research project, even though he could just as easily access the information online himself. When she pointed this out, he blandly informed her that this was ‘sort of your job, you know.’

Technically it was, but that didn’t mean she wanted to find twenty fucking books for some kid. “My shift is over in two minutes,” she told him, typing in the information for the eighth book. The fact that he expected her to be able to help him with this ridiculous task when he arrived five minutes prior to the info desk closing meant that he was a particular kind of asshole.

“You can get the rest of them for me, though, can’t you?”

She looked up from the computer. “You do realize that even though I’m doing this, you still have to go and find the books, don’t you?”

“You can give me the shelf location, though. The website just gives the floor.”

Fiona, exasperated, wrote down the location of yet another book for him. “I don’t see how this is faster.”

“Well, it’s easier.”

“For who, exactly?” she asked pointedly.

In the end, she got him the information for all his books. It did, however, fulfill any capacity she had for favours for the next month at least. Anybody who wanted something from her was going to have to deal with not getting it. As the boy jogged off to the elevators, Fiona packed up her things and shut down the info desk computer, dragging on her jacket and texting Harry that she’d be there in 10.

It was a cold walk across campus to The Gallery, but the warmth of the pub made up for it. Fiona spotted her friends crowded around a tall table — some sitting, some standing. Because of the special on tonight, the place was packed. She wiggled her way across the room and deposited her coat into Cassidy’s outstretched hand (they had one stool specifically for the safekeeping of jackets). Then, after accepting Niall’s enthusiastic hug, she tucked into Harry’s side and let out a sigh. “I hate people.”

“And I told you not to get a job at a fucking info desk,” Harry said, earning a chuckle from Zayn. The others had dissolved into their own conversations, but he was on the other side of Harry and listening in.

“Fuck off,” Fiona said, with more bite than she normally would. The irritation at Derek was lingering. “Give me your drink. What is it?”

“Sex on the Beach.”

“Who the fuck are you? Hand it over.”

Harry did, with an amused grin that he shared with Zayn. Fiona scowled at them both.

“I need an actual drink,” she said, tapping her hand on the edge of the table and seeing that Niall was finished his pint. “Niall, let’s go to the bar.”

He saluted to her and clapped Liam, who he’d been chatting with, on the shoulder before following Fiona through the busy pub to the bar. They squeezed into a spot, greeting the bartender by name and ordering their drinks. “So, Liam’s part of the crew now?” Niall asked, sliding his empty glass across the bar to be picked up. “How’s that working out?”

“It took him a month or so to get used to it,” Fiona said. “His other mates are idiots, so I think he likes spending time with us.”

Niall laughed. “He and Louis seemed to be getting on.”

“Well, that’s because Louis likes people who will go along with whatever the fuck he comes up with.”

“True.”

“But it’s nice,” Fiona said, feeling a need to say something positive. “He’s at the flat a lot, which I suppose is to be expected. Him and Allison are doing really well.”

“Good,” Niall said, a little more subdued. “It’s nice to see they’ve lasted this long.”

“They went through a phase in September, we thought they might split up. Some of Liam’s mates, the idiot ones I mentioned before, had come back from summer hols and were dragging him to loads of parties and stuff. It got into this whole thing, but they’ve come back from it. That’s got to show for something, yeah?”

“You’re the expert.”

“Oh, low blow,” Fiona scoffed.

Niall lifted a hand in mock surrender, the other holding his fresh pint. “Sorry. But it’s kind of true.”

She grimaced and looked away, knowing he had a point. That didn’t mean she needed to be reminded of it.

While Niall managed to get away from the bar and back to their table without trouble, Fiona’s path was obstructed by the last person she expected to see.

She looked good, that was hard to deny. Her lips were painted a deep shade of plum, and she was wearing the same jacket Fiona always used to steal. Fiona expected her body to have some kind of physical reaction to seeing her, especially after the irritating afternoon she’d had, but she felt okay. Her stomach wasn’t churning and her skin wasn’t itchy, she was just a little confused.

“I saw you come in,” Wren said. “I wanted to say hello, but I figured it’d be better if I waited till you weren’t with your friends.”

At the mention of her friends, Fiona’s gaze travelled toward them. Nobody was paying her any attention, they were too absorbed in their own conversations. She looked back at Wren. “Well, now you’ve said it. Is that it? Can I go now?”

Wren ran a hand through her hair, exhaling sharply. “I thought maybe it’d been long enough for you to stop hating me, but I can see how that it hasn’t,” she said, laughing a little. “I thought we might be able to have a conversation like civilized adults, but maybe you haven’t grown up since last year.”

“I haven’t grown up?” Fiona repeated in disbelief. The anger started to rise, but it wasn’t overwhelming. “Do I have to remind you that you’re the one who got all paranoid because I spoke to people who weren’t you?”

“It wasn’t people,” Wren corrected. “It was just him.”

“Who?”

“Your boyfriend, by the looks of it.”

Fiona took a step to the side, ready for this encounter to be over. “Okay, if you’re starting up with this shit again, then I’m out of here.”

Wren caught her arm, and her face was much more serious than before. It gave Fiona pause. “It had nothing to do with him being a guy,” Wren said. “I only said that because I was upset and people say stupid shit when they’re upset. You have a connection with him, and I was jealous of that. What you have with him is what I wanted to have with you, but that was never really going to happen, was it?”

It was time for her to face the truth, and help Wren understand. “We happened at the wrong time,” she said. “Or maybe we had to happen for me to grow up. Which I have, by the way, but that’s beside the point. When we met, I had no idea what the fuck I was doing when it came to a proper relationship. I had to figure it out, and it took a really long fucking time. I don’t think either of us was patient enough then. But Harry?”

When she looked over and found his eyes on her, brow furrowed as he recognized Wren, Fiona couldn’t help but smile.

“He’s the most patient fucker on the planet. He waited months for me to,” she laughed, thinking of something Harry himself had said. Or, rather, written. “To get my crooked mess of a heart in the right place to love somebody the way that they deserve to be loved. You didn’t deserve to be loved the way I loved you, and I’m sorry for that. Maybe I didn’t deserve how you loved me, either. But everyone has to go through some bad to get to the good, right? You’ll find that person for you, Wren. Maybe you’ve just got to stop looking so hard for it.”

Wren tilted her head, looking at Fiona in a funny way. “When did you get so fucking philosophical?”

“I fell in love with a poet.”