Crooked Heart

It was a little disconcerting that a week after the party, all Fiona could think about was the almost kiss with Harry, and not her ex-girlfriend moving on with someone else.

She was going to blame it on the fact that Harry had spent the last four nights at the flat. She couldn’t escape the memory of his mouth, or that gum he was always chewing, or the brush of his fingers against her cheek, or the way he’d pulled a bloody Philip Larkin quote out of nowhere. The whole five minutes of their interaction was stuck in her brain, and though she’d tried to wash it away with drink that night, his perpetual presence wasn’t exactly helping. As the old saying went: out of sight, out of mind.

The only respite to all the frustration was that whatever rut Fiona had been in where Wren was concerned, she was out of it now. Perhaps seeing Wren with that other girl had given Fiona’s heart the final push it needed to just get over it already.

Either way, Fiona was too busy being annoyed over Harry and his accurate quoting — accurate, despite the fact that he’d used poets she didn’t much care for — and the suggestion of a kiss to think about Wren all that much.

She was craving a cigarette, but thinking about smoking made her think about sitting out on the patio at Liam Payne’s house and Harry leaning in, so she went for a run instead. The chilly morning air and the steady beat of her trainers against the pavement made her feel a little better, lighter, clearer.

Fiona ran all the way to campus, skirting the student housing district so she didn’t encounter any kids stumbling home from a night they probably didn’t remember much of. She went around the park near her flat twice, thinking that the longer she was out, the greater chance there’d be that Harry would be gone by the time she got back.

But as she jogged around the corner and her building came into view, someone was coming out of it, shoulders hunched against the breeze. Harry’s hair was tucked under a beanie, but he’d also put up his hood. She noticed, with surprise, that he wasn’t wearing the jeans and boots he’d come over in last night, but athletic shorts and trainers. Keys swung in his hand; his dingy old Mazda was parked across the street, the permit Fiona and Niall had received upon moving in displayed on the dashboard. Though she considered turning around, she was too close now and he’d almost definitely see her. Running away was worse than facing him; it made her seem afraid.

Harry happened to glance in her direction, and froze in the middle of the sidewalk. She could see the gum caught between his teeth, the surprise in his eyes, and pretended that the flutter in her chest was from the running, and not the boy before her. Fiona slowed to a walk, her skin sticky beneath the black long sleeved top and kaleidoscopic running tights. Harry’s nose was red from the cold, but Fiona hardly felt it. She got closer and closer and he stayed where he was, feet (in neon yellow trainers that Fiona approved of at first, then scolded herself for doing so) positioned awkwardly on the pavement, like they were disagreeing on which direction to go.

“Morning,” she said, pulling the sleeves of her top over her hands.

“I was just leaving,” Harry replied with a nervous swallow.

Her eyebrows knit together. “Not that I care, but are you all right?”

“Good. Yeah,” Harry muttered. “I was just, er, headed to the gym.”

“In your car?”

“It’s near my house.”

“Then what are you standing here for?”

“You—” Harry looked perplexed. He’d been acting very strange since he started staying at the flat again, three days after the party. Keeping his distance. “Nevermind. See you later, Fiona.”

Since he hardly ever called her by the full name, it was odd to hear it from Harry’s mouth. Fiona finally started to feel the cold seeping into her skin when Harry drove off down the road, and headed inside.

In the flat, Niall was practicing talking points for Model UN. Fiona did her post-run stretching in the foyer, then went straight to the bathroom for a shower. He was still lecturing at the muted telly when she emerged from her room twenty minutes later — joggers on, ready for a day of analyzing odes and reading Milton — and put on the kettle.

“Fiona, help me out, does this make sense?” Niall asked, coming around the sofa to sit on the table, legs swinging while he read from a sheet of paper. Half of what he said went over Fiona’s head, but it sounded good.

“Sure, Niall.”

He pursed his lips and nodded to himself, then grabbed the pencil from behind his ear and scribbled something on the page. “We’re doing a presentation for the board of directors on Monday and today the exec is meeting up to put it all together. I’ve got this big speech and I’ve no idea if I’m just talking shite or not.”

“Sounded fine to me,” Fiona shrugged, dropping a teabag into a mug. She turned away from the counter, arms folded over her chest, and took in his worried hunch and frantic hair. “You’ll do fine, Niall. You know your stuff.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, and hopped off the table. “You working tonight?”

“No, tomorrow though.”

“Shame,” Niall sighed, beginning to pack up his papers.

The kettle boiled, and Fiona filled her mug before raising an eyebrow at her flatmate. “Why’s that?”

“I won’t be back till tea, at least, and you aren’t home tomorrow night. It’s like we hardly ever see each other anymore!” he lamented, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.

“The second I got back from class yesterday we spent the entire afternoon together!” Fiona exclaimed.

Niall grinned. “I know. Brilliant, wasn’t it? You’re probably the only person I can spend so much time with without getting bored. If neither of us is married by thirty, let’s do it, yeah?”

Fiona grimaced. “No deal. I can’t stand you. Besides, I’ll obviously marry Allison if it comes down to that.”

“That’s me girl,” Niall said, unruffled, and kissed her temple on his way out.

Once she’d grabbed everything she needed from her bedroom, Fiona settled on the ugly green couch with her tea and the odes she’d printed out for next class, pen tapping a steady rhythm against her knee. The Amélie soundtrack played softly from her computer; it was Fiona’s latest favourite to listen to while she revised.

She got halfway through “Ode to a Grecian Urn” before Harry — eyes curious, lips parted and wanting, telling her Bukowski was better than Keats — popped into her head. Fiona let herself relieve the conversation, twisting a lock of sable hair around her finger, and then it occurred to her. “You can’t even compare them,” he’d said. Perhaps he wasn’t implying that Bukowski was better, just that they were different. They were, without a doubt, but her mind hadn’t been very clear that evening. Fiona didn’t know how this hadn’t occurred to her earlier, and took a long drink of tea to compose herself before contemplating further.

If Harry had only meant that the two were different, did that mean he’d read Keats? Fiona was struck with another memory, of Harry teasing her for having Tennyson on her shelf. How deep did his knowledge of poetry go? If the boy could quote Larkin at the drop of a hat, could he do the same with Wordsworth? Elizabeth Barrett Browning? Auden? At the thought of Harry reciting poetry she actually liked made a cluster of feelings rise in Fiona that she didn’t want to ponder for too long, afraid of what they might mean. The nervous flutter in her chest had to be quelled with yet another gulp of tea.

Fiona threw herself back into her coursework with more energy than before, turning up the music on her laptop and bringing her knees up with the papers and book she was using as a hard writing surface in the hope that closer proximity to her face would induce greater focus.

+++

She went back and forth between the odes and Milton for the rest of the day, with a few cigarette and stretching breaks, and another longer break to eat leftover takeaway. It seemed that whenever Harry wasn’t in the house, she and Niall either ordered food or made something that didn’t come close to Harry’s skill level. They saved a lot on groceries, after all, with him buying most of the ingredients he used, making takeaway an easier option.

Her third cup of tea resting in her lap and the scribbled notes on the Coleridge poem swimming before her eyes, Fiona didn’t even notice Harry until he slammed the refrigerator door shut. She started at the sudden noise, spilling tea on her paper, and flinched a second time as the scalding liquid splashed over her hand. “Fuck,” she hissed, setting down the mug on the floor and rushing over to the sink. Harry watched with a detached sort of interest, hand still on the fridge door handle. There were a variety of vegetables on the counter, aubergines, tomatoes, and courgettes among them. Fiona eyed the colourful array as she dried her hands, then looked at Harry.

He had moved by then, and was pushing aside the vegetables to make room for a cutting board. Fiona didn’t want to get caught staring, so she returned to the ugly green couch and dropped down on one of the cushions, grabbing her partly annotated copy of Paradise Lost and flipping to where she’d left off. They weren’t required to read the entire text, thankfully, but Fiona’s professor was a big fan of Milton, so there was still a fair amount to get through.

Without any particular discussion, Fiona turned down her music and switched to something that wasn’t classical or the score to a movie. “Niall isn’t home,” she said, more to stop herself from thinking about why Harry wasn’t talking to her than for the actual conversation. She was so used to the constant chatter and teasing, even though she hated it ninety percent of the time, that it was weird for there to be so much silence, tension, awkwardness between them.

“Yeah, I know,” Harry said, shoulders hunched as he chopped vegetables.

“And so you’re here because?” she asked, drawing out the last word. She might have committed herself to a life of not getting so easily frustrated, but she also couldn’t deny the itch to have it out with him she’d been wanting to scratch all week.

Because this, whatever this was, was so much worse than arguing with him all the time. At least when they were fighting Fiona knew what he was thinking. Now that he was ignoring her, she had no idea what to do with herself when he was around. It should have been a relief, this was all she’d ever wanted out of Harry, for him to just be this person who went through her life and didn’t bother her, but now that she had it, the relief she’d been expecting wasn’t there.

All she felt was confusion, more frustration, and that ridiculous little flutter.

He just had to go and recite poetry.

“Louis has his football mates over,” Harry said, still chopping. “I’ve been picking up a lot more shifts, and I have to practice making the rest of the menu now so it isn’t crap when I’m cooking for paying customers.”

It made sense. But out of her own selfishness, Fiona wanted him at his own house, so he wasn’t here making her thoughts all jumbled. “Do you ever get tired of it?”

“What?”

“Cooking.”

Harry finally turned around, gaze flicking down to the book in her lap before returning to her face. “Do you ever get tired of reading?”

“Touché.”

He went back to his cooking, procuring a large dish from the cupboard to put all the vegetables in. Fiona busied herself with her work, but her gaze kept on drifting back to him. The muscles in his back moving beneath the thin fabric of his t-shirt as he chopped and transferred the neatly cut veg into the dish, bending over to carefully arrange it all. He’d thrown his hair up in a bun, and she could see the sharp line of his jaw whenever he tilted his head to the side. He worked efficiently, utterly focused on his task, unlike her and her revision. Fiona didn’t understand how he could change so completely, even when there was nothing around to make her angry, there was a little crackle of frustration in her. It never really went away. So where had annoying, teasing, gleeful Harry gone? He had to be in there somewhere, probably making up a cheeky comment about her mismatched socks.

Fiona wouldn’t go so far as to say she missed it, but it was definitely unsettling when he was like this, all quiet like.

Because she knew that work wasn’t going to get done unless she went back to her room, Fiona decided to do precisely that. She set down her book and grabbed the mug from the floor, striding over to the sink to dump out the remaining tea that hadn’t been spilled on her person. As she rinsed it out, she could feel Harry glance her way, and she was looking back at him before her brain could tell her it was a bad idea.

He had a thoughtful look on his face, not unlike the one from the patio. His eyes were tired, and he looked a little pale. More so than this morning, even. Maybe sleeping on a shite sofa half the time was finally catching up with him. Water began to overflow from the mug, but they kept on staring. Then Fiona had an idea. “You look like shit.”

To her surprise, he snorted, cracking a smile. “Thanks, Fee. I can always count on you to tell me the truth.”

“Lying’s a waste of time,” Fiona replied. “You don’t have to tell people everything, but it’s easier not to lie about it when you do.”

“That explains a lot, actually,” Harry said. “You aren’t afraid of being mean.”

“I didn’t think you were either.”

“I tell the truth if it’s necessary. If someone’s not ready to hear it, I’m not gonna say anything.”

Fiona shut off the tap and left the mug there. “I guess we’ll just have to disagree on this one.”

“We disagree about a lot of things,” Harry pointed out, but he didn’t look all that upset about it.

“I can’t imagine it any other way.”

She gathered up her things and went to her room. Headphones in, so she wouldn’t hear Harry banging around in the kitchen, Fiona got through an entire two pages before she was feeling restless again. Usually this didn’t happen when she’d gone for a run and had her tea, but she’d been off all week. Fiona leapt off her bed and snatched the cigarette pack off her desk, hoping a smoke and some fresh air would settle her nerves.

Harry had his head stuck in the fridge when she emerged from the corridor. Fiona shut the balcony door gently behind her, and instead of sitting down on the shitty plastic chair, she left the pack there, tossing her lighter alongside it once she’d lit her cigarette. Arms draped over the railing, Fiona stared up at the sky, most of the stars blanked out by clouds or light pollution. A few peeked through, shimmering amidst the haze, a reminder of how much bigger it all was than anyone realized. Fiona liked staring at the sky; it made her think about how infinitesimal her problems were in the grand scheme of things. It helped when it all felt like too much, like all the expectations and disappointments were crushing her soul and preventing her from being the person she wanted to be, the person she was inside. She’d done a lot of sky-staring when she lived at home.

When her cigarette was halfway spent, Fiona leaned over to flick the end on the ashtray and the balcony door opened, Harry sliding out. Fiona straightened and raised an eyebrow, waiting for the question of where something was or explanation as to why he was out here. But he simply stared at her for half a beat, then slumped against the balcony and stretched his legs out before him, one ankle crossed over the other. His lips puckered in a thoughtful way as he folded his arms over his chest and looked straight ahead.

Fiona didn’t know what Harry was thinking about for the entire ten minutes he was stood out there with her, because he didn’t say a word, but she couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking about the almost kiss too.

Fiona, a lover of silence, couldn’t stand it any longer. “What did you make, then?”

Harry’s head snapped to her, his jaw working as he chewed his gum and pulled his eyebrows together. Like her speaking had interrupted some inner monologue. It probably had; Fiona wouldn’t be surprised if Harry had mental conversations with himself. The bastard probably recited bloody poetry.

“It’s—er, ratatouille.”

“Like the movie?” Fiona sat down and crossed her legs, taking a drag of her cigarette.

“Brilliant film,” he replied. “They make it at the end, I think, the actual dish.”

“It’s just roasted vegetables innit?”

Harry looked perplexed, yet again. Like he couldn’t fathom why she was willingly speaking to him, especially now. Maybe he was just surprised she knew what ratatouille was. But Fiona couldn’t handle his silence or the tension, she’d rather be talking to him than having him stand there all impassive like. “Yeah.”

Fiona raised her eyebrows, and turned her head to the side to blow out a stream of smoke. “Niall won’t like that.”

“Niall’s not here.”

“He’ll be back soon, though,” Fiona informed him. “I expect he’ll be hungry as well.”

Harry frowned and stood up straight. “Niall said he wasn’t home tonight.”

“You were planning on his absence, then?”

“No.”

Then Harry went inside and Fiona saw him through the glass door, leaning against the sink with his Moleskine in one hand, furiously scribbling something in it with the other. Cigarette done, but not feeling much calmer, Fiona went in just in time to hear the front door slam. Fiona was relieved, because Niall would definitely not notice any tension and act like everything was just the same as always. She could feel the frustration, just a flicker before, growing into a steady flame. Because while Niall might not notice Harry’s strange behaviour, she did, and it was becoming incredibly irritating.

The second the door shut behind her, Harry snapped his book shut and put it in his back pocket, along with his pen. He busied himself with washing dishes, like it was what he’d been doing all along. Fiona made a decision in an instant. She was probably digging her own grave with this, but decided to do it anyway — to be the Harry to his Fiona. “Why did you bother putting a patch on those jeans? They’re halfway faded and there’s a permanent stain on your right leg.”

Harry slowly set down the cup he’d been rinsing and turned to her, arms folded. She thought she saw the hint of a grin on his face, but she didn’t want to start assuming things that weren’t really there. “These are my favourite jeans.”

“How long do you plan on keeping them, then? At the rate you’re going, there’s going to be plenty of tears and there won’t really be any point of wearing trousers at all.”

This was his own game, thrown back at him by the person he loved to play it with the most. Fiona kept her expression composed, eyebrow quirked and just the slightest curve of her lips, meeting his gaze steadily. “If we’re criticizing clothing now, would you like to discuss the fact that you’re wearing a pink sock and one that is not only not pink, but has bees on it?”

“I like my bee socks.”

“Not very much, apparently, since you were only able to find one.”

“You’ve seen my bedroom. Can’t see anything through all the books.”

Harry finally started to look like he was enjoying himself. “Ah, yes, your books. I saw a copy of The Hunger Games hiding in plain sight amongst the Romantics. Did you think people wouldn’t notice?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Most people don’t.”

Niall, who Fiona could hear talking on the phone from the second he’d come in, strolled out into the main room. He glanced between them, then muttered a goodbye to whoever he was talking to, and slowly lowered his phone from his ear. “Were you two arguing? I don’t remember the last time you had a proper go at each other.”

“It was hardly an argument,” Fiona said, pushing off of the back of the couch. “Harry’s lost his touch.”

Harry was indignant. “I haven’t lost anything!”

Fiona cast a resigned look in his direction on her way to the ugly green sofa. Niall, already bored with them, wandered toward the kitchen where Harry stood. “Whatcha making there, mate?”

“Ratatouille,” Harry replied.

Niall peeked in the oven. “Doesn’t look like much.”

“There’s leftover boeuf bourguignon in the fridge,” Harry said, smiling in satisfaction at Fiona. She ignored him.

“Brilliant!” Niall exclaimed, and pulled the pot out, shutting the refrigerator door with his hip. “You been cooking up loads of French stuff lately, bro.”

“The chef goes through these phases where he centres the menu around a certain type of cuisine. He’s been into classic French for a while now. But I saw prosciutto the other day, so we might be in for a change.”

Fiona had watched enough food-centric television to know that prosciutto was some fancy kind of ham. Niall was about to heat up some of the boeuf bourguignon in the microwave, when Harry stepped in and grabbed the bowl out of his hand, dumped the contents back into the pot, and put it on the hob on low heat. “That would ruin it,” Harry said, pointing an accusing finger at the microwave.

“Well, we must eat it at the table like proper adults,” Niall replied. “Such fancy food deserves as much.”

Harry knew that Niall was mocking him, but he didn’t disagree about the table. “Ratatouille and boeuf bourguignon are not fancy. They’re like a comfort food. If I’d made foie gras or turbot, which I’d never do for you lot, maybe we’d be having a different conversation.”

“Anything with a French name sounds fancy to me,” Niall shrugged. He went over and flopped down on the bigger couch with a sigh. “How long till it’s done? I’m starving.”

Harry checked his watch. “Twenty minutes, maybe.”

Precisely twenty-two minutes later, they were sat around the table with the ratatouille and boeuf bourguignon divided up between them. Niall scarfed down most of the available boeuf bourguignon and didn’t eat his aubergines, but he was ample distraction during the meal. Harry was too busy being all cut up about Niall not appreciating the food, so no complicated looks Fiona didn’t understand were sent in her direction. It was a remarkably unremarkable meal — not the food, but the atmosphere — and reminded Fiona of the summer, on the nights that Wren wasn’t there, when the three of them ate and Harry scolded Niall’s eating habits and Niall talked about politics and Fiona sat and watched and let the madness ensue.

Niall wanted to watch football highlights, but Harry insisted that they help him clear the dishes once they were finished eating. Throwing everything into the dishwasher sped up the process, and Fiona managed to help out without so much as brushing Harry’s arm. But that might be because he was avoiding contact too.

“Hey, Fiona, someone’s calling you,” Niall said, stood near her place at the table where her phone sat. “Says ‘home.’”

Fiona tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and quickly took the phone into the corridor. “Hello?”

“Fiona!”

“Eli,” Fiona leaned against the wall, relieved. “I haven’t heard from you in a few days. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Like you said, it’s been a few days.”

“School’s good? You still enjoying maths?”

Eli laughed. “Yes, Fiona, I still like maths.”

“Right, well, don’t push yourself. You’re only ten.”

“It’s just maths!” Eli protested. “I haven’t decided I’m going to be like Dad, Fiona.”

Fiona twirled a strand of hair around her finger, glancing toward the common area. She could just see Harry, rummaging through the cupboards. Niall had turned on the telly, the sports channel on at top volume. “Just remember that it’s your decision.”

He groaned. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“We always talk about what’s going on here. I want to talk about what you’re doing.”

“What’s going on there is more important than what’s going on here,” Fiona said gently. She lifted her leg and placed her foot against the opposite wall, feeling her muscles stretch as she pressed her heel down. “But sure. We can talk about me if you like.”

There was a pause. “What’s that noise?”

She switched legs. “Just Niall, he’s watching football.”

“When do I get to meet Niall? I tell you about all my friends but I don’t know any of yours. What about Harry?”

Ten year olds had an awful lot of questions. Fiona didn’t understand how he remembered Harry after she’d mentioned him one time, weeks ago. “He’s hardly a friend, Eli. He’s just—”

Harry appeared in the corridor, a mug in his hand. He held it out to her, lips pressed together and dimples indenting his cheeks. Fiona stared at the cup, then at him, then back at the cup. “Well?” Harry asked. “Are you gonna take it or what?”

“I, er,” Fiona switched the phone to her other ear and grabbed it with her freed-up hand. “Cheers, Harry.”

“Harry’s there?”

“Eli, not now.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “You talk to your brother about me? That’s cute.”

“Piss off,” Fiona snapped, but ended up being the one to march in the other direction. Once her bedroom door was shut tight behind her, she sat down at her desk and took a sip of tea. He’d put just the right amount of milk in, better than she did most days. “Sorry, Eli, I didn’t mean to be rude to you. You know I never—”

“I know, Fiona,” Eli replied quietly.

But she had to finish. “Not you. Never you.”

“I know,” Eli repeated. “I heard Mum talking to you yesterday. You know her and Dad haven’t been fighting as much? I think it’s ‘cos you’re answering when she rings, Fiona. Honest.”

“But you know it’s not all going to get better suddenly, yeah? This sh—stuff doesn’t get fixed just like that. Besides, if Dad won’t talk to me, it’s never gonna be any different than it is now, no matter how many times I pick up the phone when Mum calls.” There was background noise on Eli’s end. Two muffled, but distinct voices that Fiona identified immediately. “Are you in the hallway cupboard again?”

Eli had made up a sort of sanctuary in the hallway cupboard. He had comic books, their mum’s old iPad, posters, and Fiona had helped him put up leftover fairy lights one Christmas so he wouldn’t have to keep the door cracked open for light. There was an outlet conveniently placed next to the cupboard to plug the lights into. Although Eli acted like it was a secret between the two siblings, Fiona knew their parents well enough to be certain they were aware of his hiding place. They’d probably let him keep the sanctuary, too; it was an innocent secret. Fiona’s secrets hadn’t been so innocent, not in their minds at least.

“Yeah. Oh, Fiona, Mum bought me those glow-in-the-dark stars — you know the ones you put on the ceiling? I put some in my room but then I thought they would look cool in here. It’s so awesome, I can’t wait for you to see it.”

“Me too.”

Then again, Eli was a ten year old boy who liked to sit in a cupboard and read Spiderman comics. Fiona had been an angry teenager who liked kissing people that didn’t necessarily match up with her parents’ preconceived notions of acceptable. So maybe she hadn’t actually kissed a girl yet when all the trouble with her parents started, but she knew she wanted to, that gender wasn’t an issue for her, and that was were the problem lay.

+++

The smell of popcorn was actually quite nauseating if you worked long enough at a cinema. Fiona didn’t like being stuck at concession, but she preferred it to cleaning up after a screening. Her shirt was boxy and the visor around her head itched, but all of these things seemed worse because she was in a bad mood. After not a wink of sleep the night before and a whole day of impatient film-goers, sticky floors, and an unfinished essay sitting on her laptop, Fiona either wanted to get very drunk or collapse in bed.

“Oh my god, Fiona!” Cassidy came up to the till, wallet already in hand. Zayn was nowhere in sight. “I had no idea you were working tonight. How are you?”

“Fine,” Fiona said. “What can I get you?”

“Number three, please. With a Mars bar.”

“Fiona, hey.” Zayn sauntered up to the counter, slinging an arm over Cassidy’s shoulders as she handed a few notes to Fiona. “We’re headed to the pub down the street after our film, if you wanna join.”

“I’m off at eleven.”

“Our movie ends at ten-thirty,” Cassidy said. Fiona slid the order across the counter with a promise that she’d consider meeting them.

The desire to get very drunk was much stronger than the one to crash into bed by the time her shift ended. Fiona changed back into her striped t-shirt and threw on her jacket, slamming her locker door shut. Several other employees were off at the same time, and Fiona caught a few snippets of conversations. They were going to the pub too. One girl, who Fiona talked to on occasion because they had very similar schedules, cast a tentative look her way. To quell the girl’s anxiety over not knowing whether to invite her, Fiona smiled and waved as she headed out.

She sent Zayn a text telling him she was on her way. It wasn’t raining for a change, but the night was cold, and she shoved her hands deeper into her pockets as she hurried down the sidewalk, toward the pub on the corner.

The couple were seated at a high table on precarious looking stools, and had dragged one over from god-knows-where for her to sit on. There was a pint waiting. Fiona shrugged off her coat and draped it over her stool before sitting down, purse in her lap. “I don’t think I’ve ever been here,” she said by way of greeting.

“It’s not two blocks from your job!” Cassidy said, surprised. “I swear I’ve exhausted every possible pub and restaurant within a ten kilometer radius of the gallery.”

“I don’t really hang around here, much,” Fiona replied, just before some of her coworkers came in. The girl Fiona sometimes talked to spotted her almost immediately, and looked surprised to see her with other people. The only person her coworkers had actually seen her speak to was Niall, who liked to bring his dates to the cinema and try to get free popcorn. Fiona was perfectly all right with them thinking whatever they thought; it was just a job to her in the end.

“Listen, I need to apologize again for us not hanging out recently,” Cassidy said, leaning forward and putting a hand on Fiona’s arm. “It’s been mad at the gallery this week. We’ve got that show, coming up, you know. Zayn said he told you about it?”

She looked at her boyfriend for confirmation of this, and he nodded. Fiona sipped her pint, offering up a smile. “Yeah, he did. I’ll be there. I’m not working that night, so.”

“Oh, brilliant!”

“Yeah, I forgot to mention,” Zayn said, raking his hair back. “Harry’s coming as well. He even asked for the night off. He works like mad, I wouldn’t be surprised if they promote him soon. He’s already been taking on more dinner service shifts, after they kept him on mornings for ages.”

“Harry’s a great cook. That’s all it takes, really.”

“The restaurant business is really competitive, though,” Zayn pointed out. “You can’t just be good. You can’t make mistakes. Not if you work in a place like that.”

Fiona knew the restaurant Harry worked in was posh and in a hotel, but not much more. He didn’t talk about it much, unless he was prompted by someone else. Or, maybe he just didn’t talk about it with her, unless he had to.

“Anyway, enough about stressful workplaces,” Cassidy said, with a wave of her hand.

Since they’d hardly seen each other in the last two weeks, and neither Niall nor Louis was there to dominate the conversation, they had a lot to talk about. From Zayn’s latest project to the tattoos they were considering on getting next, the conversation continued until the bell rang for last call an hour later. “You want?” Fiona asked, hopping off her stool. She rummaged through her purse for the five pound note she knew was rumpled up somewhere in there.

“I’m good,” Cassidy said. Zayn said the same, still with half his drink left.

Fiona went up to the bar, where a blonde in a filmy black top and the most perfect set of teeth Fiona had ever seen was filling up a pint. Since Cassidy and Zayn had been paid for her last two drinks, Fiona had yet to see who was serving drinks. “Hi,” Fiona said, teeth indenting her bottom lip as she leaned forward on the bar on her forearms. “A pint of Fuller’s, please.”

The woman’s eyes flicked over to Fiona as she set down a beer in front of another gentleman and took the note he handed her. “Fuller’s,” she said, once the glass was full. Fiona paid for her drink, then had a chance to say something more, but someone else was already taking the barmaid’s attention away, wanting to get in their last order before closing.

Fiona slumped back to the table in an even worse mood. “She was well fit,” she sighed, when Cassidy asked what was wrong. “Looked nice, too. I could use someone nice, it’d balance the scales, I think.”

“You didn’t notice the ring, then?” Zayn asked with an amused smile.

Fiona scowled at him, then glanced over her shoulder at the bar. Sure enough, an engagement ring glittered on the barmaid’s finger. “Oh, bloody hell. That’s it, I’m never going to find anyone.”

“I didn’t know you were looking,” Cassidy said with unconcealed interest.

“Not, like, actively,” Fiona replied, sipping her pint. “But yeah. Seems about time I started, anyway.”

“That’s good, Fiona,” said Zayn, squeezing her shoulder.

“Not when all the people I’m interested in are either unavailable or uninterested,” she said. “But you two don’t want to hear about this, I’m not looking for what you have.”

A knowing, concerned look came across Zayn’s face. “You’re afraid all over again, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Listen, Fiona, I know with Wren it was—”

“This isn’t about that.” Fiona drank half her pint in one go. “Look, I’m gonna go.”

Zayn put a hand on her wrist. Not forcefully, but more of a reminder that he was there. “Fiona, don’t run off just because I start talking about something you don’t wanna hear.”

“What were you gonna say, then?” she asked, brows raised.

“You don’t want to get hurt again. And we all understand that, so don’t think what you’re going through is so different from everyone else. We’ve all had shit breakups, Fiona.”

“Remember when we broke up? That was pretty shit,” Cassidy said, eyes shimmering with memory.

Zayn smiled softly at her. “Yeah. It lasted what, a week?”

“Six days.”

“I really don’t see how this is supposed to be helping me,” Fiona interjected, wriggling her wrist free from Zayn’s grasp. She took another drink.

Cassidy ran a hand through her hair, twisting her body toward Fiona. “I think what Zayn’s trying to say is, we’re here for you. Just now we were actually getting somewhere, you haven’t talked about fancying someone since…who knows when! It’s all right to talk about it, yeah? With any of us.”

“There’s nothing to talk about with Wren anymore,” Fiona said, with certainty she wouldn’t have been able to muster a week before. “I just need time to work on the whole let’s talk about our feelings thing. I’m more used to telling people to fuck off, and that’s not very polite.”

“No,” Cassidy laughed.

“Come back home with us,” Zayn offered. “We can talk more there. Or not, whatever.”

“I think I’m gonna head back to mine.”

He nodded. “Okay. But call, yeah? Neither of us ever sees you.”

Fiona glanced between them, allowing herself to grin. “That’s because you’re both so bloody busy all the time!”

+++

As a rule, Fiona Kingsley did not wear dresses. She owned two, and only wore them when absolutely necessary. The art show was one of those occasions.

Niall was god-knows-where and Allison couldn’t be dragged from her flat because of some massive assignment she had to do for her Byzantine history class, leaving Fiona alone in the flat and no idea of how to prepare for a fancy party. She called Allison, even though she’d promised not to.

“You need me already?”

“I look ridiculous,” Fiona said, standing in front of the mirror on the back of her door in a plain black dress. She owned another almost identical one, the only difference being the cut (this one was sleeveless, the other had three-quarter length sleeves). “I hate dresses.”

“Why do you have to wear a dress?”

“Because it’s at a bloody art gallery, I’ve got to look classy or something.”

“I reiterate my question.”

Fiona tilted her head to the side, appraising her reflection. “That is an excellent point. Thank you, Allison.”

“Will that be all? I’ve got a chapter on the Palaiologos dynasty to read.”

“Yes. What do I wear instead?”

There was a pause as Allison considered her answer. “It’s at an art gallery, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Wear a turtleneck. There’s definitely gonna be someone else in one, so you’ll blend right in.”

“Did you Google art gallery people?”

“Nope,” Allison said, in a way that Fiona knew that she had.

“Fine, I think I’ve got one. Cheers.”

“Have fun!”

Fiona emerged from the flat half an hour later, dressed all in black. She realized on her way outside, opening her umbrella against the rain, that she may have gone too far with the whole ‘mysterious art girl’ thing, with extra kohl around her eyes and deep red lipstick, but it was too late for that.

The art show, exhibition, party, whatever it was called, was about an hour in when she arrived. The gallery was made out of the ground floor of an old factory, the upper levels leased out to offices and the like. Temporary walls were put up to divide the space into several rooms, and they could probably rearranged whenever they had a big enough event. It wasn’t crowded by any means, but there were enough people for Fiona to know that this was just the beginning of the night. She checked her coat and made sure her turtleneck was tucked into her jeans and her jeans were tucked into her heeled boots, then went in.

Standing next to a massive canvas with something painted on it that Fiona couldn’t make any sense of were Zayn and Cassidy. They held glasses of champagne and were murmuring to one another, eyeing a group of older people across the way. Fiona made a beeline for her friends, holding onto the strap of her purse with tight fingers.

“You look gorgeous,” Cassidy said, smiling widely at her. “Also very intimidating. I like it.”

She was wearing a dress. But Zayn had jeans on, so Fiona didn’t feel like she’d made some kind of fashion error. Fiona glanced around, spotting a turtleneck-wearing man across the makeshift room. “So, what happens at these things?”

“You look at the art, talk to the artists, mingle with everyone else. Some people are here to buy pieces, but everyone else just wants to appreciate the art and have a good time. The older crowd leaves around midnight, then we put on the good music and start serving heavier drinks.”

“So it’s actually, like, a party?”

“One with expensive art that you aren’t allowed to touch,” Cassidy nodded. “Hence the entry fee. It covers insurance in case someone gets a little too drunk.”

“Entry—?”

Cassidy waved a hand. “Oh, don’t worry. You’re my guest, you don’t have to pay.”

“Brilliant.”

Zayn glanced at his phone. “Harry’s on his way.”

“Did you, er, tell him I’d be here, by chance?” Fiona asked.

“No, why?”

“No reason. I’m getting a drink.”

Fiona looked for a server of some sort, wandering in and out of the rooms. She got distracted by the art on occasion, some of the stranger pieces catching her eye. Each room seemed to feature a different artist; some were bigger than others, some had multiple forms of art, some had only one piece. She finally found a server and took a glass of champagne, then caught the gaze of a young man across the room when the waiter moved away.

Since he was the youngest person she’d seen thus far, Fiona thought that maybe he was one of the artists. But the woman in a paisley print smock dress appeared to be the centre of attention in this particular room, so she discarded that thought.

Then the young man was in front of her. He had cool dark skin and an angular jaw, and he was dressed all in black like her, though his attire consisted of slacks and a dress shirt, and not jeans and a wool turtleneck. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, showing off muscular forearms. “You look like you have no idea what you’re doing.”

Fiona, who did not like it when people assumed things but liked to entertain those with the audacity to open with things like that, quirked an eyebrow. “Is that right?”

He smiled and stuck out a hand. There was a silver ring on his middle finger. “I’m Joshua.”

“Fiona,” she said, returning his handshake.

“So, back to the part where you’re completely lost here,” he said, when their hands had returned to their sides. Fiona narrowed her eyes at him, losing her patience already. “You’re one of Cassidy’s friends, yeah? She said she would be inviting some gallery virgins.”

“Oh, first I have no idea what I’m doing, now I’m a gallery virgin? I don’t think I like where this is going. Next thing I know I’ll be sent out on the street because I don’t know the difference between Manet and Monet.” Joshua made a face that told her he was worried she didn’t. “Oh, chill out, would you? I’m allowed make jokes too.”

“Sorry,” he murmured. “Clearly I’ve read you all wrong.”

“You were actually doing quite well, mate,” said Harry, appearing out of absolutely nowhere. Fiona scowled at him, telling the stupid flutter in her chest to just quit it already. He sipped his champagne with a smirk. “Fiona loves a good argument.”

Joshua’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, we haven’t met.”

“Harry Styles, wonderful to meet you,” Harry said, shaking Joshua’s hand. Fiona wanted to smack him. Not only did he interrupt a conversation that she was curious to see where it was headed, he looked infuriatingly good in his halfway-buttoned, vertical-striped shirt and faded black jeans. His hair was loose, and freshly washed by the looks of it. Worst of all, he was chewing gum.

“Don’t you have anywhere else to be?” Fiona snapped, scowl deepening.

Of course, this was like fuel to Harry’s fire. Whatever weirdness from before appeared to be gone now, probably washed away with a few glasses of champagne and sideways glances from the ladies at the gallery. Maybe her efforts in the last two days had finally gotten him back to his usual annoying self, just at the worst time possible.

Either way, she most certainly did not want to dwell on it.

“Sorry, was I interrupting?”

“You know exactly what you were doing.”

“Actually,” Joshua interrupted, raising his hands. “I’m gonna go. I’m actually supposed to be working, and you two look like you’ve got unfinished business.”

Fiona didn’t even think, she just whipped the back of her palm against Harry’s arm once Joshua was gone. “Heeeey!” Harry squawked, clapping his free hand over his bicep. “What was that for?”

“For being a twat.”

“I was helping you. He was clearly getting ready to walk off when I showed up.”

“He was not! We were just figuring each other out, for christssake! You can’t just know immediately how to talk to someone.”

“I disagree.”

“Oh, really? Because you’re just an excellent judge of character?”

Harry’s bottom lip jutted out. “Yeah, I am.”

“Piss off, Harry.”

Fiona turned to stomp off. But then, “What do you want from me?”

“What?” she asked, pivoting on her heels and frowning at him.

“I’ve tried everything with you. I don’t talk, and suddenly you want to have a conversation. We argue, and you don’t want anything to do with me. I tried to k—” He broke off, then chuckled and shook his head. “We both know how well that worked out.”

Fiona didn’t know what to say. All this time she’d been trying to figure him out, and he’d been doing just the same. “I don’t know,” she said, making his eyes flick up to hers, his eyebrows knit together and his mouth in a firm line. “I don’t know what I want from you, Harry.”

His features softened. “Does that mean I should keep trying?”

She shrugged. “If you’re up for it.”