Left My Heart Out

The next time I come to the coffee shop, Niall is waiting at the door for me, like he knew I’d be coming, and I’m not surprised to see him there, seeing as we seem to have established a pattern of being there at the same time.  He holds the door open for me (which I’m grateful, but only for a second, because it’s windy outside and my nose is surely bright red from the cold), and I barely acknowledge him as I step inside.

“How are you today, Quentin?” he asks as he follows me inside, coming to a stop much too close to me, so close that I can smell whatever cologne he’s wearing when we queue up for our drinks.  

“Alive,” I say, though the truth is, I was feeling pretty great this morning.  I woke up to light streaming in through my blinds, and I didn’t think about until at least 10 minutes later.  But then I couldn’t find my lucky socks, and that’s when things started to go downhill.  “And yourself?”

“I’m fantastic,” Niall says, sounding far too enthusiastic for 3 PM, which is when I usually have my afternoon can’t-keep-my-eyes-open crash, hence the need for coffee.  “I do have an essay due soon, though.”

“Hmm.”  I turn forward, stretching my neck so that I can see the pastries on display under glass at the counter.  Niall says something else, but I ignore him, trying my best to convey to him just how unwelcome his attempts at small talk are.  

But then he tries to pay for my drink.

I barely have a chance to reach for my purse before Niall steps up to the counter next to me and says, “I’ve got it.  And a small drip coffee for me as well, please.”  Then he reaches into his pocket and extracts his wallet.  In the second it takes him to flip through the contents, I manage to pick my jaw up off of the floor.

“I can pay for my own drink, Niall,” I tell him, trying not to make too big a scene because there’s a queue of people behind us, and a very impatient looking girl behind the till.  I try to grab the fiver out of his hand as he slides it across of the counter, but he’s faster than me, and before I realize what’s happening, he’s holding it above my head, and I’m jumping around like a maniac, trying to grab it.

“I’m just trying to be nice,” he says, smiling at the girl behind the counter.  She doesn’t smile back.  I roll my eyes, trying to show her that it’s the principle of the thing, that Niall and I aren’t on a date, that we’re not even really friends, that he’s being absolutely ridiculous because there’s no reason whatsoever that he should pay for my drink.  She remains unamused.  

“You’re not nice,” I remind him, stretching my arm up for the bill, but he slips it in his back pocket with a satisfied grin on his face.  “You’re annoying.  You’re holding up the whole queue.”  

“Well, I’m trying to be nice,” he says, sounding perfectly pleasant.  “I’m trying to make up for being an arse to you.”

“It’s not–” I start, but the barista sighs dramatically, interrupting me.  I shoot her a death glare, which probably isn’t helping matters, but I’m so annoyed that I don’t care.  “How about you just cancel my order, then?”

“That’s ridiculous, Quentin,” Niall says, his voice strained.  “I’m just trying to–”

“Please, just let him pay for it,” someone shouts from behind us.  The shout is followed by a half dozen voices erupting in “Please!” and “Jesus Christ!”

Niall and the barista look at me expectantly.  Niall’s smirking, like he already knows that I’m going to say yes.  I realize that I don’t have a choice; an entire queue of caffeine-hungry people is rallying behind him.  But that doesn’t mean I have to enjoy it.

“Fine,” I say, crossing my arms.  “But don’t think I’m happy about it.”

“Oh, I think you’ve made that very clear,” the barista says, smiling tightly as she accepts Niall’s fiver and gives him his change.

I spin around and head for the tables, looking for one where Niall can’t join me, but all of the two-person tables are taken, which means I have to sit at one with four chairs.  Even if I take everything out of my bag, there’s no way I can take up that much space.  I can hear Niall chuckling as he watches me survey my options.  Finally, I settle on a table by the window, where at least I can distract myself by gazing outside if Niall proves too annoying to handle.

“So how are you really?” Niall asks as he sits down across from me.  He takes off his coat and puts it on the empty chair next to him, and then takes off his scarf (maroon with black stripes) and lays it over the top.  Then he looks at me with a raised eyebrow, which I take to mean, I can see through your bullshit, Quentin Presley.  

“Annoyed and angry,” I say in my most polite tone.  “And yourself?”

Niall ignores my snark and says, “Pretty good.  Though I’ve got this essay for my Shakespeare module, like I said, and it’s killing me–”

“You’re taking Shakespeare?”  I try to picture Niall on stage in puffy capri pants, holding a book in one hand and waving his other arm around, but the whole picture is ruined by a dozen scarves piled on his neck.  “Really?”

“Yeah,” he says, giving me a weird look.  He takes his laptop out of his bag, along with a worn copy of Hamlet.  “I need it for my degree.”

“Your degree?  Don’t you play footie?”

He gives me another confused look.  “No, I play rugby.  And that has nothing to do with my degree.  I study lit and journalism.”  

“Oh,” I say, realizing how stupid I must sound.  I always knew Niall went to uni, but I never really thought about him actually going to uni.  All Niall does, I’ve always thought, is be rude to me and wear lots of scarves.  “I study music.”

“I’m aware,” Niall says, grinning.  “I heard you singing in the shower once.”  

“No, you didn’t!” I object, trying to keep my voice down.  “I don’t sing in the shower!”

His grin widens.  “Oh, you do, too.”  And then he begins to sing.  “Hello, it’s me, I’m in California dreaming–”

“Shut up,” I squeal, stretching across the table to shove at his shoulder.  “You’re in London, singing in a coffee shop, you asshat.”

He stops singing, but then he starts laughing.  It’s big and melodious just like his singing voice, and a bit contagious, too.  A second later, I’m laughing with him.

+++++

The next day, I go to Liam’s to return his stuff.  I didn’t realize how many pieces of his clothing I’d stolen from him until I piled them all up on my bed.  There’s enough to fill a couple of plastic bags.  I take the lift up and knock on Liam’s door, half hoping that he won’t answer.  I haven’t really talked to him since our “breakup,” and I don’t really want to start now – which is why I’m here now, when I’m pretty sure he has class.

After a few seconds, someone opens the door, but it’s not Liam.  It’s Niall, fully dressed in his coat and scarf, as if he’s on his way out.

“Quentin?” he says, raising an eyebrow.  He doesn’t look displeased to see me, though.  Since he hasn’t gone outside yet, I know his red cheeks can’t be due to the wind.  “What are you doing here?”

“I just wanted to drop off some of Liam’s stuff,” I say, holding out the bags as proof.  Niall shrugs and steps aside to let me in.  “Is he here?”

“No,” Niall says.  “And I think you already knew that.”

I shrug.  I walk down the hall and kick open Liam’s door.  A familiar smell hits me, and I try not to breathe in as I drop the bags on the floor just inside the door and shut it again.  I don’t want to spend any time getting nostalgic over Liam’s navy blue plaid sheets or the Van Halen poster on his wall.  I’ve managed to do a pretty good job not spending every minute of every day missing Liam, and I’m not about to dwell on the spaces we used to occupy together.

When I come back out into the living room, Niall is standing there with his backpack over his shoulder and a pathetic look on his face.  He has his mobile in his hand, but as soon as I come in, he shoves it in the pocket of his coat and gives me a small smile.

“Are you, um, okay?” he asks, looking somewhere over my head.

“Yeah?  I’m fine,” I tell him, zipping up my jacket.  I got my coat back from Rusty’s the other day, and I’m never letting it out of my sight again.  “I just thought I should bring his clothes back in case he wants to give them to his girlfriend.”

His girlfriend.  The words taste a bit bitter on my tongue, but I try not to be bothered.  He’s moving on, and I’m moving… somewhere.  This is the way it’s supposed to be.

“Or, you know, wear them himself,” I say, trying to get rid of the awkward silence that’s suddenly filled the room.  Niall looks like he’s worried I’m about to burst into tears, and, frankly, I’m not sure he’s wrong to be nervous.  We were in this exact flat the first time Liam and I kissed, right over there by the sink–

“Are you staying?” Niall asks, interrupting my train of thought.  “Because I’m on my way out, and it’s fine if you hang around, I guess, but–”

“I thought you made Liam’s whore wait in the hallway.”  I’d almost forgotten about the comment that Niall made until now.  It didn’t even bug me that much the first time, maybe because I knew I was in a dead-end relationship where I was letting somebody else use me, so I don’t know why I’m bringing it up now.  Maybe because I’m here and I don’t want to be, or because Niall’s being too nice to me and I don’t know how to deal.  But either way, I regret it instantly, because Niall flinches when I say it.

“Oh,” Niall says.  He takes a step backwards and nearly trips over his too-long boot laces.  “I’m sorry I said that, Quentin, I was being stupid and I didn’t mean it, it just slipped out and I was annoyed with Liam for–”  

“It’s fine.  Stop apologizing.”  I cross the room and go through the door, not surprised to hear Niall following me.  His heavy boots clomp on the hallway and his jacket rustles as he increases his speed to catch up with me.  

“It can’t be fine if you’re bringing it up now,” he says, falling into step beside me.  “I hurt you, and I’m trying to make up for it, so why won’t you let me?”

“I didn’t mean to bring it up.  And what the hell are you talking about?” I ask him.  We’re almost at the lift, and the ride down to the ground floor takes two minutes, max, so I won’t have to endure this conversation forever.  

“At the coffee shop, I tried to buy your coffee the other day and you didn’t want me to.”  Niall sighs like I’m an idiot and gives me a look that says, Do I really have to explain this?  I give him a look that says, I couldn’t care less, mate.  “And I really thought we were getting somewhere!  I’ve just been trying to be really nice to you because I was an arse before, and I don’t want you to think I’m an arse now, because I’m really not, I was just being stupid.”

He pauses for a breath, and I take the opportunity to cut in.  “Why does it matter to you if I think you’re an arse?”

The lift door opens and Niall sticks his hand in the space to keep it open while I step inside.  Then he follows me and stands right next to me even though the whole rest of the lift is open.  I try not to breathe in, because he smells really good, like freshly showered fruity boy.  I hit the button for the ground floor and watch as the doors slide shut, trapping me in this small box with this strange boy for the few minutes it takes to reach the ground.

“It matters because,” Niall says, pulling his hands through his hair like he’s frustrated, “because I want to be your friend, and I’m trying really hard–”

“Woah, you need to–”

Before I can get the word “chill” out of my mouth, the lift jerks to a stop, throwing me off my feet.  I land, predictably, in Niall’s arms, except he’s lost his balance too, and the both of us end up crashing into the wall.  

“What the fuck was that?” Niall asks, grabbing my shoulders and putting me firmly on my feet.  “This lift is super reliable, it shouldn’t just stop like this.”

He goes over to the panel of buttons on the wall and starts pressing things, but nothing happens.  The lit number that says what floor we’re traveling too has gone out, and the only light is coming from the red emergency light on the box and Niall’s mobile, which he’s pulled out of his pocket and has started shining around everywhere, including into my eyes.

“Would you relax with that thing?” I snap, covering my eyes with my hand.  “It’s probably nothing.  A ton of people live in this building, I’m sure they’ll have us out of here soon enough.”  

“You don’t think I should call for help?” he demands, voice a bit rough.  I wonder if he’s afraid of enclosed spaces.  Or maybe he’s afraid the elevator will suddenly drop, plummeting us to our deaths.  Oh God.  I shake my head, trying to get rid of that thought.    

“Of course I think you should call for help,” I tell him, gritting my teeth.  “But I think you should try to do it without panicking.”

He gives up on the buttons and leans against the wall, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.  His breathing has gone a bit shallow, and I start thinking that maybe he is afraid of enclosed spaces.  “I’m not panicking.  I just… don’t like lifts.”  

“Then why did you get in one?” I ask, trying to distract him.  When I first moved in with Lucia, she told me all about her little sister who has panic attacks and how you can help her by talking to her about other things to distract her from the thing that’s making her panic.  I’m no expert, but I think I can manage to do that.

“Because you were getting in, and I wanted to talk to you,” he says quietly, his eyes still closed.  “I usually take the stairs.”

“Well, I’m here now, so you can talk to me about whatever you want, okay?” I say gently.  I’m never gentle, but I’m trying really hard right now.  I really don’t want Niall to have a panic attack, because if he has a panic attack he might die, and I really don’t want to be trapped in a lift with a dead person.  “C’mon, let’s sit down.”

I go over to Niall and tug his sleeve until he slides to the floor.  Then I sit next to him, my back against the wall and my legs straight out in front of me.  I cross one leg over the other, regretting my jeans with the hole in the knee.  His jeans don’t have any holes.

“So what do you want to talk about?” I ask him.  His shoulder is up against mine, and instead of moving away, I lean into him for a second, pressing him to answer.  “Niall?”

“I don’t know,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.  “Is it hot in here?  I’m feeling a bit warm.”  

“Here, take your scarf off,” I say, and when he doesn’t move, I reach over and undo the knot for him.  It’s black with navy blue stripes and feels homemade, just like the olive green one that he gave me.  I’ve got loads, he said at the party that night.  “Somebody make this for you?”  

“My sister,” he says.  I fold it in half twice and set it in his lap, where he grabs it and squeezes it tight, sticking his fingers through the stitchers.  

“It’s nice,” I say.  “I wish I could knit.  I tried once, but I wasn’t very good at it.”

To my surprise, Niall laughs.  “Nah, you wouldn’t be.  You’re way too impatient.”    

I scoff.  “I’m not impatient.”  

“You are,” he argues.  There’s a hint of laughter to his voice, and it’s a bit like the way he used to talk to me, like he was always snickering at me under his breath.  But this tone is sweeter, more genuine.  It makes me want to hear him laugh again, like we laughed yesterday in the coffee shop.  “You’re, like, more impatient than a little kid.”

“Thanks,” I scoff.  “You’re close with your sister, then?”

“Yeah,” he nods.  His eyes are open now, and he’s looking at me carefully, like he’s trying to memorize me.  I squirm under his gaze and look straight ahead, at the opposite wall, which seems to have moved several inches closer to me than it was a few minutes ago.  “We talk all the time.  I think we’re gonna do some traveling together this summer.”

“Oh yeah?  Where are you gonna go?”

He grins as he thinks about it.  It’s a cute little smile: it creates wrinkles beside his eyes and makes dimples appear in his cheeks.  “Madrid, Barcelona, Rome, Florence.  Maybe Berlin or Munich.  We’re not really sure yet.  But we’re gonna backpack it, trains and hostels and all that, ya know?”

I shrug.  “I’ve never been out of the UK.”

“What!” he gasps.  “But Europe’s, like, right there!”  

“I dunno, I’m busy,” I tell him.  “I like it here in London just fine.”

“Hmm,” he hums.  I watch his fingers fiddle with the scarf in his lap.  “I s’pose you never know what you’re missing if you never think about what’s out there.”

“Do you think about it a lot?  What’s out there?”

“Mhm.  I think I might like to be a travel writer someday,” he says, sounding much calmer now.  “When I was a kid, we came to London for the first time, and it was like… Like a whole new world, you know?  I felt like Ariel in ‘The Little Mermaid,’ when she first walks on land.  Except I still have my voice, obviously.”  He laughs, and I don’t say anything, wanting him to continue.  His voice is nice, and it’s making me feel less like I’m stuck in a lift and more like I’m listening to a pleasant audiobook.  “So when I got into uni in London, it was the chance of a lifetime, you know, because it’s been my favorite city ever since I came here as a kid.”

“Does it live up to your expectations?” I ask quietly.  I’m thinking about my own dream of London: I was going to go see musicals every weekend, and eventually, I was going to be in one.  I lost track of that dream somewhere.  “I mean, do you still love it?”

“Oh, yeah,” Niall says.  When I look over at him, I see that he’s smiling.  “So much.  It’s an amazing city, so diverse and multicultural and you know, all the museums are free.  And Europe’s right there are our fingertips.  You don’t even have to get on a plane if you don’t want to.”

“The museums are free?”

He laughs again.  It echoes around the lift, and I try to memorize the sound.

“Yeah, they’re free,” he says.  “Most of ‘em, anyway.  You’ve never been, Quentin?”

I shake my head.  “I went to the National Gallery once when I was a kid, but I guess I didn’t realize we didn’t pay.”

“Oh, there are so many better museums than the National Gallery,” Niall says.  “Like the British Museum, and the Tate Modern, the Tate Britain… We’ll go sometime, yeah?”

“Sure,” I say, making a promise that I expect I won’t keep.  But then I say something I don’t expect: “You can call me Q, if you want.  Everybody does.”

“Mmm, okay.  Q.”  He smiles, and I smile back, and it’s right then that the lift starts moving again.

By the time we arrive on the ground floor, Niall and I are both standing up facing the doors, two feet of space between us.  He’s swung his scarf around his neck without wrapping it, and it hangs down almost to his knees.  When the doors open, the doorman is standing there, looking a bit panicked.

“Oh good, you’re alright!” he says, rushing forward to grab my arm and attempt to help me out of the elevator.  “There was a power outage!  Thank God you weren’t stuck in there for too long.”

“Yep, we’re fine,” I say, giving him a half-smile.  He glances at Niall, who doesn’t say anything, and just continues to stand there.  

I’m wondering what to do – Should I thank the doorman?  He didn’t really do anything for me. – when Niall turns and throws his arms around me.  He catches me by surprise, so it takes me a minute to hug him back.  I slide my arms out from between us and wrap them awkwardly around his torso.  He’s warm, too warm, and the smell of fruity boy overwhelms me, so I try not to breathe.  I don’t want to think too hard about why I’m suddenly feeling dizzy.  

“Thanks, Q,” he whispers into my hair.  I don’t say anything, just nod into his shoulder.  When he pulls away, he turns and heads for the stairwell, going, I expect, right back up to his room to hyperventilate into a paper bag.  

And I’m left standing there in the foyer with the doorman, wondering why the hell my heart is beating so fast.