Still You (Niall Horan)

Chapter 1

October 30, 2012 

There was a lot of pain that came up that night, but when I thought back on it, I remembered the one in my ankle first.

It was a gentle pricking, but a protruding one, like a pressured, constant poking from a shrimp fork or other tiny utensil. Manageable for sure, but I dreaded the thought of the ache continuing relentlessly for the next few hours.

These bloody shoes, I thought to myself as I waited in line beside the other waitresses. My ankle sock had slipped down into my clogs earlier in the night, and the black pleather dug into the skin on the back of my right foot. I was debating whether the pain was sharp enough to mean that it had burst a blister, too, a remnant of my last shift when I ran into the same problem.

Sure, yeah, I could start wearing longer socks to work. But that would open up a whole other conversation about laundry-doing and not throwing away socks when the elastic ran out and how it really made more sense to surrender a few pairs to my nights spent working at The Houndstooth than it did to ruin my perfectly good ones. It was a whole system, really.

"Order's up, Lizzie," Aaron said, realigning me back into reality. I gave him a grateful smile, ignoring the pain as I scooped up the plates, one in each hand. My grip was firm but steady as I pressed my back against the door out of the kitchen, shoulderblades-first back out into the dining room.

The London cafe was smaller than the one I had worked at back in Dublin, the result of pricier rent and an ever-growing population that was just another reminder of the difference between here and my home. It had been three months since I'd moved here to transfer to a London university, and while I'd love to say I had gotten to know the city, most of my time outside of class was spent here. Altogether, I probably walked more steps back and forth between the kitchen and dining room than I had in the city streets.

I had grown a certain fondness for the cozy atmosphere of the cafe, though. It felt like a mix of a secret library from childhood mixed with where I imagined Sherlock Holmes spent his days, a cracking fireplace and all to offset the smell of spices in the air.

I liked the gig, I really did, but tonight was Tuesday. Martha, my favorite fellow plate-slinger, and I liked to call it boozeday because quick shots of hard liquor tossed back between kitchen runs were the only way to get through The Houndstooth's weekly open mic night. It usually resulted in an unplanned-but-raging hangover the next day and bruises all up and down my legs, too, since we had to squeeze the tables together to make room and my tipsy ass and I would most often spend the evenings banging into various sharp corners.

So, I mean, no one could really blame me for what happened next. I was two shots in, in the midst of signaling Martha to pour me a third, and working on a condensed version of the usual setup as I headed for the seating area. And it wasn't really my fault that the customer had chosen that exact moment to walk in front of the out door as if they had never been to a goddamn restaurant before and didn't know that a place that served food would consist of, I don't know, servers emerging from the kitchen carrying hot plates who couldn't see you very well.

I braced my back against the door, immediately feeling the change in temperature as I stepped into the dining room. But what should have been a smooth transition was immediately interrupted by a weight on the other side of the door. The leftover momentum forced me to swing around and smack pasta-plate first into the human who had interrupted my plans.

"Oh my god, fuck, I'm so, damn, sorry I shouldn't swear, um I'm so sorry," I blurted out all in one breath, only to drop the plate in shock when I saw the recipient of my great tortellini tragedy.