𝐀𝐢𝐧'𝐭 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭

Chapter 19: I Suppose This is Some Sort of Birthday Present?

19 April, 1957

Fiona's stomach growled as they approached the wafting scents of garlic, of butter, of something sweet, of deep-fryer oil, that all emanated from Happy's. It had been the first place on Fiona's mind when John had asked about eating; she'd remembered the pleasant experience she'd had here with Lynn once upon a time. It seemed like ages ago – but Fiona'd had quite a change of heart since then, and time seems to pass more easily when one's mind is open and one's spirit is light.

She was about to dig into her pockets to scour some change when John suddenly pressed a few coins into her cool hand. "Just don't go orderin' the fuckin' Wellington, yeah?" She raised her eyebrows, wary of his kindness, but accepted the donation.

They both ended up ordering fish and chips, as they'd both only eaten small lunches at school and didn't feel like ruining themselves for dinner. Well, John didn't care, but, at Fiona's scolding, decided agaainst ordering the three-course meal. The waitress behind the counter had seemed quite relieved when they'd given their order, thankful she had several baskets already on hand and that she wouldn't have to shout another order back at the kitchens.

As they pushed through the doors to walk along the pier and munch on their warm fried treasures, Fiona couldn't help smiling to herself as the memories flashed back.

"What?" John pried.

She turned, coloring half a second when she realized he'd been watching her.

She shook her head. "S'nothin'. Just last time I was here I talking about how much I hated rock and roll and – well, now here I am."

John nodded to himself. "Sure have come a long way, Long Tall Sally."

"Shut it, Hound Dog," she shot back, which made John snort.

"Nice, Fin."

"Oh, don't mention it... And thanks for not stealing this time." That got them both chuckling.

John raised a chip, gesturing for Fiona to do the same, and they tapped them together just as merrily as if they had indeed had champagne glasses. "For what we are about to receive, may Delores make us truly grapefruit."

Fiona sighed, amused as he laughed aloud at his wordplay. "Where do you get these sayings?"

"Me brain."

She rolled her eyes. "It's just- I didn't know you cared about words so much. You don't seem like the kind of-"

She knew she'd said the wrong thing, as John suddenly glared back at her, clearly hurt.

"I don't seem like the kind of what?"

"I just meant that-"

"What, just 'cause I don't give a fuck for what they force down our throats at school, that I don't give a pig's shit for anything?"

"John, please, it's just that most people-"

"I'm not most fuckin' people, Fin!" He was raising his voice, but as she began to wince, his face immediately softened, his eyes flooding with regret.

"I- I'm sorry... I'm sorry." He stared at his feet in shame, before he felt her hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her, though neither knew what to say, and so it was resolved, once again through some sort of nonverbal signal, between the two of them.

Fiona let her eyes wander into the distance, straining to see the horizon on the edge of the water, over which a light mist gathered. She tried to push the query out of her mind, when out it flopped again, until she couldn't resist cringing to herself: was this a date?