May [H.S]

03

Magnolia

•••

Ce sera notre petit secret.

Languid stares, a dousing in the array of crystalline lighting, forceful relaxation. My leg rests over the other, a drink between the painted nails of my fingers. Pacing, the cold rim greets my lips.

Observing the hours— or so it appears— pass by me. Melting into thin air after each dully cherished cocktail, using the open bar to my advantage. The tender behind the bar didn't have to receive an order from me, knowing to keep them coming until I look like a woman having her midlife crisis. Which would be true without the inclusion of being middle-aged, considering something about seeing him stirred unneeded emotion.

Frustratingly enough I didn't know what it meant — or daresay I do and I don't want to admit what Harry being back in town means for the both of us. For me. He didn't help all of the drama already unfolding across all areas of my life, just another dozen bricks added to the sack over my shoulder. Something in that smug gaze over his features told me he knew that, he knew him being here was problematic, that it caused mental friction.

Did he even care?

A laughable question as it comes to Harry, these past years have said explicitly that he doesn't care.  

As the figure slumps down in the stool beside me, I don't have to look over to know who it is. Especially by the amount of electricity this certain person's presence ignites, nor the memorable scent that follows them around like a shadow under the sun. Pine, traces of vanilla, and on top of it all tobacco.

My peripheral vision cheats, seeing him slick his hair back, one large, ring-infested hand combing through the cascading curls. Under the bar lighting, his jawline is clear, popping with gum I'm sure is pounded by his molars. Breath fresh of bourbon and mint, so intertwined in hurtful nostalgia.

Knowing his attention is solely on me, I smirk loosely to myself, bringing the thin straw up to my faded red lips.

"I'll have a scotch— double." A melty rasp says firmly to the bartender, gesturing in a ring-ridden finger. It's as though he's ordering the drink from me because his eyes don't leave my side profile— not once— he draws his tongue lazily over his lips. Peach bellini, parted in divinity, and accented by his full mustache.

I sense he wants me to address him first, giving in with the thick air.  

"Are you done making scenes?" I sip at my drink, raising my brows at him in a sort of taunt. Similar to the way he looked at me over an hour ago, amused and belittling. Big man on campus, puffing his chest.

My eyes fall to the tattoos shying through his barely buttoned shirt, a silver cross hanging between the chest hair there. That fucking cross. I inhale sharply as I stare longer, seeing the butterfly peak its wings, and what looks like newer tattoos above his swallows, tangling just up his neck. He's covered in tattoos, so much more than I remember.

I swore I had a mental note of them all; swallows, the butterfly, ferns, mermaid, bible, ship, rose, both hearts, his grans' name. The list went on. Now there's too many to jot down.  

He clears his throat, knocking me lucid with his toothy grin, "Got it out of my system... Partially." His tongue greets his lips once again, shying a sheer layer over the already pigmented state of them. It's hard not to drool over the sight. Over the sight of him in general, his beard— entire appearance, long curls, properly pristine suit, that lingering, cocky confidence that I shouldn't be attracted to but am, his pupil-dominated, forest green eyes.