Buttercup [H.S]

Chapter Twelve

When Harry said we were going to be friends again, I hadn't expected it to be so immediate. So when he asked me what plans I had for this evening and I told him nothing, it had thrown me for a loop when he said I was joining him in his. What those plans were - he didn't elaborate on.

At the end of the day he waited for me to close up my stall and told me he'd drive me home to drop my trailer off, and I followed him to his van with sweating palms and a spinning head.

Lucy had shot me a bemused but excited look when she noticed the two of us leaving together but I could only shrug, because I didn't have a fucking clue what was happening.

Regardless of my elation at the turn of events, I was also incredibly glad of the offer of a ride home when we left the market to be met with a downpour of rain.

It's funny how the contrast in weather juxtaposed Harry and I's relationship. All the time we'd been at odds at the market we'd been graced with a glorious summer, and now that things had shifted its like the weather had broke, cleansing away - if only metaphorically - the rift between us.

I watched him quietly as he hurried to slide open the back door of his van to load up my trailer along with the bag of vinyls I'd purchased that day, squeezing it in amongst hoards of instruments and amps before we rushed out of the rain into the front seats.

"Where are we going?" I ask him timidly as we head in the direction of my house, the windscreen wipers beating furiously back and forth to battle the rain thundering down on the windows.

I watch Harry's profile as he attempts to take some of the rain water from his dampened locks before flicking them back out of his face.

"Patience," he says quietly before he turns on the sound system, an old Arctic Monkeys song filling the space between us.

I smile to myself, recognising the lyrics and being reminded of one of the notes I'd found in the tin.

"I know this one," I tell him with a grin. "And I do like them by the way."

"What are you talking about?" He asks quizzically.

"I, uh, I found some old notes when I came across those records," I say, feeling my cheeks burn at my honesty. "You know the ones we used to pass back and forth? And one of them was asking how I couldn't like the Arctic Monkeys."

Harry focuses on the road, deep in thought for a beat of time.

"You kept my notes?" He asks, shooting me a look of utter disbelief.

My cheeks flame hotter.

"Yeah. I did."

Harry laughs, a small chuckle at first before it turns into a bark that forces his head to fly back and his eyes to water.

"I kept yours," he says, flashing me a grin.

"Really?!"

"Yeah," he nods. "Think they're in a shoebox at my mums house somewhere. Fucking hell! And here I was thinking I was the sentimental one."

I shake my head.

"I forgot all about them, came across them by accident when I was clearing out."

Harry glances over to me, running a hand through his hair.

"Is that what prompted the note today?" He asks, voice suddenly more serious.

I feel a knot of nerves twist tightly. Because we were venturing into territory that was incredibly difficult for me to verbalise.

"Yeah, I suppose," I say, my voice small. "It was a long time coming. But then I found those records and the T-shirt-"

"T-shirt? What T-shirt?"