May [H.S]

33

(If you are still really confused about what's going on with Harry reread chapter 23, that chapter has such delicious foreshadowing!)

Magnolia
•••

L'appel du vide.

The fog had lingered long after the sun rose, and clung to the base of the far-off mountains. The air smelled of a prediction, an insight into the weather for the night–the clouds as well, hanging overhead and hued with differing shades of gray. Even as the beams of the sun rolled over the surface of my skin, picking at my freckles, the wind came in and blew away any gathered body heat. I kept my knees to my chest in protest, encouraging that accumulated warmth to my core.

It had been like this, a reflection of the storms outpouring in my thoughts–mildly warm, and damp, wet, really wet. The sun hid behind the clouds for the most of the day, when it did shine, I made it a point to soak it in. Letting the beams dance across my face, just for those slim moments. With outward gloominess it was painless to make excuses and shut myself in the rink; avoiding the downpour as I stayed in the sheets longer, or clung to the cushions of my sofa–mindless as MTV reruns flickered on the screen of the television. One of the threads on my couch was loose, that's all I could seem to care about and at this point I was sure I could quote Fiona Apple's Criminal by memory.

I'd talked to Indie once, since the funeral, she'd dragged me out of my apartment for brunch with Niall—who I could tell wanted to ask me about H but politely opted not to, nodding along to whatever Indie and I conversed about. She was interested in me, my feelings and made it very known. I figured I needed a mimosa or three to begin to understand my thought process these days but the moment the waitress mentioned it she'd declined without much thought—I took it as a very straightforward sign that she knew the root of my outburst at the funeral was the result of alcohol.

She didn't directly bring up the funeral nor did Niall, glossing over it like it had been nothing more than a fever dream. It was to me, I didn't remember much of the burial except that the wind had blown his flowers over and that my legs were cold, nothing beyond that. I think the brunch was the most effort Indie's made in a while, and a part of me understood why she hadn't. I felt like a zoo animal being gawked at from the other side of the booth—fully unable to hide from them, I'm sure she could sense that. That I didn't want to get into the nitty gritty and that their innocent questions made my skin crawl.

I wanted to tell her to leave me alone—I could take care of myself, and that I'd order a fucking mimosa if I pleased.

Being dragged to brunch was easier to stomach than something like tonight. I'd been dreading tonight since the phone call letting me know of its existence. I genuinely had no energy in me to preen, and I was scared of how I'd come off with no energy to filter out all of the bad stuff. It was easier at Phil's funeral with so many emotional crutches around me, I didn't have that advantage for tonight.

My coach's voice hammered through my head, shrill and unforgiving, I could feel a migraine coming on. Maybe the only way out of tonight was an act of feigned sickness. I did ache, all over, thanks to her.

Another draft blew past, sharp and straight to the point. Small particles of dust and long-discarded foliage are wind bound, just for a moment before they spiral around each other and fall back to the rough crackled state of the concrete.

I tap my foot on the surface as much as I can in my restricted state, my arms keeping me together, and ensuring I don't knock over the glass bottle beside me that is sitting rather wobbly on the pavement.

The head of shimmery golden locks comes back into view again, this time he's carrying a towel, and oil stains down the column of his unclothed torso. Bruises litter the pale skin. He acknowledges me softly before going back to what he was doing before. Previously, the oil had poured out, and it had soaked through his shirt. I'd waited out here–drowned in thought–while he discarded it and cleaned up as best as he could. I wasn't sure what came next and didn't ask, passively watching him crouch under the bike with some small version of a wrench-like thing. I hadn't the brain power to take note of his whole process changing the oil.