May [H.S]

34

Harry
•••

Encore une fois.

The racy summer sun had been washed away as clouds rolled in with an ever-pattering rain, dark and unmoving–the mornings came worse than the nights. The constant trickle occupied me, keeping my similarly thunderous mind at bay. It had been like this the past few days, rumbles kept me from sleeping in, dragging me from my sheets as the floors shook and the mattress groaned.

On the off moment I needed to be back home, the fog that lingered around late nights made making it back into my bed hazardous. The sticky bar top of Rubies felt more my speed, and with the addition of the gloominess, other customers were scarce, leaving me in my lonesome. Luke had been the one manning the bar for the first couple of nights, through the haze of alcohol I don't remember much of what he said. Anything that had to do with Meg I tuned out, hoping he'd get the hint and shut the fuck up. From the little that I can remember he didn't, and continued to spout information about her wellbeing. Apparently after she'd come down from what happened at Phil's funeral, she'd been fine. Back to her perky self, to which I told him I'd stick my foot so far up his ass it'd come out of his mouth–and he eventually shut up.

Magnolia Finnely was the least of my worries right now.

The moment I'd started looking into what Meg had asked me to–the Wentworth's, specifically Florian's father–I'd regretted it. I didn't do much digging at all before I'd connected the dots, and since then anxiety has laid dormant in the bottom of my stomach. I'd told myself I wasn't going to tell her yet, that in some far-off future I would once I had come up with a solution for all of this–once things had mellowed, and the Reapers spirits were higher. Only once things had settled with Murphy being missing. She was right, I was shitty for her, all of this was, and the last thing she needed amidst the Olympics was the drama that haunted me.

That was why I hadn't wanted to know about her; to know where she was, how she was doing and feeling, the more I knew the more I'd gravitate to her. The more and more I'd want to patch things over, to lick her wounds for her. To over-explain myself, my intentions and what happened in California that led to everything this past month. The best thing for the both of us was radio silence, as long as I made it a point to stay out of her way, all would be fine. I was certain she wouldn't seek me out, not after Phil's funeral. I'd embarrassed her more than I had myself, and if there was one thing that put Magnolia off of someone it was embarrassment. I didn't blame her, if I had just stayed out of it, listened to the voice in the back of my head that told me it was a shit idea, Phil's funeral would've played out normally. Indie was right, I really hadn't any sense of boundaries, not when it came to Meg.

I told myself I'd speak to her on a need-to-know basis, that I'd push–with much effort–the thoughts of us, of our sex and banter out. When she'd painted my dreams picturesque with memories, and when she'd been all I thought about the moment I awoke to the pattering outside my window–it was hard, really fucking hard.

On top of it, Rory had been ignoring me. Well, less of ignoring and more of avoiding. He'd been busy, and I more so wrote it off as that. He wasn't the type to opt for the silent treatment, I knew that once he had more than a moment to think he'd immediately want to work things out. As much as I was frustrated with him, a part of me sullen with jealousy, I knew where he'd been coming from, and that I had no room to judge.

Sulking was all well and good until other much more important things took root and pushed out the self-deprecating desire. Wallowing was a waste of time.

A continuous ring supplemented my daydreams, and as my body registered it was the phone, I groggily opened my eyes, rousing to the orange-like lighting from the guest room that I'd been in earlier. A stiff pressure stood on the center of my chest, and I blinked my eyes open to find Kurt curled up there, a soft snoring erupting from her nose, matching my previous breathing pattern. My legs were littered with the sensation of prickles, wobbly and hung off the side of the couch, losing blood–to the point they ached. For a moment I lean my head against the armrest, letting the sound of the ringing bounce all over the undecorated state of my apartment walls, a consistent echo.