Mischief Managed

20: Crossroads

Loving you still, despite everything that's happened, is like being dragged through a storm that never ends, an endless soundtrack of all that could have been playing through my mind.

All because I still think that, somehow, it would hurt less to hold on than give up now.

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

I walked to the Three Broomsticks like I was being chased; my feet shuffled quickly across Hogsmeade's cobblestoned street, and I looked over my shoulder every few seconds. What or who I was looking for, I wasn't exactly sure.

The light breeze blew my blonde hair in a long curtain behind my back, and my blouse sleeves blew up to the size of small blue balloons.

The air prickled my skin like tiny needles, and my stomach dropped unpleasantly as if I were about to come face-to-face with something I'd been dreading. Which was completely ridiculous, because I definitely wasn't dreading my...date.

I rubbed my sweaty hands against my jeans, and swung open the pub door with an unsteady grip.

My face was immediately washed with a wave of warmth and merriment; the tiny pub was cluttered with a labyrinth of tables and chairs, and I struggled to see among the number of heads clustered together in laughter or secrets.

I spotted the person I was meeting a full minute after I'd stepped inside. He was seated by the bar, running his hands through his curly hair while shooting glances towards the door.

He was sitting alone and hadn't ordered a drink yet.

I stared him a moment longer, waiting for him to notice me, and when he did his face lit up in a grin and he motioned with his hand for me to take the seat next to him.

I picked my way through the cluttered floorspace, smiling as I reached the empty space at the bar.

You're not doing anything wrong, I reminded myself.

"Afternoon, Dylan, fancy seeing you here," I greeted him dryly, forcing another grin. My stomach was still horribly hollow, and my skin began to tingle, as if were physically protesting what my mind was telling me.

Stop it. There's no reason for you to be upset.

But Dylan didn't seem to read beneath my forced smiles and tense posture; in fact, his blue eyes lit up so brightly it was as if simply my presence had pushed away all the clouds in the sky.

"Hey, Bree," he said.

I couldn't help but notice that Dylan looked particularly nice today; he was wearing a casual navy collared shirt, and his hair did that thing where it was a perfect mess of dark curls. The pit in my stomach lessened somewhat.

He slid a few coins from his pocket.

"You want a butterbeer?"

"Sure," I replied, feeling somewhat awkward as I dug in my purse for a few Sickles.

I managed to retrieve a few, and I held out my hand to him, but Dylan closed my hand over the coins.

"Don't worry about it." His eyes flickered up to mine, almost shyly as if he weren't quite sure of the gesture.

I scanned his face.

He was still smiling, his mouth upturned in that kind of half-grin people do when they're happy but not fully aware of it. I had never talked to Dylan about my family's financial troubles. I hated discussing it, even though I knew a lack of money wasn't something to be ashamed of. I supposed I just didn't want him to look at me differently, like I was some sort of charity case.