Butterfly Keeper // h.s. au

Chapter Fifteen

I make Harry wait out side of the room as I get ready. When I push him into the hall he only stands against the wall with his arms crossed, cheekily chewing the gum in his mouth as he rolls his eyes at me.

    I struggle to work quickly as I dance my pants up my legs and make sure to wear a cozy sweater being that I have an itching feeling we'll be outside tonight. My hair is an untamed mess and it would take me ages to brush it all out. I settle on putting it into two buns on top of my head, rushed with pieces of hair stick out from them at odd angles. My old, worn out, boots are pulled on last, ones that have been my favorite for a bit too long, and I head out the door.

    When Harry see's me a weird look crosses his face, but then it's gone so fast I almost wonder if I saw it. He straightens up from his spot on the wall, still chewing his gum with the same motion of his sharp jaw, causing his lips to slightly part every so often. We walk to his car in silence and the large vehicle is parked on the curb. The car is already running when I crawl inside, the space warm and cozy as I nestle into my seat. Harry straps in, seeming a little more enthusiastic than usual, and were off.

    Harry being here and surprising me with his random adventures has helped ease my anxiety a little. His presence helps to keep my mind off Angela and her pressing threat she left me with the other day. But even still I feel my body droop like a wilting flower. It's like a weakness has replaced the muscles that hold a smile together, or torn down the wall that keeps those pressing and aching emotions inside. I hope I'm not showing that though, I've never been one to wear my heart fully on my sleeve.

    "You know, I never got your phone number." I tell him, the thought suddenly surfacing in my brain. "So that we can keep in contact and stuff."

    "I don't have a phone." He replies simply with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

    "Really? Don't you need one?" I say, being more than surprised for his lack of the beholden object of our generation.

    "No. I don't have anyone I need to get a hold of." He states without emotion in his voice.

    "What about your dad?" He stiffens at this. I'm met with a prolonged silence filled with the clenching and unclenching of his jaw before he clears his throat to speak again.

    "He died when I was three." His words are thick but his face is lifeless. And when he says them they don't sit there, they float away into nothingness. Just the way he intended them to.

    "Who helped you get on your feet then? After your mom died?" I ask carefully, making my tone soft and accepting.

    He's a brick wall though, an abandoned house with blacked out windows. You know there's something inside but it's not likely you'll ever be able to actually see it. And he makes the air around him tense, like the universe around us can sense his masked sorrow and It's only choice is to yield to it.

    "I lived with my Uncle until I went out on my own." His fists tighten on the wheel.

    "So is he the one helping you with college financially?"

    "In a way..." I can tell he's reaching his edge with me but I press on anyway, hoping to get a little more out of him.

    "When did you move to America?"

    "I'm done talking about it, Charlotte. Don't push me." He growls, snapping his head around to give me a cold glare.

    I oblige and sit silently in my seat for the rest of the drive. It's selfish of me to push him to talk about things he isn't comfortable about. I feel guilt about that, but when It comes to him I find myself being reckless and selfish. I haven't known him for long at all and already I find myself constantly hungering for more of him, of who he is.