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Saturday, December 21, 2013

The snow had just begun to fall as he parked in front of the pub; the large flakes creating a holiday atmosphere on the small English village that rarely saw snow. The flakes clung to his wool jacket, leaving unique damp marks across his shoulders and down his back. He paused to shake out his hair before stepping into the pub, the cozy fireplace heat enveloping his chilled face.

Expectedly, the pub was quiet. Days before Christmas, many of the residents of Holmes Chapel were hosting holiday parties in their homes or preparing for the festivities to come. Save for a few of the regulars conversing with the barkeep, Harry Styles was the only patron in the pub.

Until he saw her.

She was older, taller, but there was no question that the girl sitting in front of the fireplace was none other than Kit Carrington. A pair of tattered boots were kicked under the Queen Anne armchair, her knobby knees splayed apart and resting against the arms of the chair, a thick novel in her grasp. Suddenly, he was transported back to his childhood, back to the small stone house on Byley Lane where the same girl would sit in front of the fireplace, reading anything she could get her hands on and concurrently chattering a mile a minute. She was the only person he'd ever met who could do both activities at once, and he remembered being oddly fascinated by her talent. And, by her.

In a world of straight lines and combed hair, Kit danced through life, messy haired and endlessly barefoot. She wasn't exactly the prettiest girl in town – gangly and all limbs with her stringy hair and wide eyes set just far enough apart to look odd. Everybody liked her, and yet, close friendships were elusive. No one spoke poorly about her, and yet, no one talked to her. She wasn't the girl a young boy was supposed to have a crush on, and yet, he did. She wasn't Emily Albright, with her soft chestnut curls and pretty floral dresses, or Sophia Windsor and her affinity for taking boys behind the tool shed. She was the girl who would chatter incessantly to anyone who would listen – and to those who wouldn't – about dinosaurs or an episode of Coronation Street from seven years ago. She was the girl who would use Crayola paints to give her hair streaks because the local drug store didn't carry proper dye. She was the girl who would rub back pain cream all over her body as a perfume because she adored the medicinal scent to it. She was odd, dramatic, energetic and, quite simply, the most wonderful thing in the world.

It had been a few years since he'd seen her last. She was still gangly, as though her body had been rolled through a pasta making machine, but the few inches she'd grown since school put her limbs in closer proportion with her body. Her eyes, still bright and wide, were offset by the thick tortoise-shell glasses, slipping slightly down her upturned nose. She wore a very Kit-like sweater, an oversized knitted number with a large Christmas tree affixed to the front and pilling wool balls adorned to the tree. It would have been a hit at an ugly sweater holiday party, but the hilarity of the sweater was likely completely unintentional.

Her hair, fine and blonde with a mind of its own, was still worn in a long braid down her back. A few fly-aways poked out around her ears, the dry heat of the pub causing the strands to nearly stand on end. As a child, he remembered she'd had a penchant for glitter and colourful Poundland hair clip-ins. Her unique sense of style didn't stop there – she would often be found wearing cut-off overalls with patterned tights or a nightshirt with a cat on it, cinched up around her waist and tied into place with a hair scrunchie, just because she was Kit Carrington and if she didn't create her own drum beat to march to, she couldn't march at all.

"Mr. Styles?"

Harry turned to the barkeep, unaware he'd been speaking to him. "I'm sorry?" he asked, his memory lane flashback fading as he focused on the barkeep and the present situation.