Meet Me In The Hallway

Geography

I thought about Harry everyday while I was home, a month in someone's bed could do that. That was the sadness of geography. It was the worst the first week home, when I hadn't heard from him and my sleepless nights were full of reverie. I, surprisingly, missed tour.

When my brother had first broached, well, insisted, that I go on tour with him, I had looked at the months-long break scheduled between April and June with relish. I was excited to get home and check in with my friends from secondary school. I had plans and I was ready to tell them all about my big gap year adventure.

But being home was not nearly as exciting as I had hoped it would be. I didn't have as many friends to share with as I thought and many of the things I mot wanted to share, I could not. When we had first left for the road, I had been excited, but nervous and unsure. I'd sat on that first plane and wondered if I would not be better off in Australia, going straight to university. The first several days on tour, maybe the first weeks had been exhausting and overwhelming and exhilarating. And I had loved it. I missed the people and the crew and the band. And I missed Harry.

Truth was, that I had underestimated how much of my day revolved around the time I spent with Harry. I'd wake up, often in his bed and lately, wrapped in his increasingly inked arms. He'd groan in my ear about being exhausted until I brow beat him out of bed and he got in the shower. I'd order his breakfast then, our breakfast, his black coffee and my milky tea, that he'd grumble about, rashers and eggs if he was hungry, oatmeal and egg whites if he was listening to Mark. I gauged his mood and made his order based upon that.

I'd wait for him to get dressed and we would eat together on the couch in his suite before I scrounged up clothes which were usually my own mixed with his. Then he'd walk me to the door and kiss my forehead when he hugged me goodbye, as though there was more that a couple hours that separated us.

I'd wander across the hallway, ignoring the sock and the scantily-clad girl often in my brother's bed. I'd shower and go out to see wherever we were. Since our conversation about what Harry felt he was missing, I'd try to see whatever city we'd been in through his eyes. My phone would buzz often with his random thoughts and horrible jokes. And I'd send him pictures of the places I went, trying my best to experience the place for both of us.

In Glasgow, the second time around, I sent him snapshots of Buchanan Street and selfies from the Art Lover's house. His reactions were wonderful. He would send back pictures of his silly faces. When I showed him the pub I was sat in he made a pun

"Hey where did my Glas Go?" He wrote.

So I sent him a picture of my boisterous response with the caption, "People are staring at me!"

"Course they are" He returned. And it made heart flutter. It was flirty and I couldn't reckon whether I should chalk it up to his personality, or the way we related to each other now, or, my hope, something more.

His respones were more than flirty. They carried an air of jealousy.

"Ah, I've always wanted to go there..." One read as I walked the cobbled royal mile. I knew that.

"Have a black russian for me!"

"Gross!" Was my caption as I dutifully sent a picture back to him of me swilling the vodka back.

"Really?" his disbelief was full.

"I don't like alcohol, really." I returned. He knew that, I thought.

"Well, you have to like it in Scotland. It's a rule. I'm surprised you aren't being forced to drink whiskey. I've wanted to try that too, have some for me." He hadn't mentioned whiskey before and I was going to count my dues paid.