Where We Belong

Chapter 29: Epilogue

APPROXIMATELY ONE YEAR LATER

Louis' gaze rolls up from Janet's brown-laced boots, which stop just before her knobby knee. She wears dark-brown stockings, always, and a skirt just short enough that Louis would be able to make out the colour of her panties if she'd ever uncross her legs, but she wouldn't. She wouldn't ever uncross her legs, or undo the tight braided bun she keeps her hair in and or just one single button at the top of her shirt. Louis once had a burning urge to kick her knees apart and fingerfuck her, just to see if she'd make noise in any other tone than the soft mellow therapist-one he's listened to every Wednesday for the past many, many weeks.

He mentioned it to Harry, walking home from their session one day, and Harry just scrunched his nose and said don't think you'd be able to get your fingers up there, she's probably dry as all hell and Louis had tried to trip him and snorted yeah, from looking at your ugly mug for an entire hour and Harry had told him fuck off, you love my ugly mug and laughed and kissed him up against the car, and Louis hadn't said anything back because, well.

They've been seeing Janet since a long while before Louis moved in with Harry - and Charlie, every other week. She prepared them and gave them tools and all that bullshit, and the bullshit really helped. They still see her now, because her bullshit is still needed, if nothing else then just to have one hour a week, entirely and solely devoted to them. As an entity.

"Well, it's nice to hear you've prepared yourself for Christmas with Charlie," she says, "especially you, Louis, I'm glad to hear you've talked through any worries you might've had about it."

Louis zones back into the conversation he'd slipped out of for a second, trying to ogle a woman twice his age's cunt for no apparent reason what so ever. Boredom, maybe. Those sexy stockings, perhaps. The fact that Harry was droning on about how long it'd taken him to get hold of his deceased gran-gran-gran mother's gingerbread-recipe, probably. "Yeah!" Louis says, a little too loud, a lot too late, "yeah, yeah, we did, we did talk, I think it'll be nice, I'm not that worried anymore, actually."

"Yes, yes," Janet smiles, "communication is key, there you go. And don't you feel a million times less worried about anything now that you've talked your worries out with Harry and he's assured you that you aren't alone in being a little bit nervous?"

Louis glances at Harry. Harry's trying to ogle Janet's cunt.

"Yeah," Louis says, stifling a small grin and then looking back at her. Face. "Yeah, it did. I wasn't that worried, I mean, Charlie and I are, like— best friends now so we'll be just fine. To be honest with you, Jan, I'm more worried about Harry and her, she told me the other day she only hangs out with him because he makes her pancakes."

"Ah," Janet chuckles, falsely, because she doesn't appreciate humour. She made that very clear one of the first, or fifth times, Louis attempted to joke his way out of answering a serious question, but she lets it go today, spirit of Christmas and all.

Harry seems to have zoned back in, just in time to announce; "You're a prick, Louis."

"Harry," Janet says sharply, "this is a no-name calling, no-swearing zone, remember?"

Louis nods, taking much too much pleasure in watching Harry fight a laugh as he nods and apologises for his misdemeanor.

"Anyway," Janet smacks her lips, clicks her pen, "since I'm not going to see you over Christmas, I wanted to ask you guys once again. You've been living together again for exactly three months now. How is it going? Are there any issues you want to go over, could be small things, anything you haven't known how to communicate or just something that's been causing friction?"