Meet Me In The Hallway

Cruising Altitude

I immediately scooted back into the room to get Harry out of the hallway. For someone who was so keen on not letting my brother find out about us or there not being an 'us', he was not stealthy.

He walked in the door like his bones were made of brick, heavy and brittle. His hair, always messily disheveled, was a proper rat's nest, and his eyes had little red webbing starting at the corners and meeting at the bright celery green in the middle. I'm not sure if the color looked so vivid because of the bruise-like brushes of skin beneath them or the slick of moisture they retained. He looked... he looked like I felt I guess.

I shut the door behind him and tried not to let how he looked affect me. How he looked always affected me. I crossed my arms and backed up horizontally, staying in the entryway.

He was drinking me in, apparently stealth was not in his vocabulary today. My sleep shorts, the uniform of my life in semi-sunny California, felt about two sizes too small. Truthfully, the sun had yet to touch my skin while I hid out in my room as much as possible and avoided the huge collection I had of clothes that didn't belong to me. I think I'd pilfered more t-shirts off Harry than I had packed for myself.

When he got to my eyes, the wrenching feeling in my stomach made me want to gnash my teeth and pull my hair. But no one had died and that seemed a bit dramatic. Seeing him after days apart was like having ripped a band-aid off. I'm not sure which one of us was bleeding through. I was sure I was the wounded party until I saw him.

I finally found my tongue after another minute of leaden silence. "What do you want Harry?" I sighed.

His brow lowered for a only a second. I'd only seen him really mad once, when he hadn't been allowed to plan a trip home because of scheduling conflicts when he had asked ahead of time. He'd had a right strop and thrown pillows, and a mug, and himself, around our room, before the well of sadness he was covering up brimmed over. That seemed to happen here as well, but much faster. His blues sung out before he even did more than thin his lips.

"Have you not listened to any of my messages?" His voice broke on the last word, and my will with it. I was so weak for him.

"No." I tried to maintain my angry stance, but found my posture and my whole self softening. I'd been turning into dough since he presented himself at my door, but I didn't elaborate. He had a mile, but I'd only show him the first inch.

His hand brushed up into his hair before he grabbed it and pulled a little. "Melly, c'mon." He pleaded, like I knew what he meant. I might have a little. "I called you all week, I'm not even sure how many times. Texted you non-stop. You must have at least seen one."

I had, some stupid gif of a bunny, with an 'I'm sorry caption. I wasn't sure what he was sorry for though. If he was sorry for hurting me, well that was nice, but useless. If he was sorry about touching me, he could fuck right off.

The most hopeful and painful thought I'd ever had was that he might be sorry for suggesting we just be friends. I was fairly certain he was not here to tell me that, or I imagined his lips would be moving, but there would be much less talking.

"I saw something that said you were sorr—"

He interrupted me and grabbed for the hands that lay lank at my sides. "I am sorry. I'm so sorry Melly!" he pleaded.

So I asked the question and held my breath for the answer. My palms were sweaty. "What exactly are you sorry for Harry?"

He dropped his head then, and a tiny part of me cheered that I had maybe caught him out. But then he looked up at me. He looked like the screen of a dropped phone. His fractured face and mine must be a pair. "Melly, I'm sorry that I hurt you." He sucked in a big breath and blew it out his duck lips. "I never meant to lead you on."