Home.
Harry was finally back home in Cheshire. The motherland had not changed since his departure: the skies were still gloriously moody, the grass was still vibrantly green and there was still the ever lingering scent of damp, rich earth.
His mother had aged ten years in the four months he had been absent: her eyes were glassy and listless; her wrinkles profound and her face gaunt and cheerless. His sister seemed wearier, too, though not as severely.
Anne’s face had only smoothed when she embraced her son, the burden of his limbo lifted. She sobbed and shook in his arms, and Harry wept too.
The month he spent with his family passed in a blur. On the days that he didn’t indulge in total introversion, he treasured his family’s company, stuffing every interaction into his superfluous hippocampus; thrusting them desperately into spare cracks and crevices, which were scarce these days.
The nights were longer and more luxurious—albeit painfully so. He would select a different memory of Cerise; wallowing in every second as though it was actually tangible. Not a wisp of hair escaped his eye as he plucked her from the Georgian fields and took her to some far off, isolated place, where they had incredible experiences and wallowed in joy of each other’s presences.
These beautiful fantasies took the edge off of the constant, gnawing yearning.
~
“No,” he had replied immediately, shaking his head. “Absolutely not.”
“Why?” Harry whined, not caring to compose himself.
“She’ll be a distraction.” Simon retorted. “You need to toughen up again, Harry. You’re about to do your first world tour.”
“It’s just a phone number,” Harry implored.
“And she’s just a girl. There’ll be plenty of others,”
A fortnight of constant beseeching (the last fortnight he had left in Cheshire) caused Simon to reconsider—in other words, give up. Harry hugged him gleefully before racing home, whereupon he called Cerise.
“Heath residence,” Manuela’s voice chirped on the other line.
“Manuela!” Harry cried happily, overjoyed to hear the familiar Spanish lilt after three weeks without it.
She gasped. “Harry?”
“Yep, it’s me! How are you?” he asked for politeness’ sake.
“Good, good! And you?”
“Great, thanks,” His impatience, which he had so responsibly controlled until now, got the better of him. “Can I speak to Cerise, please?”
“She’s not here right now,” Manuela told him. “She’s been going off in the woods every day.” She sighed. “I’ll tell her to call you back when she comes home, okay?”
“Okay,” he croaked in return. “Thanks,”
For three hours, he sat anxiously on his bed, phone stagnant in his palm. His eyes were fixed on the opposite wall, thinking of what she was doing—and who she might be doing it with (if anyone at all, of course).
Finally, the blessed ring of his phone sounded. He picked it up at an uncanny speed. “Hello?”
“Harry?” sounded her youthful voice.
“Cerise,” he breathed, shutting his eyes and sighing. “I miss you.” He said each word slowly, rolling the short words off his tongue with startling sincerity.
“I miss you too,” she replied with the same caliber of genuineness.
They sat for a collection of moments in uninterrupted silence, each of them struggling not to cry.
“Manuela said you’ve been going to the woods lately.”
“Yes, I have. Do you remember our cabin?”
“Of course,” he replied, recounting to himself the hot tears she had shed on his chest and the cheap, bumpy mattress.
“And the strange bed?” She told him about Natalia and the fun they had, even including her resemblance to her mother.
He went on to tell her what little he knew about the man who had been captured. He was apparently mentally unstable and had confessed to the crime, only telling police that he was "doing the work of G od." Harry lamented the death of the bodyguard who had been killed by the man, and they went on in great detail to philosophize the purpose of life and other less morose subjects.They spoke for hours until Cerise had to go to bed (it was a Sunday night and she was too clever of a scholar to deprive herself of a suitable rest).
“I love you,” he murmured, heart giddy as he awaited her reply.
“Je t’aime,” she cooed in response.
“French? How random,”
“I’m just trying to be as odd as you.” She laughed. “Goodnight, dear Harry.”
“Goodnight, Cerise.”
♥
