I was going to keep telling him I loved him whenever I spoke to him, even if he never replied.
Sitting in the driver's seat, my sisters waved goodbye enthusiastically, pulling another grin from me while I gave Terry a sarcastic wave. I got a narrowed-eyed look before I pulled out of the driveway.
It would kill me to stay away from Harry, but I could adjust. I’d find a way to live without him. Maybe I'd stay close to him through Cat’s stories of Fischer brunches and Foundationparties, media clips of Harry, and photos of the family in news articles and tabloids.
I just needed to get back to London first. I’d been through some pretty shitty things in my life, and fucking Harry over came out on top. But I’d never nursed a broken heart. Though I’d lost people close to me, I hadn’t loved them the way I loved Harry.
But I could do it. It was just another thing to get through, that was all.
My sisters made fun of me for sighing so much, calling me more dramatic than them, but they didn’t know what it was like to love someone, and feel like your life only meant something when they were smiling at you. I just hoped their love lives were better than mine when they reached my age.
I sighed again as I set eyes on the road, and I steeled myself for what was coming.
Even if Harry had no idea, or even if he didn’t care anymore, I’d still love him. I wasn’t going to stop. He was it for me, and, even if he never wanted to see me again, I'd always be there for him. I just had to hope that one day he could forgive me, and see that I’d always been his.
Dom
Imoved through the foyer of my building and climbed the stairs towards my flat, my heart heavy, dreading returning to the dark place I called home. It was more like a transitory space, where I was either eating or fucking. Until I stole Molly’s phone. Then it was just a place for me to sleep and wank. Now it wasn’t even that.
Christian had vanished, though Grace said he was safe. Cat’s schedule was filled with being pregnant, and the only social life in my future was the one I made for myself with no Fischers at all.
I mean, I wasn’t exactly going to go to a club with Grace, or hang out with Jazz when she was halfway across the world working on a film. Even if Harry told me to back off, they were my friends too.
I’d become too dependent on them, trusting that I had home there. I should have remembered the lessons Mum had taught me when I was young: trust no-one, especially yourself.
The automatic lights flickered on as I reached the next flight of stairs. I just had to drag myself up one more and then I’d reach the place I used to call home.
I couldn’t remember if I’d finished the bottle of whisky I had on my shelf, or if I’d have to break into the Aberlour my boss had given me last Christmas. Either way, my schedule for the evening was to drink it straight out of the bottle until I was too shitfaced to stumble to bed. Then I’d beat the crap out of myself the next day when I went into work feeling like I'd been getting hot and heavy with some sandpaper.
As I rose to the last step, my brow creased. The light above my flat was on, and I swear I could see another strip of light coming from under the doorway.
I knew I’d switched them off before I left, and the only other person it could have been was the cleaner, and he was usually meticulous.
Padding to the door, I reached out to find it unlocked. I froze with my fingers wrapped around the handle, possibilities whizzing through my already worn-out mind.
I could hear some kind of banging coming from inside. They could be nicking my TV, or just destroying stuff, like Max’s friends had done to Cat all those years ago. I really wasn’t in the mood for a fight, but maybe a good punch up would shift the dark fucking cloud hanging around me.
As gently as I could, I pushed down the handle, and quietly swung open the door.
The first thing that hit me was the scent of pastry. My gaze found the vase of white flowers on the dining room table before I looked up to find the person I had been dying to see, pottering around with his back to me.
I let out a strangled cry, every single feeling that had gathered in me since I started this fucking mess bursting out of me.
My navy apron was tied around his neck, the sky blue oven gloves he’d given me last year hiding his fingers as he lifted a tray from the oven. Harry twisted, his eyes widening briefly before he softened into a smile, his cheeks pink with the heat of the kitchen.
“Oh! You’re back already,” he said.
I stared at him, too shocked to figure out what the hell was going on.
No shouting, no look of betrayal, no sign that I was still in deep shit.
“Do you want a drink?” he asked. “I made a quiche.” He presented the tray as if the whole situation was totally normal.
“A… quiche…” I echoed.
He looked like a housewife, waiting for me to come home after a long day at work.
Harry put the tray on the far edge of the counter before moving towards the sink.