Lights Will Guide You Home
"Have you ever thought about what protects our hearts? Just a cage of rib bones and other various parts."
- 'Breakable' by Ingrid Michaelson
She is the standard. She is the one against whom all the others are compared. You expect it's been that way for years, subconsciously. The other women – and you're ashamed to admit there have been plenty of other women – don't even come close to being... well, to being her.
Around you, people have always suspected it. Strangers have assumed it and friends have hoped for it. Even you, somewhere deep down, expected it to happen one day.
But what if that day never comes around? What if your whole world is turned upside down before it gets the chance?
Because that's what's happened. This morning, at approximately eleven o'clock (because you'd just come back from a coffee run to Starbucks), she took you to one side and effectively brought everything crumbling down around your feet.
You had noticed that she'd been quiet since you'd arrived at the Lyell Centre at just gone eight. Her replies to you had been short and her usually easy smile had been strained. That's why you'd snuck off to Starbucks in the first place; to get her favourite coffee in an attempt at cheering her up. But when you'd come back and seen her in Leo's office, talking seriously about something, your stomach had twisted into a knot. Because you'd known then that whatever it was, it was going to take more than coffee to sort out.
How right you were.
Spotting you through the window, she had muttered something to your boss and then left the office. You had put the drinks on your desk, already forgotten about. Wordlessly, she had taken your sleeve and tugged you into the empty cutting room. By then you had been worried, thinking the worst. A million scenarios had been revolving around your head, each one more frightening than the last. You'd begged her to tell you what it was, unable to stand the pictures your imagination had been forming in your mind. And so she had, and your worst fears were confirmed.
"You remember Patrick Cain? I worked with him last year. So did you, when he helped us with the Bentley murders. Anyway, he's ... he's offered me a job again. Only... this time it's a permanent position."
You hadn't known what to say.
"I said no at first," she had continued, talking over your silence, "but after the year we've had I think I need to get away from here. Away from London and the horrors that we see on a daily basis. With Patrick it's just bones and history. All the fascination without all the nightmares. And it's anthropology. It was my first love, Harry."
You had told her that you understood, that you were happy for her and she was lucky to be getting away from it all. You'd plastered a fake smile onto your face and hugged her tightly, only for your smile to vanish when your chin was resting on her shoulder, the smell of her hair surrounding you. You'd muttered jokingly that it would be a lot quieter without her, and her grip on you had tightened slightly. But it had been her words afterwards, when you'd broken apart and the smile was fixed in place once again, that you'll never forget.
"I haven't actually told Patrick 'yes' yet. I wanted to talk to you first."
And that's when you had spotted it; the question in her unwavering gaze, the uncertainty lingering there. It was like she had been waiting for you to tell her not to go, to stay there with you.
It had been your one and only chance, and you'd blown it. For you'd simply summoned some false bravado and told her that of course she should take it, it was a wonderful opportunity and you know how much she misses her anthropology.
There had been disappointment etched into her delicate features, but at the same time she had looked more resolute and determined than before, as if what you had said had just confirmed to her that she was doing the right thing by going.
You hate yourself for not having the courage to tell her what you really thought; that she'd be bored with Patrick in South Yorkshire, that you'd miss her terribly, that she shouldn't go because she belongs here with you.
But of course you didn't tell her that. Because that was all too much to handle after all these years of pretending that such thoughts were non-existent. In just half an hour you'd gone from being happy to absolutely crushed by the sudden discovery that your best friend was leaving.
What had been worse was her next revelation, which came mid-afternoon sometime. You were pretending to do paperwork but really you were simply staring at your computer screen, lost in thought. She'd appeared at her desk with her mobile phone in her hand and told you that Patrick was thrilled, and he wanted her to start on Monday. Seeing as today was Friday, that meant she would move up north over the weekend. So, officially, today would be her last day.
It had nearly broken you there and then – you'd had no idea that it would all happen so soon, had assumed that Leo would at least ask her to work her month's notice. But apparently he had seen how excited she had been, knew a temp he could get in until he found a replacement, and left the ball in her court.
And she had chosen to leave as soon as physically possible.
Which is why you are where you are now. Still at the lab, though it's nearing midnight, sitting alone at your desk with your head on your arms. The harsh bluish glare from your computer makes your eyes sting when you finally look up, and it strikes you just how pathetic you're being.
You think back to when you'd been offered that job in America. She hadn't meekly told you to go when she'd found out about it. Well, technically she had told you to go, but only in anger. The whole tone of that argument couldn't have made it clearer that she didn't want you to leave. And so you hadn't.
Kicking yourself for not telling her how you really felt about it earlier, you realise that even if you'd argued, even if you'd screamed and shouted at each other, none of it would have mattered if it had stopped her from leaving.
And then there was the proposition from James Sabiston just a couple of months ago. Really, you always knew you would never take it. But what had she said? That 'Leo' thought you were irreplaceable. Yes, maybe Leo did think that. But there was no way he meant it in the same context as she had done.
Doesn't she realise that she is equally irreplaceable to you? Why is the idea of you leaving more outrageous than her own impending departure?
There are so many things you should have asked her, should have told her, when you'd had the chance back in the cutting room.
But now it's too late, because in just eight or so hours she'll be loading her belongings into a removal van. Then what will your friendship become? The 160-odd miles between here and Sheffield mean that it isn't exactly the sort of place you can pop round to after work on a Friday night. Besides, she'll make new friends. Won't need you anymore. Soon, you'll become nothing more than someone she emails occasionally, sends a card to at Christmas and on your birthday. You'll become 'that guy she used to work with down in London'.
Unashamedly, a lump forms in your throat. For you need her. You can't live without her. You don't want her to go.
Making up your mind, you finally shut down your computer, grab your blazer from the back of your chair, and head out into the night.
It's summer and so the air is pleasantly warm, with clear skies overhead in which the stars glimmer faintly above the glow of the lights of the city. But you hardly pay any attention to that as you collapse into your car, tugging your seatbelt roughly across your chest and starting the engine.
You're not even sure what you're going to say to her. Back in the office you'd told yourself that you could think of something while you were driving, but all that seems to be filling your head now is a kind of buzzing adrenaline. It's blocking out any coherent thought.
All too soon you pull up outside her apartment block and kill the engine. There's no one around; the streets are empty, the night peaceful and still. Also empty is your brain, totally devoid of words and ideas on how to make her stay.
Perhaps this was a bad idea. Perhaps you should just let her go. If that's what she wants, then who are you to stand in the way of her happiness?
But you can't forget that uncertainty in her eyes. If she still wants to go even after you've made your case – not that you have any idea what exactly your case is – then you won't stop her. But at least you'll know that you've tried.
With a deep breath, and trying to ignore the overwhelming desire for alcohol, you climb out of the car and jog up the steps to her building. When you reach the door you pause. She gave you the key code to the building a while ago, in case of emergency, but you don't know whether it would be politer to use the buzzer in this instance.
Eventually you just punch in the numbers and push the door open, knowing that she's probably asleep anyway. You take the stairs up to her apartment two at a time until eventually you come to a halt outside her front door.
Suddenly you find that your throat is rather dry and it's increasingly difficult to breathe. Whether this is due to the exertion of the stairs, or nerves, you're not entirely sure. But it sure as hell isn't helping.
There are no lights on in her apartment that you can see, only confirming your thoughts that she's asleep. But it's too late to chicken out now, after you've come all this way at one in the morning. So you knock rather harshly on the frosted glass.
It takes a couple of minutes and several more knocks until a light finally flicks on. You can see her silhouette approaching on the other side of the door, and it finally hits you that you still don't know what you're going to say.
Eventually she opens the door, bleary-eyed and wearing her pyjamas, her cheeks flushed slightly and her blonde curls messy. Blinking at you, surprise registers in her face, then concern. "What are you doing here?"
What on earth made you think this was a good idea? You'd assumed that when you saw her perhaps inspiration would strike, but it's had quite the opposite effect. So you simply stand there in silence.
"Harry? Are you okay?"
No, no you're not okay. You're far from okay, and that's her fault. Not that you really hold it against her of course. In fact, it's more your fault than anyone else's, for being such an idiot.
So you do the only thing you can think of doing at that moment in time. You step across the threshold until you're right in her personal space, and crash your lips into hers.
She makes a small noise of surprise, but quickly wraps her arms around your neck and responds fervently, her hands running through your hair. You deepen the kiss, taking advantage of the fact that she hasn't pushed you away with a slap but is instead encouraging you to continue.
Feeling her sag against you, you push her gently but firmly against the wall, your kisses hot and fast. A moan escapes her and you feel a surge of pride in knowing that you caused it.
Eventually, however, the need for oxygen is overwhelming and you break apart and rest your forehead against hers, your eyes closed. Breathing heavily, she whispers, "Harry?"
Opening your eyes, you pull your head back just enough to look at her clearly. Her cheeks are even more flushed than they were before, her lips swollen slightly, and once again there's a question in her eyes.
"Please," you breathe, a hand on either side of her face pushing her hair back, "Please don't go."
Her mouth opens a fraction, forming a small 'O' of surprise. "But you said-"
"I lied, Nikki," you tell her instantly. "Of course I don't want you to leave."
"Harry, I've already told Patrick that I'm going. I've booked a removal company, which was not easy at such short notice. I've found a place to rent up in Sheffield. I'm practically ready to go," she says, tears shining in her large eyes.
It's like someone has stuck a pin into your chest and popped the happy balloon that had been swelling. Of course it wasn't as simple as kissing her and expecting her to change all of her plans. You're an idiot for thinking that it would be.
"Oh," you mutter, involuntary stepping back two paces.
"I'm sorry," she half-sobs, and although you know that she means it, part of you can't help thinking that if she's that sorry then she'd stay here with you.
"No, I get it. Just forget I said anything," you say dejectedly, heading back towards the door and trying to erase the memory of her mouth against yours from your mind. When you reach it, you turn to see her standing with her arms wrapped around herself tightly, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I'll miss you," you add quietly, knowing that you would no longer be attending the farewell drinks Leo has planned for tomorrow.
She nods, squeezing her lips together tightly. Before she can say anything else, you slip from her apartment.
Feeling rather numb, you walk back down to your car and drive home. On autopilot, you let yourself into your own apartment and sink onto the sofa, sleep being the last thing on your mind.
Some conceited, deluded part of you had been convinced that you'd get her to stay, that there'd be a happy ending. But happy endings are just a cliché invented for fairytales; they don't exist in real life, you've seen plenty of proof of that at work, and not much evidence to the contrary.
You're unsure how much time passes, but before you know it dawn has started to creep into existence, the golden early-morning sunlight turning the sky from navy to a light pearly blue. The already perfect weather is mocking your stormy mood.
It's only just four-thirty, too early to do anything yet. Not that you know what to do. You can't fix this like you normally would. It's broken beyond repair this time.
For a split-second back in her hallway you'd been happy. And now look at you.
Slowly, feeling as though it's the first time you've moved in days, you head to your bedroom and get changed into a t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. Maybe running it off would help – the steady pounding of your feet on the concrete, the cool summer air against your warm skin.
You tug open your front door and then stop dead. For she's stood in front of it, pacing nervously. She stops when she notices you, and you both do nothing but stand and stare at each other for a moment.
"How long have you been standing there?" you ask quietly, although what you're actually desperate to know is why.
However, she doesn't answer your question. Instead she walks straight at you much as you had done to her just a few hours previously, standing on tiptoes to coil her arms around your neck and pressing her lips to yours.
Your hands find her waist and hold it tightly. The parallels are uncanny, yet this kiss is far more gentle than your previous.
In this one there are answers, rather than questions.
She fairly quickly breaks the kiss and turns it into a hug instead, her face buried in the crook of your neck, her lips touching your skin.
Wrapping your arms around her and once again inhaling that smell that is so distinctly her, you mutter, "Still want to go to Sheffield with Hagrid?"
She giggles and the vibrations against your skin send a shiver up your spine. "I told you to not call him that."
"Sorry," you grin, then add, "You still haven't answered my question."
She pulls back and shrugs slightly. "I guess I've had a better offer right here."
Not really sure where this came from, I only had the idea a few hours ago. But here we are.
Thank you so much for all the reviews on my last couple of one-shots, and for all the birthday wishes! I had a wonderful day and I love you all! :)
Charlotte
xxx