Catch 22: Chapter 9 – Up All Night
Hey, remember this fic? Yeah, me neither. It's really been that long.
Forgive me. Please.
"Isabel, it's not what it-"
"Shut up," she whispers, staring at nothing in particular, seemingly not registering the glass around her ankles, as she crunches over it, and walks over to the pair of you. Not entirely sure of what Isabel's currently thinking, Harry subconsciously moves in front of you to shelter you from Isabel's glare, which is clearly making everyone uncomfortable, as you shift from one foot to the other, adjusting your dress unnecessarily.
"This is our housewarming party," she states, as if she needs to remind him, "We're moving in together – we went to Ikea, for God's sake…we bought new cutlery, and cushions, and your toothbrush is next to mine-"
"I know," he replies, interrupting her ramble, although he sounds slightly more placating than he probably intends to, her eyes narrowing at him, as you groan internally at his choice of words, knowing he sounds a lot more like a conceited cheat rather than a concerned boyfriend.
"Well, if you know so much, what the hell are you doing kissing her?" she cries, gesturing at you in disgust, her face so close to his, you can almost see the fire in her eyes.
"I should go," you murmur suddenly, interjecting, skirting around Isabel and making for the door.
"You stay there," Isabel barks coldly at you, spinning on her heel, her bangles clinking on her wrist, "I'm not done with you yet."
"Look, this isn't my place," you sigh, trying to diffuse the situation, but to no avail.
"You're damn right it isn't," Isabel retorts, her eyes blazing as her hands place themselves onto her hips, a warning, a threat of territory, of authority over you, "Actually, you're right. I think you probably should go," she continues, her voice wavering, trying not to cry in front of her.
You move past Harry, grabbing your coat from the bed where you were just doing things, unable to even look at him, attempting to glide past him as coolly as possible, but when your arm accidentally brushes his, dear god, the clichés that fly through your head are endless. And yeah, it pretty much takes all the strength you can muster inside you not to turn back to look at him as you close the door behind you.
You barely get five steps away from the door before Leo is right in front of you, a glass of champagne in one hand, and Janet's wrist in the other, presumably having tugged her upon seeing you.
"What's going on?" he asks, glancing between you and the door, "I saw Isabel and it sounded like-"
"I'm going home, Leo," you shrug, ignoring him completely. If he's been listening at the door (and you're pretty sure he has), then he'll know everything already. You squeeze his arm gently, giving Janet a warm smile as you make your way to the door.
"Nikki," you hear Leo's voice calling you back, and you're determined not to stop, because frankly, you're tired, and you really don't want to rake over this now, in their new flat of all places. But then you feel his hand grab yours, forcing you to turn around, because you can't pretend that you didn't hear him, or that you didn't see him, because now you are turning around, and you definitely can see him, all pitying gaze and warmth, and there's no way you're avoiding this conversation now.
"Come on, let's go home," Leo smiles at you, putting his arm around you, and walking you towards the door, "We can talk somewhere…quieter."
"What about Janet?" you sigh, exasperated, resting your hand on your hip.
"Janet doesn't mind," a comforting arm rubs your back, and you find that it belongs to Janet herself, as she moves around you and stops next to Leo, her kind gaze never leaving you.
"I don't want to intrude-"
"You're not," they reply simultaneously, and you barely have time to think up another excuse before they're pulling you out the door, both of them taking one arm each, as they haul you away from them.
"Do you love her, Harry?"
She pulls you out of your reverie, as you drag your eyes away from the second hand on the clock, hanging on the wall in front of you. You struggle to look at her directly, instead opting to focus on her with your peripheral vision; just able to make out her figure slouched at the end of the bed. You can tell she's looking at you now, and it takes so much effort to notlook at her.
"Harry," you hear her voice repeat your name, and you shake your head at her fiercely, as much as through dread as through guilt. You shouldn't be having this conversation with her. It's not right. This isn't fair. And yes, you know, life isn't fair, but she shouldn't be this damn nice about it. She should be screaming, and shouting, and throwing glasses of champagne in your face, and smashing the vase you picked out together, and chucking his clothes out onto the street along with your suitcase and ripping up photos and taking back your key and just something-
Something other than her asking about Nikki.
"Harry, look at me," she says, louder, and this time, she's not asking anymore. She's not asking for anything complicated, not asking for a declaration of feelings for someone else, not asking for anything. But somehow, looking at her seems more difficult than anything else right now. Slowly, you sigh, your eyes coming to rest on her small frame, sitting at the very edge of the bed, heels discarded, and her jewellery lying next to her in a small gold pile. You see the tears that line her eyelashes, and you get a lump in your throat then, because you know, you just know how hard this is for her, and you realise in that moment how much of an arse you really are. Both to Isabel and to Nikki.
"Do you love her?" she shrugs, indicating the sheer simplicity of her words. And if it was anyone else, they'd misinterpret that shrug as a mark of indifference, take it or leave it, as if she didn't really care what your answer was. But you know better. It's a shrug of resignation, because she already knows the answer. She's not challenging you, or testing you – she simply needs to hear it, for her own peace of mind.
"I'm sorry," you mutter into your chest, so quietly you're left wondering if you'd just imagined it. Her eyes well up with fresh tears as she nods fiercely, desperately trying to blink back tears, as you confirm what she knew long ago, "Isabel, I-"
"I know, Harry, okay? Just please spare me the platitudes," she says slowly, "Go after her."
"What?" you look up suddenly, unsure of what you've just heard.
"She loves you too," she smiles sadly, "And your heart wasn't ever in this, Harry, not really. Not whilst she was across the table from you, or across the room, or across our apartment. And you love her."
You're left hesitating. She's telling you to go, and you can tell she's genuine; she really wants you to be happy. But she leaves you feeling idiotic. And completely and utter thoughtless.
"Harry, get out before I throw you out," she sighs, getting impatient now, rising from the bed to glare at you with greater authority, although she apparently can't help the slight quirk at the corner of her mouth.
"Maybe you should," you retort, "Throw me out, I mean. I deserve it," you grin.
"Oh, don't get me started on what you deserve, mister," she warns you, making you smile. It's almost like old times. Before you inadvertently ended up with feelings for Nikki, cheated on your girlfriend and consequently moved in with her. Her tone gives you enough hope that she'll be okay, and you nearly ask to remain friends, before reminding yourself not to push your luck.
"Come here, give me a hug," you opt to say instead, pulling her in for a bear hug, the first time you've actually really meant it, because damn it, she's a good person. She doesn't deserve any of this, and she's being too bloody gracious, and you love her and hate her for it all at once.
"I love you," she whispers, clutching at your shoulders tightly, burying herself in the crook of your neck.
"I know," you reply, equally quietly, and you're almost tempted to say it back, to make this situation regain a modicum of dignity for her. But you both know that wouldn't help anything, would give her false hope, would be the antidote to her very genuine declaration of love. And it's at that moment that you remember Nikki. Because replaying the word 'love' in your head over and over, well, it only makes you think of her.
"Isabel-"
"I know, Harry," she smiles sadly, clearly resigned to the outcome, as if it was predetermined before you even met her, inevitable, even, "You've got to go. To her."
And she knows where you're going, because, let's face it, your face gave you away before you even knew you were thinking about her. Thinking about kissing her, tracing your hand across the features on her cheek as you lie in bed, making her eyes crinkle with laughter as you tell her a god-awful joke over breakfast. A future, maybe, one day. Imagining her spare room eventually become a nursery, no longer used as your personal hotel when you're getting your flat blown up, or just falling asleep after a bad case, a bad movie and even worse wine.
You know this is unforgivable, because in all reality, you should be doing the adult thing. Talking things through with Isabel, deciding which stuff is yours and which stuff is hers, organising when to pick up your stuff, giving back your key. But alas, no, you've decided to take the clichéd route. The one that would be more congruous in a romantic comedy. You know, with a dozen red roses, airports and rain. The quick kiss on the cheek for Isabel, the grabbing of your coat, the rushing out the door, and the running.
Running to Nikki.
Okay, I'm not even going to excuse myself for this one. Because I'm utterly hopeless. Although, if I were to defend myself, it would probably be an equally clichéd reason pertaining to A-Levels, debate competitions, university open days and more A-Levels. Le sigh.
To the wonderful human beings who continue to review: Ela Plume-en-sucre, KiwiSWFan, dinabar, pinkswallowsun, tigersbride and charlieallcock. Hugs to you all. Especially because I don't deserve your loveliness. (And in Flossie's case, giant capital letters of fangirling. Muchos appreciated.)
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Em x