A Rhapsody Of Sorts

24- The Only Song I Know

November 16, 2012.

There was a puddle of maple syrup on the floor under our table. It felt gross, sticking to the bottoms of my boots and practically gluing my feet to the ground, but I could hardly be annoyed about it for more than a second when my mind was too busy reeling with thoughts of Franklin Goshen and the hundreds of judgmental stares I'd felt on me when I grabbed my clutch off the bar and hightailed it out of the party with Harry.

After our escape, Harry had gotten behind the wheel of my car, driving in silence until my stomach started growling. With my forehead pressed to the window and my eyes locked on my reflection in the side-view mirror, he'd feigned hunger as if we both hadn't just heard my stomach roar loud enough to frighten the driver in the car next to us, and had then taken a detour towards an all-night diner with a fluorescent pink sign hanging out front that read Very Berry — a name that had made a ball of guilt grow in my belly as I thought of Belinda in her pink dress. I'd ruined her night.

I was pushing the food around on my plate, intermittently taking bites of my French toast while Harry sat across from me, when he suddenly picked up my rose from where I'd left it beside the napkin holder and reached across the table to delicately tuck it behind my ear.

"Looks good," he said, pulling his hand away and smiling in satisfaction as he took up his fork again. It was the first thing he'd said to me since we got our food, or at least I thought it was, because I'd been too caught up in my own thoughts to hear anything else he might've said before then. "Almost as good as that red goop on your face."

"You're hilarious," I murmured, my voice scratchy.

Glowering, I wiped the strawberry syrup off my cheek but left the rose behind my ear, reaching up to make sure it was securely weaved in my hair before I took a sip of my smoothie to distract myself from the stunned expression on his face. He gulped and his eyes went wide, as if he'd expected me to rip off the petals and sprinkle them atop his stack of chocolate chip pancakes instead.

Our waiter snapped his bubblegum against the roof of his mouth as he approached our table with the baggy of ice Harry had requested, handing it to me with a forced, tired grin that I remembered wearing often when I worked as a waitress. I settled the bag on top of my right hand. The cold sent a wave of relief through me, cooling down the red-hot anger that had made my blood ignite back at the party. The thought that Franklin would need more than a cold compress and a couple of pain relievers comforted me.

"How's it feel?" Harry asked, licking chocolate off his lip.

I shrugged. "It's fine. I'll probably live."

He smiled softly, the corner of his mouth that I'd kissed two days earlier curving up. As soon as he did it, I couldn't stop thinking about how pretty of a smile it was. Liam had a pretty smile that went well with the sharp lines of his jaw, and Belinda's lopsided smile was beautiful in the way that it oozed the sort of warmth that always felt genuine. I'd never thought of Harry's smile as pretty before. Endearing, innocent, bashful — yes. But right now pretty was the only word I could give it, and I realized it had everything to do with how well rested he looked. The dark circles under his eyes were drastically lighter and for once he didn't look like he was ready to drop his head on the table and pass out. I knew he'd gotten at least twelve hours of sleep when he slept at mine on Wednesday, but I wondered if he'd had a full night's sleep since then.

"You look different," I said, popping a forkful of French toast in my mouth.

"Do I?" he asked, a blush rising to his cheeks.

"Yeah." I tucked a fallen piece of hair behind my ear, brushing over the smooth rose petals for a moment or two before I continued, "You look like you've been sleeping better."