I Saw Her Standing There ➵ Kit Connor

4 | Beyond Compare

[Y/N] HARRISON'S FLAT reminded me of a picture in a magazine; eccentric in nature, but perfectly suited to the person themselves.

Although, to be completely honest, it might have been found in a House Hoarders tabloid instead of Teen Vogue. Every inch on her walls seemed to be covered in picture frames, none of them matching and all of them different sizes. Her coat-rack consisted of twenty different coloured coats, and her shoe collection spanned from the door to the end of the entrance hallway. It wasn't a mess, per say, but it was certainly overwhelming to the eye. Orange and green hues, floral wallpaper, and plants growing out of a scattered array of pots.

"You like spaghetti?" She asked, disappearing from the hallway. "If not, I have some leftover soup in the fridge."

I kicked off my trainers, following her voice into her kitchen. It looked similar to mine, but more lived in. Whereas I had only a few cups and plates, she had a multitude. Pots and pans were scattered all over the counters and sink bins, ingredient boxes stacked on top of each other like a culinary wall.

"I like spaghetti," I said. "But I wasn't planning on staying long."

"Nonsense. Stay for dinner."

"I don't want to intrude."

"You intruded three days ago," she said, but I could hear a slight laugh in her voice. "And I accidentally threw the whole pasta box in, so there'll be more than I can eat. I hate leftovers."

I stared at her, watching as she danced about her kitchen. She lived exactly how I expected her too, and even though she'd welcomed me into her home, I still felt like I was intruding on the very precipice of her life. Had she forgiven me, or was she still testing my every action? I wasn't sure how I'd gone from being her worst enemy to sharing a meal with her.

"I never actually apologised," I said, leaning against her countertop. "I only told you a fact about that band."

She held up her hand, peering into the bubbling pot. "It's the band, or the Beatles. Not that band."

"The Beatles, then. I've yet to properly say I'm sorry."

"Nothing's stopping you, Kit Copper."

"Connor."

"The Beatles. Mess them up, I'll mess yours up." She turned to smile at me, a teasing flare in her eyes. "But you can apologise at any time, I don't mind."

I wanted to dust the flour off of her face, but the embarrassment of attempting something so unsolicited would be worse than seeing it there. If anything, it matched the chaotic nature of her home. She picked up a plastic spoon, stirring the boiling pasta and sprinkling it with salt.

"I'm..." I began, although I wasn't sure what I was saying.

She didn't look back at me. "You're?"

"Did you know the Beatles first played in Germany?"

"I did know that."

"Is there a fact you don't know?"

"Probably not."

"Well, that right about foils my plan." I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Not that I had a plan to begin with, I'm perfectly capable of apologising on my own. I only thought the trivia facts would lighten the mood—I promise you, that's all there was too it—and now that I know you know everything there is to know about them, that put paid to it."

I couldn't see the expression on her face, but by the way her hand raised to hover near her face, I presumed she was stifling a laugh. I must have seemed pathetic—and to be fair, I probably was—but even in my most dire straits of humility, I'd always found it hard to apologise. It wasn't a matter of pride; no, I could pin that down with no hesitance in the matter. It was a matter of fear. My apology had one chance of making do, and if it all went toss-up, then I'd be worse off than I started.