A Love Like Ours

Chapter 22

"Harry..."

It was like someone was calling my name from down a long, sound-proofed hallway. The voice was small, distant, but growing louder. As if the person was nearing me with each step they took.

Or perhaps, I thought as a hand shook my shoulder, I was just nearing consciousness.

"Harry, wake up. It's well past one."

I was aware of my body again, aware of the warmth of the sheets around me, and reached sideways in my sleepy haze, half-expecting to find the warmth of another beside me, but was surprised to find nothing instead.

"C'mon sweet," the voice said. "Time to get up."

The door closed again, and I rolled over, relishing the silence as my eyes fell closed, wanting me to slip back into darkness. But then the words "well past one" flashed across my mind, and I sat straight up, reached for my phone, and held my breath.

"Shit," I muttered breathlessly when her name appeared on the screen.

She'd called nearly forty minutes ago. It was only twenty minutes after one o'clock though, so I called back, hoping to catch her before she ended up on the subway.

"Hey, you've reached Maddie. Sorry I missed your call, but -"

I hung up, disappointed and annoyed with myself, and let my phone fall down onto the comforter before laying back down myself.

We'd taken to talking to each other not just once, but often two or three times a day. And since I was in England, she'd call before she left for class, which was early in the morning for her, but only about mid-day for me. When I didn't sleep late, of course.

But being back in my mother's house, I always tended to sleep later than planned. It was like my body knew that I was home. Really home. That I was with the people I loved and that I was safe. And every night, it fully relaxed when I hit my bed—relaxed in a way it never did when I was in L.A., or even when I was in my London home. As if it knew that here, only here, it could finally allow itself to rest.

I punched out a quick text apologizing for missing our call, and knew when it didn't go through right away that she was more than likely underground.

Sighing, I stood, stretched, regretted the conversation we could have had but didn't because I'd been asleep, and yanked a shirt on over my head before heading downstairs, phone in hand.

"There you are," Mum said, puttering around the kitchen. She tossed a dishtowel onto the drying rack and smiled at me as I sat at the counter. "Are you hungry?"

I shook my head. "Not yet." And then unlocked my phone, checking to see if my message had gone through yet.

It hadn't, and I resented it.

"Coffee's fresh," Mum said next, and she reached into the cupboard. "Want me to fix it for you?"

"No," I said, standing and heading over to her, "I've got it."

I accepted the mug she offered me, and went about pouring myself a cup. She handed me cream as I dumped a teaspoon of sugar into it, and stood beside me as I stirred everything in.

Mum always wanted to do for me when I was home. When I was younger, she used to joke that it was because I always made a mess, and she'd rather just do certain things herself. But as I got older, I began to understand that her doing for me wasn't just to save herself a clean-up afterwards. I was never that messy a person—even as a teenager. 

No. She wanted to do for me because most of the time, there was nothing she could do for me. I left home at sixteen and barely came back, and when I did, it was only for short visits. She didn't want me to lift a finger.