More than a Melody (H.S) ON HOLD

18

eighteen

Harry was quiet throughout dinner, hardly speaking but a few words here and there when acknowledged. I knew this pertained to Easton's visit earlier, nothing else could have possibly triggered his silence.

As we walk to the car, the rain gone, the winds far colder than usual, we signal a wave of goodbye to Danny and Delilah, who are having to stay at Delilah's parents for the night. I was secretly glad they were, to be blatantly honest. I needed to talk with Harry, for obvious reasons.

"Everything okay?" I ask as soon as both doors are shut, his hands fumbling to line the keys into the ignition.

The roar of the engine breaks through the wind's howling and the struggling intakes of breath, the headlights flooding the emptied streets before us.

"Hmm?" He mumbles, as if his switch in mood wasn't painfully perceptible to even the most ignorant of eyes. The car switches gears as the tires crunch forward, the street lamps reflecting onto the hood of the vehicle, the remnants of rain trailing down its sides.

"You seem rattled."

"Rattled?"

"Disturbed, almost, and I'm, uh, going out on a whim here but I'm assuming this concerns Easton."

He stops the car, gradually but suddenly, in the middle of the quiet street, his shoulders dropping slowly.

"I hope this doesn't come off as proprietorial," Harry says in a low voice, "but I truly do not like the idea of you staying at Mae's if it means Easton will be a regular visitor."

"What? Harry, I've known Easton for years."

"I know." Is all he says, everything about his tone appearing troubled and worrisome.

"How do you know?"

The air feels heavy with the question, leaving me to wonder whether I even wanted to know the answer to that. A change in atmosphere can shift without the reliance of words or actions, as if the aura between us became dense and plainly visible; smoke and tar and ash, conjoined as one.

His clicks his tongue, face tightening as he falls back, "he was talking about you one night at the bar," Harry admits, pausing in what I assumed was his way of debating on whether he wanted to confess what he heard.

He continues, though, the debate having favored one side, "and I overheard him say he placed a bet on who can get you into bed first."

Do what now?

I pinch the bridging of my nose, truly disturbed that my body was being betted against, like I was nothing more than an object being pawned. Easton, of all people, I would never have expected this from.

"Well that's disgusting."

We sit in the street for some time, until a car creeps up behind us and signals its horn. And even then Harry moves with a placid slowness.

"I should probably confess that we fought that night."

What the hell?