five

                                        

                                              
FEBRUARY 
ON SATURDAY MORNING, the light of late morning flooding his bedroom, Hadley's relentless tossing and turning was disturbed by knocking on the front door. 
He didn't rush to answer it. Tristan was already downstairs eating breakfast, so he stayed where he was, tangled in his bed sheets and staring at the bedroom ceiling, trying to ignore the increasing restlessness in his legs. Despite barely sleeping, despite the thick cloud that filled his aching head, he couldn't convince himself that he was tired and he couldn't lull himself into relaxation.
In the silence, he could hear the birds whistling outside; he could hear neighbours talking outside of his window and someone pulling out of their driveway; he could hear Tristan downstairs, leaving the kitchen and shuffling lazily through the house to answer the front door; he could hear time passing him by.
The thick tranquillity from downstairs seemed to echo in his room and enveloped the house in a striking stillness. He could almost feel it ringing inside of his chest but it was interrupted by the brief, muffled conversation and the sound of Tristan marching up the stairs, rapid and firm.
Without knocking, he threw Hadley's door open and stood there, his brown hair dishevelled from sleep and his eyes wide. "Hads," he said, bouncing on his feet and holding onto the door frame. "Someone here for you."
He propped himself up on his elbows. His heart gave a sharp rap against his chest like an open palm slamming down on a table. He nodded his head up towards Tristan. "Who is it?"
Tristan pulled a face and Hadley, a small knot forming in his stomach, climbed out of bed and pulled a sweater over his head. He pulled his socks on, pushed his sweater sleeves up, grabbed a pair of socks and slipped past Tristan who was still standing at the edge of the doorway.
When he arrived downstairs, the first thing he noticed was that she had made an effort to look nice: jeans she liked, her favourite Bardot jumper, a pair of strappy little white shoes. Her blonde hair was loosely curled and fell over her shoulders and she was clutching the thin strap of a small black bag in her right hand while biting the edge of her left thumbnail. Her face, fresh and smooth, was radiant and she brought with her the scents of vanilla and jasmine.
"Hello," he said from halfway up the stairs, holding onto the banister with one hand. His hair was still wild and his grey sweater was old and baggy, the pulled-up sleeves spilling over his elbows in a ripple of fabric. He was still wearing the shorts that he'd slept in and his feet were cold against the wooden stairs, even with the socks he'd briskly pulled on. All he could think about was his relief that he'd brushed his teeth earlier that morning.
"Hi," she greeted distantly, not meeting his eye and momentarily removing her thumbnail from her mouth before she started biting it again. She crossed her right foot over her left and her brown eyes darted up towards him. "I wanted to talk to you but I didn't want to do it in school because I thought people might make a big deal out of it and start gossiping and whatever and I didn't want that. So." She tutted, looking around the hallway as if it had been a long time since she had seen it, as if she had ventured back into the past.
Clearing his throat, he mimicked a telephone against his ear, sticking out his thumb and little finger, and shaking his hand. 
"You wouldn't have answered," she said stiffly, turning her head away and fixing her gaze on the front door.
"How do you know?" He asked, walking down the stairs. As he passed, he turned back to look at her and added, "You never tried."
Lingering in the hallway, her body stiff and gaze unmoving, she uncrossed her feet and slowly, wordlessly followed him into the kitchen.