Angel Wing

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.

While she waited in the doorway, he poured himself a glass of water, drank it, ate the last piece of Tristan's abandoned, half-cold toast and put the place next to the sink. He glanced at her and asked, "Did you want anything?"

With a vacant smile, she shook her head and only stepped further into the kitchen, slow and intentional, when he took a seat on one of the island stools. She stopped at the side of the counter and studied him, waiting for him to speak.

"Alright," he murmured, trying and failing to stifle a yawn. "What's up?"

"It's Spencer," she began with a stiff smile. Her shoulders were raised towards her ears, locked tight.

"I might've guessed that," he replied, throwing her a look, leaning back against the stool and folding his arms over, "but what about Spencer?"

Her dark eyes gleamed and narrowed, and she watched him like she was waiting for some kind of trick, like she was waiting for him to try and catch her out on something. "He came over last night," she said warily, something shrewd flashing in her eyes.

"Well," he sighed deeply, "that's usually what happens when you have a boyfriend."

She gave him a tight smile with a dry hum of one-note laughter, scrunching her nose with false mirth. He returned the gesture; the same tight smile, the same mocking scrunch of the nose, relaxing his face again when she glared at him.

"He wasn't acting like himself last night so I asked him what was wrong," she began, pulling her bag strap further up her shoulder, "and he kept telling me that he was fine even though it was obvious that he definitely wasn't fine. Then he mentioned that he ran into you at the store."

"Alright," he shrugged. He could hear the birds whistling outside and could see the morning sunlight shooting across the kitchen.

"So you did see him?" She asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Yeah, I saw him," he answered lightly, taking another sip of water. The sound of the glass being placed back on the island counter took up all the space in the room. They lapsed into a brief silence that made the skin on the back of his neck prick with heat.

"And he gave you a ride home?"

"He offered," he shrugged again, "so I took him up on it."

"What did you talk about?" She asked, her eyes fixed on him, and her body still. She tried to keep her voice light and casual, but the concentration in her eyes was too intense and her words were too hasty. "Anything interesting?"

"No."

A month ago, it wouldn't have been unusual for her to be there at ten in the morning on a bright, quiet Saturday. A month ago, it wouldn't have been unusual for her to be there at all. A month ago, she would've let herself in, still yawning, and wrapped her arms around him. He could hardly remember what it was like to kiss her. He could hardly remember what they used to talk about.

It was so young, so fresh and so far away that the sight of her in his kitchen felt like some kind of anomaly, some kind of error in the universe that he couldn't reconcile with. In a way, he half felt like he missed her. In more ways, he felt such emptiness at the sight of her that all he wanted was for her to leave.

Turning away, she gave a small hum of dissatisfaction, maybe disbelief and glanced towards him curiously, suspiciously. Then, her eyes darted away again, and she gazed at the lawn and the tall, bare trees through the glass patio doors.

"What?" He asked, the ghost of a smile on his lips. There was something in his eyes that made her shift under the weight.

"What?" She asked, not meeting his gaze, her back pressed against the island as she stared at the backyard.

"Ask what you wanna ask, Elodie," he said flatly, his focus locked on the profile of her face, her taut posture (it reminded him of the way Spencer had sat in the office), the way she bit the inside corner of her mouth. Her name held a weight in his mouth that he had not felt since they broke up. "You know what you're here for."

There was a long pause that gave him a crawling feeling over his lower arms and made his heart feel like a lump in his chest. Then, she snapped towards him, and asked, "Did you say something to him that might've maybe, possibly, potentially given him the wrong idea? You know, something you might've said that might've left a bad impression or could be easily misconstrued?"

He pretended to think. "No," he replied with a small shake of his head, finishing his glass of water.

"Are you sure?" She pressed, her eyes wide and focused, lines of apprehension forming in her forehead. Her desperation made him feel nauseous and he wondered if there was a hint of envy to it. It had been a long time since he'd felt anything like that.

"I'm sure," he said, getting up from his seat to fill up his glass of water again. He picked up a packet of ibuprofen that his mom left on the counter and popped two tablets out of the packet, drinking some more water and swallowing them together while she watched him as if she'd never seen him before, as if he was doing something that she couldn't wrap her head around, as if there was something inexplicably unusual about him.

"How do you know?" She challenged, narrowing her eyes watchfully.

"Because we didn't even talk about you," he replied tersely— it came out crueller than he had intended. He glimpsed at her apologetically as he leaned against the kitchen cupboards behind him. "I didn't mean for it to come out like that."

Shrugging, she glanced down at the floor and then looked out at the garden again. He felt a sharp twist in his stomach.

"He didn't say anything about me?" She asked lightly, quietly, self-consciously touching her throat with her left hand, twisting her E necklace between her fingertips— he'd bought it for her as a birthday present.

"No," he told her, trying to keep his voice soft. "He probably didn't think it was... Appropriate." He frowned, glancing towards her necklace as she continued to twist that little silver initial between her forefinger and thumb. "Does it bother him that you still wear that?"

It took her a second to realise what he was asking. "Oh," she said, releasing it and raising her eyebrows as if only just becoming aware that it was there. "No. It doesn't bother him."

"Does he know where you got it from?" He asked, unable to help himself.

"Pandora," she replied wryly.

He snickered.

"Yeah," she nodded, biting on the inside corner of her mouth again. "He knows where I got it from and he doesn't mind that I still wear it. I always wear it." She glanced away, sighed and looked back at him. "So you didn't say anything to him?"

"I didn't say anything to him," he assured.

For a moment, she pondered. "Did he say anything else?"

"About what?" He laughed, pulling his sweater sleeves down and folding his arms over.

"I don't know," she frowned, dropping her shoulders. "About anything. About how he was feeling or what he was thinking or if something had happened."

"Why would he talk to me about that?" Hadley pressed helplessly, throwing her a doubtful look. "Don't you think if he wanted to talk about what he was thinking or how he was feeling then he'd talk to you?"

"I don't know," she echoed, her voice hardening and her face twisting into a scowl. "Sometimes I have no idea what he's thinking. How do I know if he'd even open up to me if something was on his mind?"

"How the fuck do I know?" He scoffed, frowning at her. "He's your boyfriend, ergo he's your problem."

"Ergo," she mimicked in a high-pitched, tilting her head from side-to-side, vaguely disgusted. She tutted. "Shut up."

"Look," he huffed, rolling his eyes, "all he said to me was that his jaw ached. That was it. Nothing about you, nothing about him. He just complained about his jaw."

She gave him a dark, stern look. Her voice was sharp when she next spoke. "You shouldn't have punched him."

"No," he replied airily, staring impassively at the tiled kitchen floor. "Maybe I shouldn't have."

"I don't like when people get violent," she scolded, her gaze fixed on him. "You remember how angry I was when Dean Howden punched you in the face at that party?"

"What, do I remember getting punched in the face?" He echoed dryly, impatiently. "No, I don't. Mustn't have been that memorable."

"Your sarcasm is exhausting," she shot, shaking her head with disapproval and curling her lip, a slight scrunch in her nose. "I just thought that you wouldn't do that to somebody. I don't know. I don't like violence."

"Clearly I do," he retorted brightly, briskly with a shallow smile. "I'm thinking of starting a Fight Club, but don't tell anyone about it."

"You know," she continued, ignoring him and folding her arms over, "I was so furious when I found out. I was ready to hit the roof."

"It wasn't even about you," he admitted, shaking his head. "And Spencer knows that."

"He told me that you didn't do it because of me, you just did it because you wanted to," she said, studying him without seeming to realise that he was looking back at her, " but I don't know how much I believe that and I don't know how much you believe it either."

"I believe it," he said simply. "I know it's true."

"Well, anyway," she pressed, turning away from him. "I only came over to ask you about that. I just wanted to make sure that nothing happened while the two of you were together."

"Like what?" He asked, his chest tight and his stomach turning with a kind of wounding feeling. It offended him how quickly she had assumed that he had sabotaged her; it offended him how easily she had forgotten him. "We saw each other at the store, he gave me a ride home and we didn't talk about you."

She watched him for a long time, frozen, as if she was waiting for him to say something else. "As long as it isn't something that I've done or, you know, something that has been said about me or whatever."

"I don't know if it is or if it isn't something you have or haven't done," he replied sharply, narrowing his eyes, "but I know it's nothing to do with me and I'd like to have my breakfast now."

She withdrew, visibly pulling away from him and her eyebrows shot up, her brown eyes widening. "Right," she replied quietly, a little curtly as her face smoothed out and she tried to regain her composure. "Sorry for showing up unannounced."

He lingered, feeling as though he should say something, feeling as though there were words trapped in his throat that he could not find the sounds for, but all he managed to offer was a shrug. Then, after another moment passed them, he pushed himself away from the kitchen counter and left, walking into the hallway and stopping when he reached the front door. He offered her a quick, wooden smile.

Following him out, she stopped beside him, glancing between him and the front door, and for a long time she did not move, her expression thoughtful and distant. He offered her a quick, wooden smile; her face did not change.

Then, she cleared her throat, gave him one final look and said, "There's nothing left to say now, is there?"

"No," he replied quietly, his throat bobbing and tightening.

When she dared to meet his gaze, their eyes locked. She looked at him with some kind of emotion, some kind of thought, that was lost on him. The distance between them was such that he no longer understood her secret glances and no longer knew what she was trying to say to him, and in one swift, sharp second, that cracked the silence like a whip, she realised this. She saw that he could no longer reach her and that their silences no longer meant anything. They were just silences. They were just two people who didn't know what to say to each other anymore.

"Okay," she said so quietly that it came out like a whisper, barely escaping her.

He opened the front door for her and she stepped out without looking back, and in a swift, sweeping second, he was alone again, remaining next to the closed door until he heard her getting into her car and driving away.

Unsure of where to go, he stood in the hallway with the feeling that he was standing inside of a memory or an old picture, and remained stuck where he was, thinking about where to go. When it occurred to him that there was nowhere that he wanted to be, he trudged back up the stairs and returned to his bedroom, suddenly deeply tired and aching to sleep.

note
hello!! Thank you for reading <3 I have a very busy week this week so thought I would get this up!! I hope you enjoyed and I hope to see you next time :')

(More Hadley and Spencer coming soon!!)

originally published
03 March 2025