Chapter Text
By Monday afternoon, just two days since they decided to move in together, Aoife had seen enough London flats to conclude that landlords were little devils incarnate.
The first flat smelled of damp socks and old cabbage. The second had advertised “excellent natural light,” which meant one window facing a brick wall and the spiritual presence of sunshine. The third had a bath in the kitchen—not beside the kitchen, not near the kitchen, but proudly in it.
“Absolutely not,” Millie had said.
“I don’t know,” Aoife had replied, peering into the tub. “There’s something efficient about stirring soup and bathing at once.”
“That sentence is why you’re not allowed to speak to landlords unsupervised.”
The landlord told them that the bathtub was futuristic and that its unique placement would be in flats all over London in the next couple of years. Aoife would’ve laughed in his face if not for Millie elbowing her in the ribs before she could.
They saw three other manky flats before they gave up for the day. And, not wanting to go home just yet, they took a walk through Soho since they’d parked Saoirse nearby.
Soho had already begun turning itself inside out for the evening. Neon signs blinked awake. Girls in bold eyeliner laughed through cigarette smoke. Men started loitering in front of clubs. Aoife shot Millie a look—did she want to go dancing?—but Millie just said, Another day. They passed by a sex shop window glowing pink across the road and were tempted to check it out (mostly Aoife), but it was closing. Oddly, Aoife didn’t feel in danger at all in Soho. It made her feel alive with how different it was. Besides, Millie was a witch—that was enough to make her feel safe.
They ended up in a basement bar off Wardour Street because Aoife said the disappointment after such a disastrous flat search required gin, and Millie said it required chips, and the place had both.
Inside the bar, it was too warm, too loud, and lit in red enough to make everyone look either glamorous or guilty. Aoife loved it immediately.
Millie claimed the smallest table in the corner, shoving people aside and glaring at a man who was thinking about sitting there until he went away.
“You know,” Aoife said, dropping into the chair opposite her, “you’d make a very good dictator.”
“Thank you.”
Aoife laughed and lifted her glass.
The first drink was for the flats. The second was for the bathtub kitchen. The third was because the night was turning out all right.
Millie mentioned her Sunday lunch at her uncle’s and aunt’s house, and Aoife was slapped with nostalgia. For as long as she knew Millie, Sunday lunches at the Potters were tradition; it was the only time they couldn’t hang out, and despite Aoife begging to join, she never could. She now understood it was because of the whole magic ordeal.
As she spoke about her family, Millie mentioned her cousin. “James is getting married,” she said, an excited smile on her face.
Aoife nearly choked on an ice cube. “James Potter?”
“How many Jameses did you terrorise as a child?”
“He was a menace, Mills. He pushed me into a garden pond!”
Millie giggled. “You told him his glasses made him look like a sloth.”
“They did.”
Millie smiled into her drink. “He remembers you, too, you know. Called you ‘that terrifying little beast who bit me.’”
Aoife gasped. “I did not bite him.”
Millie gave her a look.
“Fine. But in my defence, he had it coming.”
“He was eight.”
“Men start early.”
“Well, his fiancée, Lily Evans, would know. He basically harassed her for a date for most of Hogwarts,” Millie said, snorting. “He was a right pain in the arse to her.”
Aoife grimaced. “How did he manage to put a ring on her then?”
“Not because of persistence, to be sure.” Millie grinned. “Lily jinxed him to the moon at the end of their Sixth Year, said she wanted nothing to do with him, and if he ever got close to her again, she’d make sure he could never speak again without throwing up slugs.”
Aoife shuddered at the picture Millie painted, and she raised a glass to Lily. “Fair play to her.”
“But then, James and Lily got Head Boy and Head Girl in Seventh Year, and there was no way not to see each other.” Millie plopped a chip into her mouth. “They got caught snogging in a broom cupboard during graduation.”
“How do you think that happened?” Aoife asked in amusement.
Millie shrugged. “They never said. They’re great together, though. James worships her. He was really good to her when her parents died.”
Her heart sank. Millie must’ve misunderstood the look on her face because her cheeks reddened under her freckles, and she cast her gaze down at the table.
“I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t have brought it up—“
“It’s okay, Mills.” Aoife took a sip of her drink. “How did they die?”
“Death Eaters,” Millie whispered, but even through the noise of the bar, Aoife heard.
She nodded in understanding and raised her glass again. “Seems like Lily and I have some things in common.”
Millie’s mouth curved, but her smile was sad as she tried to lighten the mood. “Yes, you’ve both endured the menace James was a child.”
“Poor Lily. Having to spend her life tied to that beetle.” Aoife smiled. “Good for him, though.”
Millie looked surprised.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Millie just chuckled, eating the last chip. “That was sincere.”
“I contain multitudes, Amelia Potter,” Aoife informed her before standing up and going to fetch another drink, and, if the kitchen wasn’t yet closed, some more chips for Millie.
The world spun as she stood. Aoife let out a giggle.
“You’re getting another drink?”
“Ah, I’m having a good time,” she said. “Sure we deserve a drink after the state of those flats. That’s all.”
Millie’s expression softened, which was worse than judgment. “Okay.”
Aoife hated that, okay. Like a note being taken. So she went to the bar, got herself a gin and tonic, and Millie a pint of Guinness, since the girl was adamant about drinking “light”—Aoife refused to tell her that a Guinness was essentially a meal. She got back to the table, seeing with amusement as Millie shooed away a man trying to flirt with her.
Millie, with her golden hair and bright eyes, was the sort of girl men were drawn to, but with her scowl and sharp tongue, the kind of girl who also frightened them off. This was a new side of Millie that Aoife had never seen before, and it was highly amusing.
Aoife dropped into her seat with a smile. “And why wasn’t that lovely young man worthy of a word from your highness, then?”
Millie rolled her eyes. “His hair was longer than mine.”
“Judgy.” Aoife wagged her brows. “I like it.”
“I’m not looking for anything.” Millie shrugged. “I’ve no interest in dating. Not unless it’s worth it.”
“Worth what?”
“The disruption of my life.” Millie took the Guinness and took a large sip.
“Fair enough.”
Pointing her pint at Aoife, Millie raised her brows. “What about you? How’s Will?”
“He’s been calling the house most days.” At Millie’s suspicious look, she added. “Take that look off your face, Mills. He’s been perfectly nice.”
“He did cheat on you.”
“Yes, and I was furious about that. Thank you for the historical overview.” Aoife sighed. “He asked me to dinner on Wednesday. As friends.”
Millie made a face, and when Aoife narrowed her eyes, she composed herself and asked, “Do you want to go?”
Aoife shrugged. “I think so.”
“Then you should go.”
Aoife looked up, surprised. Millie hadn’t exactly hidden her distaste for Will. Even though she’d never actually met him, Millie was so fiercely on Aoife’s side that it was starting to become irritating. Especially since Aoife was trying to give Will a chance to be her friend.
Millie only half-smiled. “You need friends.”
“That sounds almost supportive.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
Aoife smiled and then downed the rest of her drink and grabbed a cigarette, lighting it quickly.
Aoife and Millie only remembered Aoife had driven them around London in Saoirse when they left the bar. Aoife was swaying slightly, using Millie as a crutch as they walked, and Millie was more giggly than usual but still somewhat sober. They both froze when they reached Saoirse and turned to look at each other.
“We drove here,” Millie said.
“Seems like it.”
“I can’t apparate us out. I dunno if you can do it with me, and I don’t fancy trying it tonight,” Millie said quietly.
Aoife grimaced. In her state, she couldn’t very well be behind the wheel; she’d get them both killed. She turned to Millie. “Can you drive?”
“In theory.”
“Comforting.” Aoife sighed. “How sober are you? Can you balance yourself on one foot?”
Millie folded one leg up and stayed standing until Aoife nodded.
“I s’pose that’ll do.” She shoved the keys into Millie’s hands. “Be careful with my baby.”
Poor Saoirse, though. Millie was a horrible driver.
Aoife reckoned if she’d got behind the wheel, she would’ve done a better job. Millie didn’t drive catastrophically, but she ground the gears, was horrible with the clutch, and either went too slow or forgot her foot on the gas and stepped on it to the point Aoife felt as though she was in a racing car.
“My poor Saoirse,” Aoife cried out.
“She’s fine. She’s a car,” Millie mumbled, glaring at the road ahead.
“Saoirse is a lady, Mills; she deserves respect. You have to be gentle with her—“
Millie stopped suddenly at a stop sign, and Aoife leapt forward in her seat with a shriek.
By the time Millie parked outside the townhouse, Aoife had prayed to God a handful of times, and her stomach had tumbled so much it was mush. Millie just laughed at her, saying they’d survived just fine, and followed Aoife inside the house.
After throwing her handbag in the general direction of the coatrack, Aoife bent down to take off her shoes. “Mills?”
“Yes?”
Aoife took off a shoe and glanced up to see Millie looking around the house with a frown. Aoife did the same. All she saw was emptiness and cold, a place full of grief and dying flowers. Nausea washed over her. She swallowed.
“Aoif?”
Her other shoe hit the floor, and Aoife turned back to Millie, who was now staring at her with a frown.
“What did you want to say?”
Her throat tightened. Truth was, Aoife wanted to ask her to stay. She dreaded another night of falling asleep in the heartless house, now haunted with the ghosts of her parents (though not real ghosts, seeing as those actually existed, just metaphorical ones). But Millie had a better, warmer room, and soon they’d be living together, anyway. There was no reason for Aoife to be pathetic on top of being drunk.
Aoife pulled her mouth into a smile, shrugging. “I dunno. Forgot.”
Millie’s brows furrowed, but she let out a chuckle. “You should probably get some sleep. And water.”
“Yes, mum.”
Millie smiled. “Will you be okay?”
Aoife nodded, a tight smile on her face. “I’ll be grand.”
“Alright. If your uncle asks, say you dropped a shoe hard.”
Before Aoife could ask what the fuck that meant, Millie had taken her wand from her boot and vanished with a loud, sharp, CRACK!
A laugh left Aoife’s lips. She waited to see if the sound woke her uncle, and when nothing happened, she went upstairs. She threw herself on top of the covers of her bed as soon as she reached her bedroom and pretended the room wasn’t an unfeeling thing with four walls and pretty wallpaper.
The flat in Soho was the first place that did not make Aoife want to commit a crime against property law. This surprised her, considering the street looked as though it had already committed several.
It sat above a narrow street with a bakery on the corner, a record shop two doors down, and a club across the way whose black-painted door suggested either music, sin, or both. A pink-lit window farther along reminded Aoife of the sex shop they’d seen the day before.
“It’s a lively street,” the landlord said as they climbed the stairs.
“Lively,” Millie repeated.
“Central,” he corrected quickly. “Very convenient. Restaurants, music, transport. The area has character.”
“Character is one word for it,” Lottie muttered.
The landlord pretended not to hear.
Millie had called Aoife that morning to announce her mother had found them a flat to visit. They had viewings set up the whole week, open houses and such for the listings they’d manage to find. Before this one, they’d already visited another one nearby that ended up being a sham, as in, a shoebox with a bunk bed. Lottie’s mysterious listing, one she’d seemingly produced out of thin air considering the landlord was telling them the previous tenants had left abruptly, already had the bonus of being in Soho.
Yes, perhaps not the best neighbourhood for two young women to live in, but one of them was a witch. And Aoife had fallen in love with the life of the area, the adventure.
The stairwell smelled faintly of dust, coffee, and someone’s old cigarettes. The door stuck when the landlord opened it, which he apologised for as if the door had personally disappointed him.
They stepped inside a corridor big enough to include at least a coat rack. There were three doors on the right, a door at the end of the hall, and to the left, just by the front door, a wide doorway opening into what Aoife figured was the sitting room.
She forgot to be difficult then.
Light. That was the first thing. Not grand light, not country-house light spilling over acres of lawn and making every window look smug. London light. Pale and angled, coming through tall windows at the front of the sitting room, catching dust in the air and turning it briefly gold.
Below, Soho muttered and smoked and shouted. The street was narrow, imperfect, entirely too alive. Aoife could not imagine her mother approving of it, which, for reasons she did not want to examine, made her like it more.
Aoife stepped inside, onto the hardwood flooring, noting the archway to the kitchen at the end of the room, which she figured had another exit to the corridor as well. Millie stopped beside her. Lottie stepped in behind them.
Aoife knew at once they were all trying not to react too much. Reacting too much was how landlords sensed weakness.
“It’s acceptable,” Aoife said.
Millie nodded solemnly. “Adequate.”
Lottie looked at the ceiling. “Not actively threatening.”
The landlord brightened, apparently deciding this was praise.
The three of them took the cue to walk around the flat. The kitchen wasn’t much; it had a small round table with two chairs and a counter that ran almost the entire length of the back wall, except where the fridge stood. It had a tall window on one side with a view to the street below, tiled flooring, and a stove and an oven that looked as old as the landlord.
“And we have just recently installed that telephone.” The landlord pointed proudly at the telephone hanging on the wall near the kitchen table.
Walking through the door connecting the kitchen to the corridor, Aoife discovered that the door at the end of it was the bathroom, spacious compared to the other flats they had seen; a bathtub with a shower head, a small blurred window, a sink with a medicine cabinet mirror, and a toilet bowl that, with a proper cleaning, would be just fine.
Then there were the rooms. The first two were about the same size; only one had the bonus of a built-in wardrobe. Aoife glanced at Millie, who rolled her eyes and nodded.
“As if I had any chance of getting the wardrobe,” she said with a laugh. “Just your shoes should fill that.”
Aoife nodded proudly. “Don’t worry, Mills, you can use them too.”
“You wear a size three, Aoife. I’m a six.”
“Three and a half, thank you very much.” She sighed. “I forgot you have giant feet.”
Lottie laughed at the two of them.
They moved toward the third bedroom, the one closest to the front door. As soon as the door opened, Aoife’s brows raised to her forehead. The third bedroom wasn’t a bedroom at all, just a cupboard with ambition.
“This is the third room?” Millie asked.
The landlord smiled. “It makes a fine single.”
Aoife stepped inside, turned once, arms as stretched as she could get them. It was a small room, even for Aoife. Not even a single mattress would fit properly.
She turned to the landlord. “For whom? A leprechaun with no possessions?”
Lottie coughed into her hand. Millie’s mouth twitched. The landlord’s smile faltered.
Nonetheless, they didn’t need a third room; they needed something else. Aoife looked at Millie. Millie looked back. Both of them saw it at the same time. Not a bedroom. Their Investigation Room.
Lottie, seeing both expressions, sighed. “I dislike whatever just happened.”
“The young gentlemen across the hall have been here nearly a year,” the landlord said as they returned to the sitting room. “No complaints. Quiet enough. Odd hours, perhaps, but respectable.”
“Respectable,” Aoife repeated, glancing out at the street below. “In Soho?”
The landlord laughed weakly.
Millie’s gaze flicked toward the front door.
Aoife noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Aoife gave her a look as the landlord showed Lottie the lumpy sofa he thought counted as furniture.
Millie lowered her voice. “There’s magic on the door opposite. I felt it on the way in.”
Aoife blinked. “Magic?”
“Wards, I think. Probably silencing charms if he says two young gentlemen hardly have noise complaints.”
Aoife looked toward the door, then shrugged. “I’ll be living with a witch. Wizard neighbours feel almost normal.”
“You’re not concerned?”
“Should I be?”
Millie’s mouth opened, then closed. “Maybe. Then again, this is Soho. Prejudiced wizards wouldn’t live here. But some wizards might be here because they’re hiding, broke, or, you know, making a point.”
“Grand. Then we’ll fit right in.” Aoife nodded toward the opposite door. “And they can protect us if bad people come knocking. You know, if our first line of defence—“Aoife pointed at Millie, “—falls.”
“That is not how neighbours work.”
“You don’t know. Maybe magical neighbours are useful.”
Lottie looked back at them, ignoring whatever the landlord was saying. “Do not make tactical decisions based on hallway proximity.”
Aoife smiled. “But neighbourly relations add charm to the flat.”
A knowing smile played on Lottie’s lips. “Neighbours are very important indeed.”
Millie narrowed her eyes slightly, but before she could interrogate her mother, Aoife looked around the sitting room again. “So,” she said. “Is this it?”
Hesitating, Millie glanced around. “I… Shouldn’t we look at more places?”
Aoife shrugged. “I really like this one.”
“Me too.”
“And we risk losing it if we wait… right?”
Millie nodded slowly. “That makes some sense.”
“I make every sense.” Aoife grinned, raising her eyebrows.
A smile crept onto Millie’s lips, and she shrugged. “Fuck it. Why not?”
With that, negotiations began.
And the landlord named his price.
“That’s ambitious,” said Aoife.
The landlord blinked. “It’s quite fair for the area.”
“Oh no. You can’t charge Chelsea rent for Soho drama. If we’re to be kept awake by jazz and whatever that shop downstairs is selling, I expect a discount for atmosphere. And if not for that, at least for the condition of the door, the questionable third bedroom, and the plumbing Lottie was staring at with open suspicion.”
“The plumbing is perfectly sound.”
Lottie made a thoughtful sound that suggested a trial might be necessary. Millie, who had been quiet, unfolded the paper in her hand.
“The advert says furnished.”
Millie pointedly looked at the single couch, then vaguely towards the bedroom with only folding beds and mattresses that seemed to have been taken from an asylum.
Aoife hadn’t really noticed that—to be fair, she’d already assumed she would be replacing all the furniture in any flat they got and redecorating it fully, including painting the walls to hide the clinical white that covered the flat.
“Partially furnished.”
“That is not what it says.”
“Well—”
“And the lease term says twelve months, but you mentioned eighteen earlier.”
The landlord looked between them.
Aoife kept smiling.
Millie did not.
It was, Aoife thought, a beautiful arrangement.
“We like the flat,” Millie said.
“Very much,” Aoife added.
“But not enough to be stupid.”
“Speak for yourself,” Aoife said. “I adore being stupid. I simply prefer not to overpay for it. My Uncle says overpaying is how businesses collapse.”
Lottie looked out the window, shoulders shaking.
By the end of twenty minutes, they had negotiated the rent down to a fair price, clarified the lease, secured repairs to the sticking door, and extracted a promise that the landlord would remove a horrifying armchair from the second bedroom before move-in.
Aoife shook his hand and handed him a cheque for the first and last month’s rent, as agreed. Millie took the keys.
Lottie waited until they were outside to say, “That poor man never stood a chance.”
Aoife and Millie looked at each other and then burst into laughter.
“I’m paying half,” Millie said for the fourth time that evening.
Aoife was lying upside down on Lottie’s sofa, feet over the back, cigarette unlit between her fingers because Lottie had threatened violence if she smoked indoors.
“I heard you the first three times.”
“Then stop saying things like, ‘Don’t worry about it.’”
“But you shouldn’t worry about it. Worry gives you forehead lines.”
“Aoife.”
Aoife sighed. “Fine. Half. You can give me your half every month, and I’ll just send a cheque to the landlord.”
“And I’m paying for utilities.”
“Unless you take baths that last five hours, you’re not, Amelia. Half the rent, and that’s it.” She pointedly looked at Millie. “I swear it’s fine; I can afford this and more.”
It was the truth. Aoife hadn’t even ventured into the headache her inherited bank accounts were; she had just been using the money from her trust fund, the same one she’d been using since she turned eighteen. She hadn’t even scratched the surface of it, and as much as it embarrassed her to say, the rent for the flat for the whole year wasn’t even a fraction of the money. It was only her Uncle’s advice and Millie’s insistence on paying half the rent that had Aoife so intent on getting a fair price.
“Well, at least I’ll pay for furniture. The chairs remember?”
“Millie, if you try to pay half for a sofa, I’ll die of boredom before we sit on it. But you can have your precious chairs.”
Millie pointed at her. Aoife raised both hands.
“Fine. We’ll discuss furniture diplomatically.”
Lottie entered the room. “That means Aoife will buy things second hand and call it even.”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
Millie’s jaw tightened slightly. Aoife saw it and softened. “Half,” she said, more sincere. “I know.”
Millie looked at her. “I mean it.”
Aoife nodded. “I know.”
Instead of dwelling on it, Aoife not so gracefully slid off the sofa and went over to the cabinet with the records. She flipped through them, smiled when she found the one, and then placed it on the record player.
“What are you doing?” Millie asked.
“Celebrating, my darling Mills,” Aoife said with a grin as the first note of Bennie and the Jets started playing. “We just got ourselves a flat!”
With that, Aoife started dancing badly. She coerced Millie in with an imaginary rope, and Millie, though she tried to hide her smile, stood and began swaying her hips. Aoife laughed in delight and started singing along as she danced. Millie accused her of slandering rhythm, and then they both danced badly, which was apparently friendship. Lottie laughed from the sofa.
Aoife felt it then.
Happiness.
Not clean. Not whole. Not untouched by everything waiting for her outside the room. But real. It scared her enough that she felt the need for a drink, but then Millie spun her around and nearly sent them both into a bookshelf, and Aoife laughed so hard the fear forgot its own name for a while.
Wednesday, Aoife had dinner with Will. As friends.
He took her to the little Italian place in Chelsea they used to go to with Pippa and the others when they wanted to feel older than they were. It had red tablecloths, candlelight, and a waiter who remembered Aoife but not Will. The waiter winked at her, too. Aoife felt very smug about it, especially after seeing the scowl Will tried to hide behind his wineglass.
For the first half hour, it was lovely.
Will asked about the townhouse without making her feel like an exhibit. He made her laugh about a professor they had both hated. Did not mention gas leaks or grief. He ordered wine and remembered she hated mushrooms. And looked at her like she was still a girl who could be known through small details and not tragedy.
Aoife drank wine, only smoked one cigarette and let herself fall into his easy smile and blue eyes. Two years of history wasn’t nothing. And Millie was right. She needed friends.
“I’m moving out of the townhouse,” she announced with a bright smile after they’d ordered dessert.
His glass lowered, and Will lifted an eyebrow, smiling in amusement. “That’s new.”
“Extremely.” Aoife let out a small laugh. “We actually just signed the lease yesterday. I have the keys in my purse!”
Will frowned. “We?”
Aoife nodded. “Yeah, didn’t I tell you? Millie and I decided to live together, and we got a flat in Soho. It has good light and a cupboard pretending to be a bedroom, but it’s lovely. Or it will be lovely once we furnish it properly. I should probably start looking for wallpaper—“
“You’re moving to Soho?” Will interrupted her; he didn’t look as amused anymore. Aoife’s smile faltered. “With Millie Potter? The girl you reconnected with after years of not speaking?”
Something in her stomach twisted, and Aoife shifted in her seat. “Yeah, I’m moving to Soho. With Millie. What about it?”
Will shrugged easily. “I just think it’s a little rushed, sweetheart. You only just started talking to Millie again, and really, one has to wonder, she only came back into your life after your parents’ memorial—“
“As did you—“
“Aoife, you know that’s different.” He sighed. “I just think you’re rushing. And it’s Soho.”
“So?”
“Are you playing bohemian now?” He laughed as if that was the funniest thing anyone had ever said. “Please, Aoife, you wouldn’t go near a neighbourhood that seedy.”
“Well, I did.” Aoife finished her wine, suddenly annoyed. “I paid for it and got the keys. Millie and I are moving there by the end of the week.”
“It’s not safe.”
“Why not? It’s central London.”
“Exactly. There are criminals, prostitutes on every corner, and sex shops, sweetheart. It’s not the place for you.”
The way he said sweetheart sounded so patronising; not even the pang of warmth it sparked—the memory of their old relationship—could cover it.
“It’ll be grand, Will.” She thanked the waiter when he brought them dessert, and took out a cigarette from her purse. “I can handle myself, and Uncle Fitz isn’t too worried. He says it’ll help me build character. Besides, I’m not moving there alone.”
“Still sudden,” Will said with a shrug as he started on his slice of cake.
Aoife ate some ice cream, pretending not to hear the judgement in his voice and went back to actually enjoying the lovely dinner they were having.
“Is she paying half?”
Aoife’s spoon paused. Her eyes snapped up to his. “What?”
“Millie.”
“Yes,” Aoife stared at him. “Why wouldn’t she?”
“I didn’t say she wouldn’t.”
“You implied it.”
“No, I asked.” Will set his fork down carefully. “Aoife, I’m not attacking her. I’m looking out for you.”
“By accusing my friend of using me?”
“I didn’t accuse her.” His voice stayed calm, which made her feel louder. “I know you care about her. I know you’re excited. But you’ve just reconnected, and you’re grieving, and you’ve inherited a lot. It’s not wrong for me to wonder whether people might take advantage.”
Heat rose in her face. “Millie would never.”
“Then wonderful.”
“Yes, wonderful. I offered to pay for the whole thing, and she refused plainly.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Millie’s a sound person; I don’t want you slandering her.”
“I’m sorry.” He reached across the table, then stopped before touching her hand. “I handled that badly. I only meant… You have a habit of giving too much when you love people.”
“What’s wrong with that? I have everything to give.” Aoife rolled her eyes and finally lit the smoke she’d taken out. “I have too much, really. Only fair to share.”
Will smirked. “Does that mean you’ll be paying for dinner?”
Just like that, humour came back to the table, and Aoife snorted. “No, you peasant. You also have too much. Sharing is caring.”
Will laughed.
He walked her home afterwards. Not all the way to the townhouse door, because Aoife said she wanted air and Will, wisely, did not argue. They stopped at the corner where the streetlights turned the wet pavement gold.
“I’m sorry about dinner,” he said.
Aoife tucked her coat tighter around herself. “It’s fine.”
“I mean it.”
She looked at him then. The anger had faded, the rest of the evening had been good, and Will was… Will. He knew her so well, he knew which strings to pull to make her laugh and which to tug to make her cry. He’d hurt her before, and Aoife had thought that had been the worst pain she’d ever feel in her life.
And then her parents died, and their break-up seemed…trivial. Not trivial, the hurt was still there, but she’d lost so much that losing him with certainty wasn’t something Aoife wanted. Yes, Will could be a prick, but then he looked at her the way he was now, and her anger waned, her resolve weakened. But she was still mad, still cautious.
“Millie isn’t using me,” she said quietly.
“I believe you.”
She snorted. “No, you don’t.”
“I’m trying to.”
That was such an irritating answer—she almost admired it.
Will stepped closer, slowly enough that she could step back—she didn’t. Softly, his lips brushed against her cheek, and when he pulled back, a small smile played on his lips.
“Goodnight, Aoife.”
“G’night, Will.”
With that, he turned on his heels and left, leaving Aoife standing under the street lamp, with new keys in her purse and confused about the night.
She should’ve felt as though she was winning in life, as though everything would turn out for the better. Instead, she felt as if someone had opened a window in a warm room and let in a thread of ice-cold air.
She told herself it was nothing and went home, but the cold followed anyway.