Who: Howell Williams & Saoirse Mullet
What: UGH I HATE EVERYTHING
Where: bookclub!
When: before Valentine's!
It was hardly the ideal place to conduct a test, but the living room floor had proven itself most useful the past chaotic week. To say that the house she, Nona, Penelope, and Howell shared had a bit of uncertain and unstable foundations would… actually be a very accurate. As Saoirse and Nona had broken out into an all-out passive-aggressive war, all furniture in the house had become extremely viable to fall apart, all produce was to be eaten at one’s own risk, and Saoirse had the distinct feeling that door handles were going to start mysteriously biting at the hands that turned them, but that wouldn’t be until next week.
This week was all about figuring out what, if anything, in this house was edible.
She had laid out four apples in a neat row in an attempt to determine which one looked the least spoiled and full of poison. The answer was most likely that they were
all rotten, but Saoirse felt it necessary to at least try figuring that out before going to buying something substantial. She tapped the second one to the right with her wand, and immediately upon blooming open released a foul, putrid odor and turned sickly black.
Not that one.
The smell was overpowering, and after a few teary-eyed coughs, she banished the piece of fruit and turned to the remaining three. Deep in concentration, she almost missed Howell’s soft entrance beside her. Looking up from the ground, the ends of her mouth prickled into a small smile for him before she turned her attention back to the apple on the far left that had begun to vibrate.
“I wouldn’t sit there,” she warned, spying him glance at the stool next to the table, which she would also advise he stay clear from if prompted.
Howell halted, then turned to look at his girlfriend with a brow skeptically raised, and studied the stool once more. Gingerly, he bent over it and prodded it with his finger, causing it to collapse instantaneously.
"Of course, you wouldn't know anything about that," said Howell dryly.
The complete inability to eat or use a table had been plaguing their house for weeks. Howell found a great many excuses to be out of the house, and had even put himself at the mercy of Liddie's company in order to be around Michal (who also seemed desperate to leave his house, but as his chairs worked, Howell feigned ignorance when Michal suggested they depart his abode). It was even why he returned to his little-used flat and started to get it into inhabitable shape again, once the majority of Michal's things had found a new home.
No one was willing to admit responsibility for the state of the house, but process of elimination gave them away. He knew he had neither sabotaged the scarce food supply nor the furniture, unless he'd been sleepwalking in a frightfully handy fit for the last few weeks. Penelope, being one of the gentlest creatures on the planet, had most likely not taken apart every seat and surface in the common living areas. And, smart and troublesome as the ocelot was, Howell knew she had not been secretly dismantling the furniture.
That left his girlfriend, and Nona. Given Saoirse's psychic ability to tell which seat was about to give way, Howell thought it was a safe bet to put his life's earnings on her having a hand in its destruction.
Sighing, he looked downward and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "I suppose this is as good a time as any to bring this up."
Her face twitched at Howell’s dry tone, and immediately Saoirse’s hands stopped moving. She could not say his choice of words warmed her, and out of caution or apprehension (it was unclear), she did not look up at Howell when he spoke again.
What did he want to bring up? Why was
now the best time to do it? He had been surprisingly quiet concerning the chaotic living situation in the house, but, she supposed, at its core it did not truly involve him. He and Penelope had unfortunately become innocent bystanders in this passive-aggressive show between her and Nona, which Saoirse regretted, but there wasn’t much to be done about it until Nona began talking to them again.
Tilting her head to make it look as if she were intently focusing on the two pieces of fruit in front of her, Saoirse waited until the stool had magically rebuilt itself before speaking.
“Bring what up?” she asked evenly, very carefully controlling her choice of word and tonal lightness. She had a feeling she would not like whatever subject Howell wanted to discuss, but that did not mean it was necessary for her to make this information privy for him. Perhaps he wished to talk about how much the recent cold weather displeased him.
It was better she wasn't looking at him, Howell decided. Just because he felt slightly nervous about what he was about to say didn't mean he actually
needed to be nervous.
He cleared his throat, bringing his hand down awkwardly. Really, that's what it was, he supposed. Of course it wasn't nerves, it was just the natural awkwardness that happened whenever he purposefully tried to converse. That's all. "Well, with all that's been happening… here," he gestured between the apples Saoirse was studying and the stool on instinct, though her back was turned to him, "I thought it might be best if I—stayed at my flat until the World Cup."
As soon as he said it, he felt relief. It wasn't as if he'd ever formally moved into the house; for the first few months, there were still items he had to retrieve from his own residence, and he still spent a few nights away a week (and always on nights when the Falcons played the Appleby Arrows).
In fact, who was to say Saoirse wouldn't be
pleased to have him give her her own space? There was clearly a dispute of some kind brewing between his girlfriend and Nona, and while he was sorry Penelope was caught up in the middle of it, felt it would be better for all if he left.
Plus he was
hungry, and his feet hurt from having to stand all the time, or lay down in their—Saoirse's—bed because there was nowhere to sit down, and this really wasn't any way to stay in prime shape for the World Cup.
No, Howell, told himself, this was definitely a good thing.
Saoirse was glad she wasn’t looking at Howell either, as she’d briefly been unable to control all emotions from appearing on her face. He thought it would be best if he, alone, relocated to his flat? Well, who was she to stop him? A heavy frown formed on her lips, and she squinted down at her hands. If Howell felt it crucial to dispense of this house, and consequently her, until March, then…
She brought up her shoulder to momentarily press it against the side of her face. Finally, after a long pause, Saoirse quickly stitched up the deep pang in her chest, and moved to appear as if nothing bothered her at all. She raised her wand, and focused intently on the project before her.
“If you think it best,” she stated plainly, now absolutely refusing to turn and look at him. A mixture of muted anger and slight disappointment coursed through her, but she paid no mind to it. Instead, she concentrated on figuring out which curse Nona could have put on these two remaining apples that would make one of them burst into flames.
Howell waited a moment for anything further she might say, but all that greeted him was silence. There, then, that was fine. He needn't have felt the knots of apprehension that had been curling in the pit of his stomach.
This was the way it should have gone, he insisted to himself. Any other conversation, with any other person, her answer would have been the ideal outcome.
And though he insisted very hard to himself, he knew Saoirse too well to keep himself from reading into her utmost stillness and the following silence that grew stonier by the second.
Yet Howell felt helpless to do anything else. He remembered their tense ending to the year before the European Cup, and thought that, if he still felt it safest to sleep away from his girlfriend when he would be playing her team in the regular season, nothing had changed from that tense night. Even if, in the end, she hadn't made it a full month without him, she still
wanted to. And he wasn't willing to risk his heart on the notion that Saoirse wouldn't still feel the same way.
"All right," was all he said. He wanted to say something, add some vague detail that would invite her to press for details, but he simply didn't know how. "I don't want to be in anyone's way, so Jago and I will head over tomorrow morning."
She focused very intently on the task before her now, knowing it was the only thing keeping her thoughts and emotions anchored to a calm reality. Oozing fruit made sense, sizzling food she could figure out; why Howell was doing this was… that was not so easy to pick through. How was she supposed interpret this move? Was he moving
out? Was his intent to torture her with his lack of presence, yet continue to be a constant reminder through his ever-present belongings? But only
certain things, for the most important ones he would be taking away with him. Her heart panged at the thought of so suddenly losing Jago. What did that mean? She couldn’t discern…. it was not clear…
The burn that she would have to endure all of this until tomorrow morning, through the
night with him sleeping beside her as if nothing of it became an unmanageable tipping point. Unable to focus on her hands, her mind released the blockade it had put up, and thoughts containing everything from the timing of it all in regards to the World Cup, to why they
still had not slept together quickly muddled and darkened her thoughts.
What was there to do? With an unclear solution, Saoirse thought, immediately, it would be the most appropriate to protect herself. Breathing in through her nose, she stared hard at the floor. Then, having completely given up on that before her, she carefully placed her wand down on the ground. Palms pressed into her knees, she finally spoke in a steady, icy tone. She would make things very clear.
“Take all of your things,” she said carefully. “I don’t want them here.” Saoirse paused for a moment, and then thinking better, promptly wondered aloud, “And why wait until tomorrow? Why not leave now?” She closed her eyes, and tilted her chin up toward the ceiling. “That might be best.”
He blinked in surprise. Was Saoirse
kicking him out?
Howell had expected a discussion… his nerves were predicated upon worrying whether or not Saoirse would let him leave before the Cup began, not—in no scenario had he imagined she would show him the door.
Had he said something wrong, in the handful of words he had mentioned to complete? Neither he nor Saoirse were natural-born wordsmiths, but surely he couldn't have been misunderstood
that badly.
For a moment, he debated the merits of trying to have that conversation with her now, but stopped himself shy of opening his mouth. Howell knew that tone, and he knew she had already closed herself off from the conversation. He'd seen it used on her brother, among others, and himself could imagine the light in her eyes going out all too well, the way they had that New Year's Eve.
Howell had charged through that—snit, was the only unflattering word he could think of—like a bull, because it was the first time in half a year that he had gotten her to see him as a
partner, as being worthy of her time and public acknowledgment, and he wasn't going to surrender that so easily.
But they had had a year together, more than, and this…? This was how he was treated? Not so much as a question on the subject, just a cold referral to the door? Did he matter so little that he could be thrown out without a second thought?
He had the urge to fight her, but thought it would just be like yelling at a brick wall, and he suddenly felt very tired and used up beneath the cool anger.
Tonelessly, Howell said, "Foolish of me, I suppose, to want to say good-bye to my girlfriend," and strode out.
She winced as a door from behind slammed shut, and after a couple moments of total silence, Saoirse broke. Her tight shoulders crumbled, her strict posture caved, and hands reaching up, she buried her face into her palms. But it was only for a few moments. At the next detection of a rustle, Saoirse quickly swiped her hands free from her face and stood up. She would not cry over him anymore, there were no more tears left within her concerning…. Howell Williams, and it was with that resolve that she quietly exited the room as well, intent on taking a very long, chilly walk in the snow.
