I’M MOVING IN WITH BOOKER Harris. I’m moving in with Booker Harris! I’m…moving in with Booker Harris. I sing the last bit in my head because then the statement seems to resonate a bit longer.
It still sounds peculiar, even in a B-flat.
I was prepared to take my time moving back to London when my lease started in July. But one good job offer later and here I am. In Booker’s building. With his brothers. Like nothing’s changed.
Booker’s offer was awfully sweet and incredibly unexpected, especially considering the last time we saw each other was six years ago and it wasn’t the best of goodbyes. But commuting would have been a nightmare, and his flat is very close to the school I’ll be working at. It was silly of me to try and refuse.
Right?
Right.
That’s totally it. Booker’s my best friend and I haven’t seen him since I was nineteen. What better way to reconnect with an old friend than to move in with him for an extended period of time when there’s nowhere to run and hide?
Never mind that I’ll have to share a bathroom with him. So what if I find bonk juice on the shower wall because he has to tug one out after a stressful match. It’s no biggie if he catches me arse over tit as I’m attempting to shave my poop chute. Speaking of which, what happens when I have to poo? Or when he has to poo? We’re mates, right? Totally cool! I won’t mind a bit if he can hear the ploop, ploop of me backing a couple out.
Good God, how do couples do this?
How do they decide to cohabitate with each other? Booker and I aren’t even in a relationship! But here we are, blazing right into this without a care in the world like it’s a normal Sunday. Don’t mind me. I’m only moving in with my best mate from childhood who happens to swing a penis between his thighs.
I’m going to have to hide my tampons.
This is easily the maddest thing I’ve done since I left London for University in Frankfurt for reasons I don’t care to revisit. But there is a silver lining: I became fluent in German and earned my Master’s in education. Now I’m able to help mould young minds and teach them the language of the country that birthed the Brothers Grimm, Beethoven, Mercedes-Benz, and Oktoberfest! Those reasons alone were totally worth flying across the English Channel.
I digress.
I’m back in London! This is what I’ve needed. Germany—while lovely and perfect for broadening my horizons—never felt like home. The French have a word for that feeling: Dépayser. To feel displaced from one’s native land or familiar routine. I missed my home country.
And, despite myself, I missed Booker. He is still my best friend and losing him was really hard. So I’m going to take this time with him to reconnect. To help feel right again. He’s convinced that living together will be like old times.
After one brief hug where I wrapped my arms around a large, twenty-five-year-old version of Booker—where I could feel the warmth of him, the firmness of his muscles, remember his scent and how he always hugged me whenever I was sad—I’m convinced that I can do this.
I’m no longer in love with Booker. We’re best friends and nothing more, which is a relief because my eighteen-year-old self was a deluded cow. I almost ruined everything by sharing those silly feelings I thought I had. It was all so foolish. I was such an imaginative child that I had warped basic acts of friendship into acts of true love. Thank goodness I now know the difference.
12 Years Old
“You there.” I turn when a voice from somewhere in the night nearly scares the piss out of me. I see a tall, beautiful brunette with legs up to her armpits striding through the garden right for me. “What are you doing here?”
I quickly swipe away my tears and wipe my nose on my sleeve as she steps out of the darkness and under the motion light streaming over me. I’ve been standing at the backside of the grand Harris house for the past ten minutes, waiting for the painful ache in my chest to stop. Then I was going to climb the twenty-foot trellis into my best mate, Booker’s room. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. What’s she doing here?
She peers down at me like I’m a hobbit and she’s Gandalf the Grey. Her eyes follow the paths my residual tears left on my cheeks. I’m still rendered speechless. God, her hair is cool. It’s cut into a short bob at her chin and makes her big boobs stand out like round dough balls.
Okay, that’s a lie. Her hair has nothing to do with her boobies. But those are two very nice qualities she has, along with those spider legs of hers.
She laughs and it sounds like Christmas. “Do you speak?”
I push my blonde hair out of my face. I’ve been telling Mum for ages that I want to cut it. “Sometimes,” I mutter, trying to sound cool. I think she buys it.
“Well, can you tell me why you’re out here?” Her eye-lined eyes pierce me with judgement. Mum won’t let me wear makeup either.
I point up to the window. “Erm…Booker is…erm…my mate.”
She laughs again—that glorious peal of church bells. “Why didn’t he tell you where the key is hidden?”
She bends over and lifts the rug in front of the door. Why didn’t I think to look there? When she stands, she shows it to me with a grin, like we’re sharing a special secret. I move over, and she inserts the key and turns the knob. She pauses on the threshold and looks back over her shoulder with her gaze narrowed. “How old are you?”
I consider lying and telling her I’m sixteen because that seems like the age when cool things start to happen to people. Instead, I blurt out the truth. “Twelve.” I’m such an amateur.
She shakes her head. “A little young to be sneaking into a boy’s room in the middle of the night, don’t you think?”
Well, this would be a first. I consider telling her the real reason I’m here, but then the pain comes back in my throat and I think I might cry. So I change directions and ask, “Who are you here to see?”
“Tanner, though I’d happily visit Gareth or Camden if they were an option. Booker’s a bit too young for me.” She winks and giggles, so I giggle back. It seems like the polite thing to do.
“What about Vi?” Booker’s sister is so nice. If I were older, I’d want to be her mate.
The girl smirks and whispers, “I’m not here for girl talk.”
I whisper back, “Then what are you here for?”
She puckers her mouth and licks her lips like a serpent. “Never mind that. After you.” She gestures for me to walk in and follows close behind me.
We pass through the dark conservatory and into the long marble-floored hallway that leads to the front door. I’ve been in this house a million times, but it feels a bit different in the middle of the night. The Harris house isn’t known for its warmth and comfort. Really, Booker comes to my house more than I come to his. But things have been different lately. Booker and his brothers are all practicing with the football club their dad manages, so I’ve been seeing less and less of him. I miss him.
I take a sharp left to climb the grand staircase. There’s a dim lamp at the top of the stairs illuminating our path.
The girl whispers in my ear, “Stay to the right side on the steps. The rest of it creaks like Granny’s rocking chair.”
“Booker doesn’t have a grandma.” At least not one that I’ve ever seen.
The girl begins laughing in hushed tones, so I do as she says, only tripping twice because I activate my perfected James Bond MI6 stealth walk. I’ve tested it out with Booker in the park many times, and I know I look cool doing it.
When the girl and I complete the long climb, I watch her as she passes me, stopping at the first door on the right. “Toodles,” she says with a wink and opens the door. I catch a peek of a shirtless Tanner laying on his bed with a lamp on. He looks up with a grin, obviously expecting her.
I shrug and tiptoe to the end of the hallway to Booker’s room. I’ve been in his before, but for some reason, this plan seems so much scarier than it did a moment ago. But then the pain in my chest returns and all I want is my best friend.
Quietly, I open the door and catch a faint outline of Booker’s bed as my eyes adjust to the lack of lighting in his room. “Booker,” I whisper. He shoots up like a gun went off. He’s always been a light sleeper.
“What is it? Who’s there?” He ruffles the top of his dark mess of hair and shakes his head to wake himself up.
“Shhh! It’s me, Poppy.”
“Poppy?” he asks and swings his legs off the bed. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
“I was going to climb up to your window like a brave white knight, but a girl was here to see Tanner. She showed me where you guys hide the key, so I…walked in with her.” Man that seems so much less dramatic than my original plan.
“Oh, okay,” he states with little feeling. “What’s up?”
He says the same welcoming phrase he says to me on any regular day, but after the night I’ve had, that simple question brings a quiver to my chin. “Book…” My voice cracks. “Pink died.”
“Oh no, Poppy! How?” He rises up out of the bed and pads barefoot over to me in the dark. My arms are hugging myself as tightly around my middle as I can stand, but he manages to wrap me up even tighter. “What happened to him?”
I sniffle into his shirt. “I came home from piano lessons and Pink was going crazy, growling and nipping at me and my sister…It was like he didn’t know us!” I stop talking to let out a few soft cries, and Booker begins rubbing my back in slow circles. I bury my face in his smooth, soft chest and have a proper cry before I tell him the rest. “Dad took him into his clinic and did some tests. He says it was a brain tumor and that Pink didn’t know what he was doing. We had to put him to sleep, Booker. I watched the entire thing.”
“You watched him put Pink to sleep?”
“Yes,” I croak.
“But, why? That sounds awful.”
I sniffle and wipe my nose on my shoulder before answering. “Gran always said that when you love someone enough, your sole purpose in life is to make sure they are good enough to get to Heaven. Pink always made sure I was good enough, so I had to be there to make sure God knew Pink was good enough, too.” My voice trembles and a sob bubbles in my throat. When do I run out of tears? When I do, will I make more tears if I drink more water? I hate tears.
“Oh, Poppy,” Booker soothes as he shuffles me over to his bed to sit down. I rest my head on his shoulder and he tucks me under his arm. “He was a good dog and he definitely made it to Heaven.”
“I don’t know how Dad does that to dogs every day. Puts them to sleep. It’s nothing like when they really sleep. His eyes stayed open. It’s the grossest thing I’ve ever seen. I thought I wanted to be a veterinarian like Dad, but never again. I hate everything about that place.”
Booker shushes me, and I stop sniffling for a moment so I can yawn. “Do you want to sleep over?” he asks.
I nod even though I know I shouldn’t. Mum said a couple years ago that Booker and I couldn’t have sleepovers anymore because we were getting too old. Yet she doesn’t mind when I stay over at Emma’s house. It’s not fair.
I lie down on the edge of Booker’s small bed and we face each other. Suddenly, he sits up and turns his bedside lamp on, casting the room in dim yellow light. I squint at his dark eyes as they pin me with sadness. “Sorry, I know you hate to sleep in the dark.”
I smile and attempt to close my eyes, now comforted by the light shining on my lids and the warmth of him next to me. But Pink’s eyes appear behind my lids. “I can’t stop seeing Pink’s sad little eyes, Booker. Who will make sure I make it to Heaven now?”
He exhales and wipes a tear running down my nose. “You have me for that, silly.”
I follow the Harris Twins up the four flights of stairs to the second floor, watching them balance three boxes each to my one. They razz each other the entire way up, and I smile as memories of our childhood trickle in. Booker and I used to hide from Camden and Tanner all through the park, making up scenarios where we were chasing down bank robbers in a high-speed chase. We loved playing MI6, mostly because it let Booker be boyish and it let me use my imagination. He didn’t even mind when I said that I had to sing in order to open up all the secret passages. It was fabulous.
I wonder if I can get Booker to sing now?
When we reenter the flat, Booker’s standing in the middle of the living room. My eyes are instantly drawn to him, drinking in every square inch and noting all the subtle changes about him.
After tripping and spilling my shit all over, I never got a chance to really take in the sight of him. Of how much he’s changed. How much he’s matured. Now that I can, I notice how different he looks. True he still has that dark, tousled hair that curls at the ends when it needs a cut. And those smooth, curved facial features with dimple creases that will forever make him look more like a boy than a man. Even that tenderness he gets in his dark eyes lurks within.
It’s all still there.
But now there’s something else. Something more powerful. Maybe it’s the way he stands with his arms bowed away from his sides as if he’s ready to catch something. Or the thick muscles that line his shoulders to his neck. Or the satiny olive skin covering the veins down his forearms. He has a presence about him now. He feels larger than the room.
I swallow hard and barely hear Camden tell Booker they’re going to leave because Cam has a team meeting. The boys wave their goodbyes to us, and the audible click of the door closing makes my mouth turn to cotton.
Not ready to meet Booker’s dark eyes head-on, I twirl on my heel and begin rummaging through a couple boxes in the kitchen to find the gadgets I have to contribute. I didn’t bring much because Booker informed me the flat came fully furnished. So my boxes consist mostly of clothes, toiletries, and a few odds and ends I thought we’d need.
I’m taking a mental inventory of everything I brought in a vain attempt to forget that we’re alone now. Just me and Booker. Booker and Poppy…sitting in a tree…K-I-S-S-I—
My thoughts stop when I hear his footsteps approach behind me. I steel myself and turn to look at him. He’s smiling at me—that same boyish smile that’s always a little bit soft around the edges, like he has a secret that no one else knows.
He crosses his arms and leans against the kitchen counter. “Poppy.”
I smile and blow a piece of hair out of my eyes. “Booker.”
“It’s really good to see you, even if you do have a lot less hair than before.” He narrows his eyes on me speculatively.
I shake my head so my fringe fans over my eyes. “Look. There’s more than you think.” I grab hold of the tresses in a fist. “It’s still a good fistful.”
His eyes widen. “And what were you getting up to in Germany that required enough hair to grab hold of?”
I release the locks and pin him with an odd look. Booker and I don’t really talk about our romantic relationships. It’s one area we’ve always avoided. Is that really where he’s going with this line of questioning?
“Probably nothing different than what you get up to in England. Or wherever your football travels take you, I’m sure.”
He quirks a sardonic brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, I’m sure you don’t have to sleep alone very often, Book.” He’s not going to fool me into thinking he’s been celibate these past few years that his football career has taken off. The Harris Brothers are a hot ticket item in London. I’m sure he hardly has to lift a finger for a shag.
He gets an awkward look on his face and then diverts his gaze to my boxes. “Tell me which boxes go to your bedroom.”
Good change of subject, Book.
I bend over to shuffle a few toward him. He steps up close to me, brushing his arm against mine. “I’ll get these. If you can believe it, I’m even stronger now, Pop.” He winks and it makes me laugh.
“So I’ve noticed,” I murmur, grabbing a smaller box and following behind him as he weaves through the flat. I’m not even ashamed to admit I’m totally staring at his arse in those loose-fitting jeans. It’s like a peculiar time warp seeing him again, but now he’s a man instead of a boy.
He talks me through the flat as we walk, showing me the drawer my keys are in, which will get me into the building, the flat, and the gym on the top floor. The space is cosy, but not small. It’s quite perfect actually. The white-washed kitchen has a cute oak table and four white chairs that separate the space from the living room. The front room has a black leather sectional, a big screen, and modern double glazed windows that open up onto a large balcony.
I follow Booker down the hallway to the right of the living room. He points to the first door on the left that’s the bathroom where I’ll hopefully never have to poo, especially because it’s so pretty. It’s all glossy white tile with a funky modern sink that sits on top of the counter. And the glass walled shower tub…It’s sexy as fuck. I just hope and pray neither of us ever defiles it.
He stops off at the next door on the left and says it’s his room. All that sits in there amongst several boxes is a big bed, two nightstands, and two lamps. Halfway down the hall on the opposite side are bi-fold doors that contain a washer and dryer unit. Then, at the end of the hallway, he slides open a white pocket door.
“This is where you’ll be staying. It’s technically a den, so it’s a bit small. But it has its own balcony, so I thought you might prefer it.” He looks at me nervously and adds, “Of course if I’m wrong, just say the word and we’ll switch.”
I stride past him to the glass balcony door and swing it open, smiling as the smell of flowers breeze in like a dream. Fresh floral scent in the city of London. How in the world does one achieve that? It’s positively magical. It makes me think of The Sound of Music, running through a meadow with dancing children frolicking all around.
“…smells like flowers all the time.”
My head jerks at the sound of Booker’s voice. “What? What were you saying? I didn’t hear all that.”
His eyes crinkle with a grin as he watches me. “I said the Columbia Road Flower Market takes place near here, so that’s why it’s so fragrant.”
“It’s lovely,” I sigh. “This room is exquisite, Booker. Thank you.” I eye the daybed along the wall. “I told you I have an air mattress. You didn’t have to get me a bed.”
“Yes I did,” he murmurs and drops the boxes on the floor. “I wish it could be bigger, but—”
“It’s perfect. Everything is perfect.”
He smiles and looks around the room, stuffing his hands in his pockets and appearing a bit nervous all of the sudden. “Well, I’ve got unpacking to do as I’m sure you do, so I’ll…leave you to it.”
He slides the door closed as he leaves and I exhale heavily, not realising that I was holding my breath. This entire scenario may be more difficult than I thought. Sharing a bedroom wall with my best friend—whom I thought I was in love with—has the potential to be epically awesome…or epically awful.
It’ll be awesome. I’ve decided.
I’m not the same girl I was six years ago. I’ve grown and matured. I’ve had real relationships, not figments of my imagination. I’m not in love with Booker Harris anymore. He’s simply my best friend whom I’m excited to spend some time with again. This is great. We’ll be like brother and sister!