[eight months later]

Her fingers pushed through her hair to brush the strands away from her eyes, the once long curls now falling just above her shoulders, framing her soft face in a way that made her appear more affable. Her nose crinkled as the scent of salmon wafted up her nostrils, filling her senses and making her stomach churn with disgust. She did her best not to breathe it in, and grabbed the plate of the grilled fish, carrying it high on her flattened palm while sauntering out of the busy kitchen.

She walked with confidence, despite having been working at Villa Parma for a two months, and her skill in waitressing being limited. The owner of the high end restaurant in upstate New York was a friend of a friend, and nice enough to hire her even with her lack of knowledge in waiting on tables, let alone working in general. It had been very difficult for Carmen at first; the number of plates she dropped and glasses of water she had spilled onto customers was humiliating, enough to make even her feel overwhelmed with mortification. As weeks passed, though, she began to get the hang of it, and even found coming to work every evening a bit of an enjoyment. It was a place where she could get her mind off things, if anything.

"Here is your grilled salmon," she set the plate on the table before the middle-aged gentleman, giving him a polite smile. "Would you like anything else?"

"No thank you," he returned the smile and she nodded her head, straightening the apron tied around her waist before striding back to the kitchen.

"How much longer until our break?" she asked another waitress once returning to the crowded kitchen, Barbara, who she had become friendly with. Her forehead was damp with sweat from the warmth of the cramped kitchen she had been hurrying in and out of, and her throat was dry, in dire need of some water.

"We've got a few more tables and then we're off for the night," Barbara informed her, picking up a plate of chicken alfredo. "Boss said he's letting us off early tonight since we had to work overtime yesterday."

"Thank God," Carmen let out a relieved breath. She didn't know how much longer she could've taken it, without any food in her stomach and with having to push her hair away from her moist skin every minute, since it was too short to tie back.

"You get table eight," Barbara told her as she stepped out of the door to the kitchen. Carmen licked her dry lips and grabbed the plate of steak that was under the number eight. It was a bit heavy for her frail arms, and had it been the first work on the job, she probably would have dropped it, but she managed now. Carrying the dish with one hand, she reached for the bowl of salad that was also for that table and used her hip to push open the kitchen door.

Table eight was in the far back, a private that table that required a reservation. Her flats padded against the floor as she made her way through the labyrinth of tables, light chatter and the clinking of glassware sounding through the lowly lit restaurant. The place had such a romantic ambiance to it, which had appealed to Carmen from the start just as much as it made her cringe. Now and then she would see a couple seated at a table, their hands linked and smiles spread over their faces as they would feed each other their meals and gush over the most trivial things. It was hard not to eavesdrop sometimes, to listen to their love-filled conversations with a sad smile and her ruby red lips.

The first few months had been the worst. They felt long, everyday being a battle with herself just to get out of bed. She had left to New York, using the money she found in Harry's car to cover the expenses of the flight and the rent of a small apartment in a not-so-good part of the city. It was enough for her, though, she was used to living that way. As the pain and longing evolved into acceptance that what she left behind in London was meant to stay there, Carmen decided that she wasn't going to spend her life moping around like some love sick teenager. New York was her dream, the city where lives changed and hearts found their homes; she got herself a job and spent her days roaming around, taking everything in and absorbing the romance-rich city. It was everything she had ever dreamed of, but yet, the yearning for something more seemed to linger in the back of her mind.

"Here is the steak, medium well," Carmen smiled her rehearsed smile and set down the plate on the table as she reached the back of the restaurant, table eight. A woman with warm eyes and beautiful almond hair looked up at her and smiled.

"The salad is for me actually," she spoke kindly.

"Oh," Carmen nodded and set the plate of salad in front of her instead, picking up the other dish. She placed the steak on the other side of the table, where a napkin and glass half filled with wine was, but the seat empty.

"He's in the bathroom," the woman answered her thoughts. Carmen smiled again, flattening her hands against her apron.

"Can I get you another glass of wine, miss?"

"Yes please," her soft voice replied, her hand wrapping around the empty crystalline glass beside her, and handing it to Carmen. She was very kind, Carmen could tell by the way her eyes would crinkle when she smiled and her features was soft with homeliness. She couldn't help but wish she were as friendly and well-kept.

Carmen bowed her head before padding back to the kitchen, the glass in her hand. Barbara was just untying the apron around her waist and grabbing her bag when she pushed through the door.

"Are we still on for some drinks?" Barbara asked while Carmen reached for the bottle of Muscat and poured it into the wine glass.

"Yes, let me just take this back to table eight. And I'm not drinking any tonight, okay? Don't even think about it," she shook her head and giggled. The last time her and Barbara had gone out for drinks after work, they ended up dancing on one of the tables together. It had been fun, but not something she would want to happen again.

"You're no fun," her coworker teased, jutting out her lip. Carmen rolled her eyes, a habit she could never get rid of, and went out of the kitchen again to deliver the glassful of Muscat to the table in the back.

She couldn't help but feel content with the life she had finally found for herself, the one that she had dreamed of since she was a young girl. She was content with earning money for herself instead of attaching to wealthy men like a parasite. The lying, the games, the mindless sex; those things were now her past, a past that she didn't want to revisit. But content wasn't synonymous with happy; she knew she could only truly be happy if he was in her life.

****

His lean fingers wrapped around the glass of wine, bringing the rim to his lips and letting the bittersweet liquid trickle down his throat. Pinot-Noir, his favorite.

"Mum needs to learn how to mind her own fucking business," he huffed, his lips pressing into a flat line, exerting his irritation. His tongue darted out to clear his lips of the excess wine that stained them, and he set his glass back down on the table, his eyes looking into those of his sister's.

"She's just trying to help," Gemma defended their mother, her voice gentle as to not feed into Harry's obvious mood. Though her relationship with her brother was slowly progressing through the months, she was still aware of his slight temper. "She wants you to be happy, Harry. And to her, finding you a woman to settle down with is the answer."

"Well it's not the answer," he snapped, knowing his sister wasn't the target of his anger but not being able to stop himself. This dinner was supposed to be a nice bonding time for the two of them, but so far it had yet to be anything but a catalyst for his inevitable annoyance. The subject of his mother and her multiple attempts to pair him with some rich, snobby woman who bared no resemblance to the woman he truly loved, was all they had talked about. And then, to add fuel to the fire, he had accidentally spilled some of his wine on himself. He had left to the bathroom to wash it but a small crimson stain was still visible on the fabric of his white dress shirt. His first night in New York was proving to not go so well.

"Can we talk about something else?" he sighed, lacing his fingers through his hair. "This isn't how I want to spend our dinner." He picked up the fork and began to pick at the steak on his plate, his appetite suddenly dissipating.

"I know, I'm sorry. I'm just worried about you, Harry," his sister frowned. "You have been so.. distant for awhile now. I can tell you're not happy and I know that it's because of that girl you told me about. Maybe if you-"

"Stop," Harry managed to beg, his voice cracking. He inhaled a deep breath, nostrils flaring, and closed his eyes for a moment. "I don't want to talk about her. Ever."

The pained look on his face was enough to make Gemma's mouth shut, a silence settling around them as they both ate their meals. Harry couldn't help but thoughtlessly dig his knife into the steak with more force than necessary, his frustration being taken out on the lifeless piece of meat. He had been doing well at controlling his anger in healthier ways recently, with the help of the punching bags at the gym and the pool he had installed in his apartment; he found that swimming in the morning did a number at calming his disarrayed mind. The peaceful water and controlled breathing; it was the next best thing to cure the empty feeling within him, next to her of course.

"Here is your wine, miss," came a voice, sweet as honey, to interrupt Harry's thoughts. He blinked slowly, eyes staring blankly at the piece of meat in front of him. An audible gasp followed the waitress's words, and then a crash, as the glass in her hand fell to the floor and splintered into minute shards.

Harry's head snapped up from his plate of steak, which he had yet to really eat, and he frowned.

"Here.. let me pick it up. You could seriously cut yourself with that shit," he stood up from the table and knelt down beside the waitress, who was hurriedly trying to pick up the glass from the floor. Her head was lowered so he couldn't see her face, her shoulder length black hair curtaining her from him.

"I said I can do it," his frown deepened and before he could start to pick up any of the pieces, the girl gasped again. One of the shards had cut the palm of her hand, a large welt across the width of it, and fresh blood quickly oozing out.

"Fuck," Harry wrapped his fingers around her wrist and reached up to grab a napkin from the table. He clamped the white cloth over the cut, the blood seeping through it and staining the napkin a crimson red. "I told you to let me do it." A scowl took over his expression. This is what he got for trying to be kind.

"I'm fine," the waitress squeaked in a nervous, high-pitched voice. Before he could protest, she retracted her hand from his hold and kept the napkin over her wound. Standing up quickly, she turned and scurried away, giving Harry no time to react.

He huffed out a breath and grasped the edge of the table, standing up from his crouched position. He stared after her for a moment, before sitting back down at the table, confusion still prominent in the green of his eyes. He couldn't help but shake the feeling that had flooded through his veins when he had touched her, a vaguely familiar warmth settling in his stomach. He shook his head to himself.

"Americans are weird," he grumbled, and went back to eating his steak.

*****

two more chapters :)

i'm sorry if you dont like how this ends but i had it planned for awhile so oh well lol i promise everything will be resolved