Part Two | Chapter Eleven: Summer Rain

Bellefonte, Pennsylvania

July 1919

Harry spends most of his time in the library in his aunt and uncle's house, hovering over the selection of books, mainly the ones that have been translated in recent years. They've been checked out or bought at the bookstore I visited, but the library the family has in their own home is a few of the most recent ones, from last year. As I watch him hunch over the shelf and run his fingers over the spines of the book curiously, I see a glimmer of the man from England who I married.

His long legs carry him over between shelves, one hand tucked into his pocket, a crease between his eyebrows as he reads each title, making a face of interest or distaste, and then continues on, either tucking the book under his arm or focusing on a separate selection altogether. The books don't have covers, and I can't tell which he's found to be the most interesting until he comes to sit on the couch opposite of me and open the book, showing the gleam of the metallic title.

If I pressed about it now, he'd vehemently argue against it, but Harry once loved romance novels and would send them to me, or buy us both a pair so we could read together. He used to enjoy listening to me read them out loud, the sun in his face as he laid his head on my thigh under that same willow tree in the park down the street from his house, a slightly smile on his face when I lowered or increased my voice to impersonate the tone of the narrator or speaker. He'd turn his head into my stomach and nuzzle his face, throwing an absent arm behind my back to make sure my spine wasn't aching from sitting on the ground against the tree roots after hours.

We'd return home slightly more tan than before, only realizing when Harry would remove his rings at night before sneaking to my room at night, the pale skin under contrasting with the now slightly browned skin. After laying together, I'd run my fingers over the smooth skin, pressing my fingers against his to measure and play with his digits. It would be similar to a fresh breath of air after being confined in a prison for so long, laying on his chest and listening to the gentle hum of his heartbeat as his breathing shallow and he fell asleep.

Harry looks up at me, frowning. "What?"

I blink, my eyes dry and aching. "Sorry. I was just...thinking."

Harry closes his book and pushes it off his lap, crossing his ankles.

We've been at Geraldine and Jared's for five days now and since our argumentative discussion, I've caught him glancing down at my ring finger as often as he tries to hold a conversation with me.

His eyes wander as we speak, from my face to my hands, to his lap and anywhere else except my eyes, back tightened uncomfortably to the point where I want to reach over and hold his hand to tell him that it's alright and that he doesn't need to push himself this much.

Harry's said something that I haven't caught while thinking to myself, and I blink again, saying, "What was that?"

"I said," Harry repeats slowly, running his fingers over the smooth cover of his book. "What were you thinking of?"

"Oh." My ears feel slightly hot. "How you used to make me read to you in London."

His expression changes to a look of surprise. "Right," he says, almost dreamily. "I remember that. Seems like ages ago."

It seems like ages to him, but for me it was just yesterday. I would pause in between sentence to gaze down at him, admiring his beauty from his straight eyebrows to the dark wisps of his curls that refuse to fall in line with his partition, the freckles that I suspected only came out in the summer even though I didn't know how he looked in the winter. His head felt heavy in my lap, my legs already gone to sleep. I'd drop a hand into his hair and run my fingers clumsily through the strands, pulling a little too roughly when met with resistance from his curls.

Harry notices my discomfort, so he frowns down at the brown book beside him. "I'd ask you to read this book out loud, but I'm afraid it's not a very fun read."

"What's it about? Something boring and history related?"

He looks offended. "The 1909 New York City Labor Strikes."

"Is that what interests you?"

"Presently, yes."

"Couldn't find anything more...light?"

"None that I wanted," he says, leaning back. "Why? Do you want to read it out loud?"

"No," I answer. "But if you wish to recommend it to me once you're done, I'll be here."

Harry nods. "Will do."

He looks down at his book, but doesn't open it, drumming his fingers over it. He presses his tongue into his cheek and then drops his shoulders, glancing up at me again. I meet his eyes over my book and look at him, waiting for his voice.

"Your accent," he says, frowning. "You're losing it a bit."

I smile teasingly. "Do I sound American?"

"Yes."

"Does that bother you?"

He looks conflicted, biting his cheek. "Yes and no. While I prefer it American, I can't help but miss the accent." He looks away, his neck flushed. "It is you, after all."

"So why do you prefer it to be more American?" I clear my throat and bring back my natural accent. "I've found that since my accent is so hard to understand, I need to speak more American. More harsh, I guess. L'anglaise est très ridicule."

He frowns at the sound of my voice. "Annaliese," he says slowly, "if I tell you something, will you promise not to probe me about it? I can't discuss it in detail. No matter how ridiculous it sounds."

I pause, suddenly both intrigued and worried. "Sure," I say, despite my habit of poking around until I know everything.

Harry takes a deep breath and says, still slowly, "When you speak to me in French, or how you did just now, speak with your accent, it brings back the most awful memories of when I was in France."

Struck with confusion at his confession, I put my book down and raise my eyebrows. "I can't control that."

He hastily holds his hands up in defense. "I know. That's why I didn't want to tell you. It's the worst thing for a husband to say to his wife, but...in an effort to be more communicative and open as we discussed previously, I figured you should know."

"So what should I do?" I say before I can stop myself. "What do you want me to do about that?"

How many times have I triggered his memory with my voice, with my French that leaks into my speech without realizing? I bite down on my thumb.

"It's not your fault. I'm not asking you to stop talking altogether. I just, well, I just hope you're not upset about me saying I prefer one accent over the other." He ducks his head timidly, and drops his gaze to the floor.

"That's not what I'm upset about. I'm not upset, actually. Just concerned. I don't want to hurt you, but I can't control this. And I don't know some words in English, so I need to say them in..."

Harry cuts me off, shaking his head. "Wait, no no. Stop for a second. I didn't say you had to stop bloody talking or anything. You can do whatever you want. It's just--well-- it's quite difficult to be around you, given your accent and the French and all." His tone is harsher suddenly, his eyes turning away.

This certainly doesn't help minimize my concern, my own eyes widening to their capacity. "Christ. It's hard to be around me for this reason?"

"Well." Harry looks uncomfortable. "Not only this reason."

"Oh good God. What other reason?"

He backpedals quickly, shaking his head. "It's not a long list. Just small things like--" He stops. "It's nothing."

"Like me talking?"

"Well," he repeats, anxiously sitting back, crossing his legs. "I can't help that, Annaliese. You can understand that, can't you? Be reasonable."

"You want me to be reasonable? I am. Please tell me how to fix it."

"I don't think you can fix it." The tips of his ears are slightly pink as he flushes with a bit of irritation. "You can't help it just like I can't help it."

"I want you to be comfortable, so I think we should think about how to work on this. I can try my best to not speak French, but it may slip out. The accent, though, I can't do anything about. You know I'm ready to work on us, Harry. Tell me what else bothers you that I do."

There's a tense silence before Harry speaks again. "It's hard for me to be around you for a number of reasons, Annaliese, and this is a more reasonable one."

I'm trying my hardest not to sound upset, but he reads my face well. "Tell me the other reasons why you can't be around me."

Harry pauses for a minute, his eyes turning distant. "No."

I stay quiet trying to figure out my next words. This conversation is never one I thought I'd have with Harry. To me, I don't believe I'm being overbearing. I have moments where I get too upset with Harry and it translates to irritation, but for the most part, I believe that my suggesting we have a conversation is not something a married couple should be struggling with.

Like Harry, I have my own fears. The thought of Harry leaving me for reasons he can't tell me flashes through my head. Pain prickles at my throat when it tightens.

"What do we do about this vacation, Harry? If being with me is so..."

He meets my eyes for a brief moment before looking away at the bookshelves. "I invited you because you're my wife and you need to be here with me."

"Your wife?" I repeat, the uncomfortable feeling creeping over my body again like it did the night of our previous argument. "You can't stand me. You can't even look at me."

His head tilts back in my direction, but his eyes don't meet mine.. "That's not what I said at all."

"I don't understand anything you're saying then." I swallow, waiting for him to look at me and explain what he thinks of our relationship. "You said it would be okay if I wanted to leave you just a few days ago. And now you're telling me you brought me with you because I'm your wife and you need me to be here. Harry, I don't think you know what you want."

He doesn't say anything to disagree.

"I think for the sake of this marriage, we need to figure out our next step. And if it won't be done in a conversation together, then maybe you need time on your own to consider our situation right now. I have never wanted to hurt you or make you uncomfortable. If it's something you want me to stop doing, you know I'll agree to it. We've stopped sleeping together or in the same room. We rarely talk. We're doing everything your way, so please just figure out what you want and let me know. I know what I want and I think it's time you know what you want."

Harry doesn't answer again. I put my books down on my seat and slowly rise, fixing my clothes.

"I'm ready to talk about it whenever you'd like. I'll give you all the time in the world, Harry. And all the space because I love you and want you to be okay. But not talking to me at all or telling me what you want me to change about the way we're currently living isn't fair to me."

Slowly, I stride to the door of the library and exit. Harry's normally the one to walk away from a conversation, but the thought of making him uncomfortable with my presence makes my skin itch with something I can't describe: a mixture of helplessness and disappointment.

***

After leaving the house, I head into town, unaware of the dark skies as I keep my gaze down on my boots while I walk.

Harry's words echo in my head over and over. It's hard for him. It's unbearable. I am unbearable to him.

The burn in my thigh happens when I begin the uphill climb, the checkered pavement disappearing into the asphalt on the road. This is when I realize I've walked past the town square and the shop I intended on visiting. It's a surprise at first, but when I look back to see the house barely visible, the urge to continue until the house is over the hill becomes powerful.

The sun disappears behind the clouds, and it becomes apparent, I realize as I walk, that I will be getting drenched by the cold summer rain within the next few minutes. Unable to do anything but embrace it with my lack of umbrella or durable hat, I walk slower. The air smells fresh and cleaner the more distance I put between the residential area and I.

The field I find myself on is already quite soggy, the heels of my boots sinking into the mud the further I venture. I wonder why Grace hasn't decided to take me to this particular field as it's larger and extends over more acres than the other one. It's not littered with trees and crunching branches either, green and fading brown prevalent. It's all I can see as I hold a hand up to peer over the land more closely. There's not a single person around me, the sound of traffic now deafened, and the sights breathtaking and so very country.

I inhale deeply and look up at the sky with my eyes closed as soon as the rain begins to pour, catching me off guard. The scent is salty, but the wind is still warm. It's quite comforting, a distinction from the otherwise scorching heat I've become accustomed to. The cold rain soothes any sun burns I may have.

The memory of summers in France back with my parents takes me violently. Nearly every year, it would rain on my birthday. It became a tradition to admire the rain and then run in it, dancing and laughing with my friends. The rain would be the same temperature as it is right now, but more enjoyable.

It hits me suddenly that I miss my parents. They have never been helpful, but simply telling them about what's happening to Harry would help me. After all, being in a foreign country makes you realize how lonely one can be when nobody around them is familiar.

The drizzle eventually turns into a heavier pour, and my shivering increases.

It's time to go back home, I decide, pulling my coat tighter against my body, beginning the walk back. The wetter ground pulls me by the heels of my boots into the earth, however, with determined strides, I refuse to let myself slide into the mud. That would be quite the sight, waddling back into the clean house completely dirty.

A part of me, though, wants to lay down in the soft mud and seek sanctuary.

The rain continues harder as I shuffle back into town, thoroughly drenched now. The cold has settled in and I cannot walk without stopping for a few moments just to tremble. The hat on my head droops with the weight of the water, causing the droplets at the brim to slide down the back of my neck and into my shirt. I feel every drop on my spine, and no amount of wiping will help as the back of my shirt is wet and cold on my skin already.

By the time I'm back home, I can barely feel my fingers, and I raise my hand to forcefully knock on the wood door. It takes a few moments until the door swings open to reveal Aunt Geraldine. Her eyes widen immediately and she gasps, tugging me in quickly, locking the door behind me.

"Annaliese!" She helps the shoes off my feet and then shuffles me to the carpet in the foyer to avoid any more cold from the hardwood floor. "Summer rain," she mutters. "How awful. Nothing a hot bath can't fix, though. Not to worry."

"It's quite alright." I whisper, teeth chattering. "Did it to myself." I send her a smile. "I knew it was going to rain. It's okay."

As she guides me to the staircase, Harry's departing from the library, and he catches my trembling frame. He tosses the books he's holding onto the nearest table and reaches forward, grabbing my elbow.

"Christ's sake," he says, a twinge of surprise in his voice. "Why didn't you come back sooner? I told you this morning that it was going to start raining soon and we shouldn't go to town."

I shake his hand off my elbow and turn my body away, climbing the stairs slowly. "It's okay. I knew it was going to rain."

Harry ignores me, climbing the stairs behind. "You're going to catch a cold. Why didn't you come back earlier if you knew?"

"Didn't think it would be so heavy."

Once I get to my room, I step in and expect Geraldine to accompany me, but when I turn, it's only Harry and he shuts the door behind him. When he's upset, his face is flushed and his eyes dangerously bright.

"You shouldn't have walked away from me. We don't do that," Harry says, making me sit on the bed. "When have we ever done that? You tell me to never run away, but look at you. You're no better than me."

Taking a deep breath, I remind myself that he is just mad and doesn't mean what he's saying. I try not to take it to heart, but when he says that I'm no better than him, it makes me realize just how negatively he thinks of himself.

"I'm okay," I repeat. "I'm just gonna take a bath."

Harry disappears from my view. I hear the water rushing into the tub, Harry hissing as he touches the hot water. He returns with another towel and drapes it over my hair, rubbing my scalp with it.

"Were you so angry that you felt the need to run from me? Fuck's sake, Annaliese. You don't think things through at all sometimes."

"Harry," I say. "I'm okay. Calm down. I didn't run from you. Just took a walk."

From the way he makes a frustrated sound from the back of his throat, I know I'm in for it.

"You had no reason to leave the house. I have been so fucking honest, Annaliese." He crouches down in front of me and finally keeps eye contact with me. "I have been honest with you since the day that I came back. I told you that night at the station that things will be different and I will be unable to help them, alright? How many times have I told you that? You haven't changed a bit, you know? Still as stubborn as always."

I let the words settle in before answering quietly. "That makes two of us."

"What?"

"You're just as stubborn as I am." I look down at my wedding ring, twisting it gently. "God, Harry. What do you want me to do? Apologize? I will. I'm sorry. For what, I'm not sure because you don't want to tell me."

"Understand," he says, exasperated. "Just try to think of what I'm going through."

"I can't though," I say, shaking my head some more. "I don't know what you're going through. Maybe I'd understand better but... Maybe I'm being selfish trying to force you to do things you don't want, but that's not how it is in my eyes."

"And how is it in your eyes?" He's rubbing his forehead tensely, glancing at the ceiling.

"I'm thinking baby steps could help you. Help you heal."

"I don't need to heal, Annaliese. I've told you that."

"What do you need then, Harry?" I exclaim, crossing my arms. Water drips from my hair onto him. "Because I can't figure it out so please spell it out for me."

Harry and gazes at me quietly for a minute. "Time," he finally says softly. "I just need time. I need to forget about it and then everything else will follow."

"You think you're just going to wake up one day and forget all about it like it was some sort of dream? Christ's sake, Harry, you still think about how your childhood was!" I'm hitting nerves, but it's to prove my point. "You still think about your father when you dream! You think I wouldn't notice the way you cry out when you used to sleep next to me? How can you still think of something that happened 10 years ago and then expect to stop thinking about something that happened not even a year ago!"

He puts his face in his hands and exhales, shoulders dropping. "What," he whispers, "do you suggest I do then?" His puts his forehead against the mattress besides my knee.

I raise a hand and hover it over the back of his neck, ready to massage the tension away. Hesitating at the last moment, I pause and draw my hand back to my lap.

"I want to help you," I tell him honestly. He picks his head up and looks at me, his eyes filled with tears. The sight breaks me. He bites the inside of his lip and doesn't bother to wipe away a tear dripping down his cheek and onto his lap.

"I get that," he whispers. "But please don't push me. I can't control my emotions when you push me, and you..." He takes a shaky breath. "I can't lose control of my emotions with you. I can with anyone else, but not you."

"Maybe we can start slow. But you have to tell me what bothers you about me. I can change for you."

"Don't want you to change. I am the one who needs to change."

"Harry, we're back at square one then."

"It's not like everything about you bothers me. I want to be close to you, but I know I can't be. I shouldn't be. You're so warm. You're my wife. I want to be with you, but I'm not... I'm not good right now. And I don't want to ruin you because you're so good." Harry's eyes well with tears again, his chest struggling to take a breath. "This is making no sense. It's not making sense to me either," he whispers, shaking his head desperately. "God. You're right. I don't know what I want."

"I know," I answer softly, hand twitching to touch him again. I gently raise my hand and hold it over his face, not quite touching. More tears slide down and I realize this is what he means by not letting his emotions get out of control. The tears show no sign of stopping.

Harry understands my intentions and darts his eyes from my hand to my face, unsure. Slowly, he tilts his head closer and lets the back of my fingers catch the remainder of his tears from his cheek. His eyes flutter shut as a smile passes over my face. I don't want to try my luck, so once the tears are eradicated, I remove my hand and his eyes open.

"I'm sorry Annaliese. I want to be better. I'm sorry for getting angry at you. That was ridiculous of me. And for everything I said in the library. It's not you. It's still me."

"I think it's both of us," I whisper sincerely. "You're going to be okay. I'm going to make sure of that. And if not," I shrug my shoulders, "well, then we're just going to try harder."

Harry stands up and sits besides me. His long body stretches, the ends of his shirt riding up to show beautiful pale skin, unmarked and soft. A slight trail of hair is visible for half a second. "You're not going to give up on me, are you?"

I can't help but laugh, standing up to head to the bathroom. He immediately stands as well to help me. "No, I am not."

There's a slight knock on the door, a hesitant one, and when Harry calls the person to come in, Jared sticks his head in and nods his head to us.

"Dinner will be ready soon. Will, uh, the Styles's, be joining us?"

Harry nods, standing up, fixing his shirt. "Yes," he says, somewhat confidently, glancing at me for approval. "We'll be there in a bit."