I bite my lip, lifting a hand in an awkward wave for the camera that Harry has focused, his finger pressing the shutter button repeatedly. Niall’s looking at me, eyebrow raised and mouth upturned in a suspicious smile. I settle on placing a hand on my hip and beaming, trying to get the hang of this whole taking photos before shows thing. My costume glows in the dressing room light. I’m excited.

“Selena looks great.” Harry grins, turning to his bandmate. “I want to capture tonight’s memories. It’ll be her first time playing Madison Square Garden.”

My fingers tremble at the reminder. Gosh, tonight was the night.

“Right,” Niall scoffs, turning pointedly to me. “That’s right, Harry wants to take an innocent photo of you to celebrate MSG. Except he’s not taking one photo, he’s taking one thousand.”

“You make it sound ridiculous!” Harry protests. “What, have you not heard of friends supporting each other, Ni? Just because you’re not supporting her doesn’t mean I’m not going to be as supportive as I can.”

“I am supporting her!”

“No you’re not! You’re going to make some crude joke about me jacking off to these photos when it isn’t true.”

I feel my cheeks flush, my body buzzing with a different sort of nervous energy. “Come on boys,” I interrupt, or they’d squabble for days. I also don’t feel like entertaining thoughts of Harry jacking off, let alone to photos of me. “Let’s take a selfie for my Instagram. I’m due on stage in five.”

We squeeze together on the sofa as I try to get all three of our faces in the picture, and I’m surprised when Harry buries his face in my curls, nose pressing against my cheek in a sort-of kiss. If my face weren’t loaded with stage makeup, my cheeks would be notably red.

I’m bouncing with nerves when I step to the side entrance, my heart pounding in my chest. This is it. The night I’d dreamt of, thought of, analyzed to death and tried to prepare for. I knew that stage like the back of my hand, memorized every curve of my wrist in the choreography, every longing stare timed to the beat for the cameras.

The heat of the lights warm the air.

It’s my cue.

  -O-

 I cannot be consoled.

“Love, it’s alright.” The side of the armchair in my dressing room dips down, Liam’s familiar voice filling my ears. “Things like this happen, and they don’t mean anything in the long run.”

“Yeah,” Zayn echoes. I look up to find him standing at the door, foot tucked behind the other nervously. I don’t blame him for being wary. A girl sobbing for a solid hour is probably something he doesn’t deal with often. “We’ve forgotten lyrics before, Sel. People get over it. They forget.”

Hearing him say it out loud makes the tears flow harder. I had forgotten lyrics. To my own single, my lips stumbling over the wrong words as the crowd had chanted the right ones back at me. And I hadn’t even taken it in stride. My features had fallen into a look of horror that was mirrored on each of the massive three screens, a collective gasp echoing through the venue. I wasn’t an established artist. I couldn’t afford to make these stupid, rookie mistakes. I can almost envision my career crumbling.

“Babe.” Liam tucks an arm around me, half-heartedly stroking running up my back. “I know you’re shaken up, but you can’t let this define you. You can’t let this performance define you. You’re human. You slip up sometimes.”

“You’re also working really hard,” Niall adds. “It’s been a really hard tour and we’re almost at the end. You’re losing steam, like everyone is. I almost missed my solo this show.”

“Stop making excuses for her.”

The sound of Harry’s voice makes me cringe, my fingers tightening around my face. Gosh, I’m a fucking mess. I’d hoped that he wouldn’t catch wind of this, spend his evening busy eating late-night catering in the lounge.

Nobody says anything back to him, probably as surprised as I am that he’s said something so heartless. I’m surprised when I feel nothing but appreciation. The insistence that my mistakes don’t need to be justified means a lot. Makes me think that maybe it doesn’t need to be chased away with reasons, but simply forgotten. I tuck my legs into my chest, hoping that they’ll take it as a sign to leave me alone.

“Maybe we should go,” Zayn says from his spot at the door. “I hope you feel better, Selena.”

“Thanks,” I mumble into my knees, not willing to raise my makeup-smeared face.

I hear the boys pad softly out the door, but there’s someone still in the room, breathing so light and I’m surprised that I recognize it. I’ve obviously spent too much time watching them during vocal rehearsals.

“You can go too, Harry.”

“Don’t really want to,” he says back, and I feel the couch dip with his weight. “What was the song?”

“Distraction.”

He makes a soft amused sound. “Hard song. Lots of lyrics that come really fast with the hook. Big belt in the pre-chorus too – hard to go into it straight from the verse, because you need all that momentum and you barely have a second to get a full breath of air. I hate when you have to hit every little beat with a syllable because then the words get mixed up in your brain. You’re too busy trying to keep up.”

I stay silent, not sure why he’s still here. He was the one who said to stop making excuses for me. Everything he’s said is true, but that’s my job, isn’t it? Come through always, even when it’s hard?

“But I’m not here to make excuses,” Harry chuckles, reading my mind. “You shouldn’t have made that mistake, babe. Lyrics are something you need committed to memory, written on your heart. Engrave them on your palms. It’s a sign of professionalism to know your own song.”

“I know that,” I say bitterly, slightly more upset. He didn’t need to tell me those things. It’s why I’m crying in the first place.

“Get your face out of your hands, come on.” He tugs lightly on my arm. “Lou will have a fit with what you’re doing with your pores, smothering them that way when they already need to breathe every moment possible.”

I shake my head, pulling away from him. God, no.

“Is it because your makeup is all smudged? Come on,” he laughs softly. “Who cares? I can’t talk to you when you’re a little ball of black velvet. Straighten out. Look human.”

Reluctantly, I lift my head, trying not to cringe.

Harry bursts into laughter, and a small smile spreads on my face. “You look like a panda!” he chortles, dropping his head to my shoulder.

“Stop it.” I smile. I look ridiculous and I’m exhausted from crying, but his joy is infectious. “What do you even want to talk to me about? There’s nothing to say.”

“There’s plenty to say,” Harry counters, lifting his head and running a hand through his long curls. “I think you’re better than what happened tonight. All the things the boys were saying is true, but I think you just need to put a bit of work in, is all. It’s the breathing, isn’t it?”

I swallow hard, nodding. I wish my label hadn’t chosen such a difficult song for a single. “I’m just so focused on getting that breath in every single time. I feel like I’m hyperventilating when I get to that chorus. Do you know what I mean? Like you’re just gasping and it’s like fuck the words I need to just not fall over right now.”

“Do you know the show Red and Black?”

I shake my head. “I’m American, remember?”

“Well, back when we were just starting out, our first television appearance of What Makes You Beautiful was on that show. I was breathing really hard too. Gasping in my solo. I was shaking like a leaf. Didn’t even have to do any sexy choreo like you’ve got in Distraction.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No, don’t be. I’m not sorry that you forgot the words tonight either.” Harry looks at me thoughtfully. “You know what you need to learn this early in your career? You can’t be lazy, Sel. You need to learn the right breathing in that song. It doesn’t matter that you’ve aced it and managed to get through until now. It doesn’t matter that it’s hard or that you’re tired. You need to get all the breathing right so you have the brainpower to remember the lyrics, to engage with your audience.”

I sit up, listening. I’m grateful for any experience Harry has to offer. Sometimes we’re so silly with each other that I forget he’s so wise, that he’s worlds ahead of me in this industry, that he’s thoughtful and reflective and a professional to the core. “Okay,” I promise. “I’ll work on it tomorrow morning before the next show.” I want nothing more than to fix this, make sure it never happens again. This offer makes me feel worlds better, like I’m actually moving forward.

“I’ll work with you. 8 AM. I’ll listen to you and we’ll work out where you need to breathe and make sure you’re breathing from the right places.”

I eye him warily at the mention of the time. Harry likes sleeping in and will probably be late. As much as I want to work with him, I don’t want to be distracted. I can already envision him staggering in late in his joggers and probably no shirt, bowl of blueberries in hand and curls everywhere. “Fine,” I concede. “But you have to come on time. You never come on time for things like these.”

“What, for things with you?” Harry plays mock offense. “I always come on time for you.”

“No, things that aren’t work-related. You’re always late. You need to come on time tomorrow, because the show is earlier. You can survive with a little less sleep. Just set an alarm and come.”

Harry’s expression turns into a naughty smirk, eyes sparkling. “Oh, I’ll come tomorrow. I’ll make sure you come first, though. But you won’t have to wait long for me.”

I stare at him, stunned and speechless. That came out of nowhere, but Harry’s humour is never really normal. Was he making a dirty joke?

“Sorry,” Harry says sheepishly. “That was rude.”

My mind is racing, still unsure what he means. “What—what was that?”

“I made a horrible, inappropriate joke.” Harry sighs, watching me. “I’m sorry.”

“You are so weird!”

“Sorry.”

“Where did that even come from? We were talking about a work meeting!”

“’M sorry,” Harry protests. “I was being a lad.”

We sit there in silence for a few moments.

“I’m going to bed,” I say finally, rubbing at my panda-eyes. “Thanks for offering to help me, H.”

“Of course. I believe in you, Sel. You can figure this song out, hard or not.” He pauses for a moment, giving me a puppy look. “Can I give you a kiss goodbye?”

“Britishisms.” I roll my eyes, but tilt my head. I won’t deny I enjoyed these British kisses.

Harry plants one on my cheek, before making a big show of sputtering and choking, complaining about my heavy stage makeup. “I think I’ve eaten some! Isn’t this toxic? Selena Adair, I could die! You’ll owe my label seven million pounds!”

“Shut up!” I laugh, before gesturing for him to tilt his head. “Wrong cheek,” I chastise, when he offers me the side without the big dimple. “You know better by now.”

I plant a hearty kiss on his dimple before getting to my feet. “Night, Harry.”

“G’night.”

-O-

 “Who gave you the right to post that photo?” I huff a few days later, planting my hands on my hips. “And you normally don’t even use emojis!”

Harry gives me a shy little smile, his cheeks dimpling sweetly. He plays with one of his in-ears, sipping from an enormous glass of banana smoothie. “I said I’d post a photo of you because the tour is almost over! You said that was okay.”

“You didn’t tell me it was that one!” I stare at my phone screen again, my face flushing. It was a photo from the one time Harry and I had slept in the same bed – not slept together, slept in the same bed – when management had messed up and hadn’t booked enough hotel suites in Vegas. I’m curled up asleep in the photograph, drooling on my pillow. He had kindly captioned it All Selena does on this tour, and added three Zzz emojis with a big pink heart at the end.

“I told you I would post it!”

“I didn’t think you were serious!” I stomp over to him until we’re nose to nose, giving him my very best glare. “You will take down this slander, Harry Styles.”

“Won’t.” He grins.

“Will.”

“Can you guys just fuck already?” Niall says from the table, causing us both to turn and glare at him. He shoves more cereal into his mouth, before giving us a What? look. “The sexual tension is so thick and I’ve had enough of your shit. We’ve got two more weeks of this tour and I can’t watch any more of this. Brianne’s got lots of condoms in her room. You just have to ask.”

“Why does Brianne have condoms in her room?” Harry says, zeroing in on the most important information.

“Because our stylist can have condoms if she wants to!” Niall rolls his eyes, shrugging. “Did you not know about this, Harry?”

“No!” He looks genuinely upset. “I’ve been buying all my condoms and that’s such a shame if there were free ones!”

I squirm, the fact that Harry’s been having sex making me a tiny bit jealous. I had no idea he was, and we spend a lot of time together. He hasn’t mentioned anything. Then again, I don’t know why he even would.

“But you know,” Harry sighs, a soft groan escaping his lips, “not like I’ve even used the ones I bought.”

My heart soars. So he hasn’t been having sex. I feel guilty for being happy, because I shouldn’t be mad about him having sex. That is his own private thing. I clear my throat, trying to return to the salient issue at hand. “To pay me back for the damage to my reputation Styles, I get to tweet from your account.”

“Okay,” Harry says easily, slipping a hand into the pocket of his jeans for his phone. My eyes follow the movement instinctively, and I almost choke. Did he have to wear jeans so tight? They literally framed the outline of his dick, and I could see the way it tucked slightly to the left, the bulge looking bulgier than usual. “Here.” He types his passcode in, before handing me the iPhone. “Do what you like, love.”

I blush, before sitting down giddily. I open up his Twitter and tweet a hearty, “Going for the baby Tarzan look today” with an added peace sign. I blink a few times, staring at his updated dash, and the notifications alert me to the fact that it’s already received five hundred retweets. Chuckling, I hand his phone back.

He reads my little sentiment, brow furrowing into a small crease. “Selena Adair, you are paying for this!”

I dash away, before he can attempt to smother me with an aggressive hug.

-O-

 My hair fights me as I attempt to force it into a ponytail for the third time. My workout has left it all fluffy and volumized and it refuses to be tamed. I’m walking quickly through the hotel halls, ears open for any sound of the boys jamming or horsing around. I left for a choreography routine practice this morning, followed by workout, and I have no idea where they are.

“Hi!” I greet Lou, when I find her in the prep suite. She’s got thirty bottles of hair product on the table, trying to organize them all into some sort of system.

“Looking for Harry?” she says as she smiles.

“Not really,” I mumble. “Do you know where all the boys are?”

“They should be around in one of the rooms,” Lou replies. “Don’t think any of them meant to leave, and they shouldn’t because we’re due at the venue in a couple hours.”

“Thanks.” I smile, making my loop around the floor again. I wonder where they are. I’m surprised when I hear Louis’ familiar shout down the hall that I haven’t gone down. Do they have a room down there? I have no idea. It turns out to be a stairwell, the boys seated in different corners and on steps. I’m about to round the corner and say hello, when their conversation topic stops me.

“You like her, Harry. Don’t even deny it.”

“We’re really good friends! We get on. Of course I like her.”

“Not like that.” Liam sounds tired. “You should ask her to dinner and see what she says.”

“That wouldn’t even help,” Louis retorts. “They have dinner all the time, curled up in a corner whispering things into each other’s ears.”

“I’m 90% sure you guys have fucked.” Zayn lets out a soft giggle, sounding highly amused.

“I’m 90% sure they have not,” Niall replies. “Have you seen how they interact? No outlet for that Zayn. It’s all bottled up inside.”

My heart is pounding in my chest, the thrum loud in my ears. They were talking about me. Talking about me. And Harry. I’m suddenly terrified that they’ll find me here, listening in and trapped like a deer in headlights.

“Okay, you all need to stay out of my business!” Harry interrupts. “Selena and I aren’t like that. We’re just friends and we’re happy like that.”

“Fine,” Louis says with a challenging tone. “I’m going to see if she wants to come for a walk with me tonight.”

“A walk?” Harry gawks. “What even is that? What are you trying to do, Louis?”

“I’m going after Selena,” he says easily. “You said you guys were just friends. Put in a good word for me, will ya mate? She’s fit as hell.”

My eyes widen. I think about stepping in awkwardly and saying hello, think about feigning nonchalance and ignorance. My stomach rolls. Everything inside me wants to skitter away. I couldn’t be caught here, wouldn’t have a word to say after hearing what I’ve heard. Louis is going to ask me out? Harry--

I haven’t run away on tiptoe faster than I do in that moment.

 -O-

 “Do you ship it?”

I blink, wholly confused by what I’m seeing on my computer screen. I’d woken up early, had a few strawberries that were in the mini fridge and scrolled through my work email. It’s the Instagram feed that freaks me out the tiniest bit, as Zayn poses the question to his fifteen million followers.

“Do you ship it?”

The caption describes a photograph of Louis making bunny ears behind my head, the two of us grinning widely at the camera after the end of a good show. We look cute, but certainly not in the romantic way. I’m not quite sure about how I feel, having this question posed to the public.

I frown, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.

X makes it all disappear, at least for the moment.

 -O-

 “I fucking hate this!” I storm into Zayn’s dressing room one evening, surprised to find Louis and Liam both there. Even better. They’d agree that this is something we all need to talk about now. “This is ridiculous.”

“What is it?” Liam asks, stretched out languidly on the settee. “Everything alright?”

“No.” I frown, trying to steady my breathing. “There’s a war on Twitter between fans who support Team Louis and Team Harry and they’re fighting over me. Please take the photo down, Zayn.”

“Of course, of course.” Zayn’s eyes widen in realization. He pulls his phone out, swiping through it immediately. “I’m sorry, babe. It was all a joke. The whole thing about asking people if they ship Louis and Sel was a joke.”

“#TeamLouis and #TeamHarry,” Louis reads from his phone, groaning. “Fuck it. It’s happening.”

I bite my lip, trying not to freak out. “Why do people even ship me and Harry?”

“I think they always suspected something was going on between you two,” Liam says after a moment, looking hesitant. “You called him onstage for a duet, you’ve said that you two write together a lot. Haven’t there been a few pap photos of you two out and about, too?”

“And then the photo of me and you came out.” Louis sighs. “I guess that was enough reason for them to think that we’re squabbling over you.”

“Are you?” I can’t help the question spilling out of me, the directness of it clearly surprising everyone in the room. It’s a question I’ve been wanting to ask, but never having the nerve. I’ve seen the subtle tension when Louis tries to make a move, Harry pausing a moment before stepping to the side, a wary smile on his face. I’ve no idea where I stand with either of them.

“No…?” Louis trails off. “I think?”

“Okay. So neither of you are interested in me.”

“Well, I--” Louis pauses, looking caught. “I don’t like you that way, no. But we all think Harry might, maybe. At least, we’ve been teasing him about it. The whole plan to make him jealous was just playing off of that. You’ll have to ask him, I guess.”

“Okay,” I mumble, already tired and the show hasn’t even begun. “I’ll see if I can find him before soundcheck.”

 -O-

 I don’t expect Harry to be so upset.

“I hate how they make it seem like we’re fighting over you, like you’re a prize or something!”

I also don’t expect to be the one trying to calm him down.

“Everybody just wants to be in our business, and it’s bullshit!”

“Harry, everything’ll blow over. Don’t worry. You, Louis, and Zayn have all tweeted about it and people are calming down. #TeamHarry isn’t even trending anymore.”

“Yeah, but #TeamLouis is,” Harry snaps, a conflicted look crossing his face.

“Okay, about that.” I fiddle with the rings on my fingers, trying to figure out how to phrase everything correctly. “Do you--do you like me, Harry? As more than a friend? Because that’s what Louis said.”

Harry glares at me. “Louis isn’t minding his own business; nobody is! If we get together, we get together. We don’t need everyone and a half’s opinion on it, and we don’t need any help!”

I almost choke. “Is that, uh, a yes?”

“I don’t know,” Harry groans, running a hand angrily through his hair. “I don’t know, Sel.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure how I feel about him either, don’t know if I’d like to sit down and think through and put a finger on it all. I wonder what this means. “There aren’t any feelings…?”

“There aren’t any feelings?” Harry says, with a questioning tone.

I clear my throat. “There aren’t any feelings…?” I repeat, having no idea whether we’re answering or not. I have no idea why it even matters, why I’m just standing here agape repeating the same question while he parrots it. “Just--everything will be fine, H. I’ve got to warm up.”

“Yeah, go warm up,” he echoes, looking at a spot above my head. I guess the conversation is over.

“Uh, okay.”

“Okay.”

I’m almost out of the room, my steps slow and hesitant at the door.

“Can I get back to you on that?” he says quietly, still not looking me in the eye.

“About what?” I breathe.

“About the feelings.”

I swallow hard. “Sure.”

I leave him there, my spine tingling with unplaced tension.

 -O-

 “I’ve missed you,” Harry says into the phone, all soft and whispery. I can almost feel his breath against my own cheek, my fingers tightening on the mic in my sweaty hands. “You’ll do lovely, Sel. Remember the right breathing. I can’t believe you’re playing Good Morning America.”

“I’m terrified,” I say honestly, sneaking a peek out at the enormous crowd that had woken up early to see me. “This is so, so real, Harry.”

“I know it’s real. Isn’t it amazing? You’ll do lovely, I know it. It’s such a big thing to play GMA.”

“I know.”

“I’ve missed you,” he says again. “You should tour with us again.”

“I should.”

“But with how big you’ve gotten, it seems like we’ll have to do a co-headline, and not any of this opener stuff.”

A smile blooms on my face. “Flattery.”

“I’m getting back to you,” he says after a moment.

“About what?”

“About feelings.”

And then suddenly the floor’s been whisked out from under my feet, the clock is ticking and telling me I’ve got seven minutes before I take the stage, and my hands are sweaty and slipping on the mic more than ever before.

“Are you still there, Sel?”

“Of course I am,” I manage. “What is it you want to say?”

“I have feelings. I have lots of feelings. I like you a lot, Selena.” He stops, and I think he’s going to say more. Except he doesn’t.

“Okay.” I’m breathless, trying to synthesize some sort of response. Did he have to talk about this minutes before I’m broadcast live to the nation?

“But I just don’t think it’s going to work. You’re so busy and I’m so busy and we’d never get to see each other. It doesn’t seem fair. I don’t even know how you feel about me. But maybe we can still see each other sometimes? Be friends?” Harry rambles out. He lets out a soft sigh. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” I say, at an utter loss of words. In thirty seconds, Harry’s managed to tell me he likes me, maybe wants to be with me, but doesn’t because he doesn’t think it’ll work. I’m still fighting to figure out where I stand with my own self. How I feel about my feelings. God, I wish I wasn’t about to go on stage, getting ready to sing something with a lot of meaning.

“What are you performing?” Harry asks, even though he already knows. I suspect he wants to change the topic.

“Distraction.” I’m glad for the song choice, wouldn’t have wanted to sing something like Stay or Hands Holding Mine. I wouldn’t be ready for that, couldn’t do that. Not with this phone call and the voice on the other end of the line.

“Good,” Harry says breathily, the sound loud in my ears.

I don’t say what I think he’s thinking. What I’m thinking.

My manager motions to me, beckoning me get off the phone and prepare during the last few minutes.

The sentiment is strong though, as I hold my mic tighter between my palms, thinking about Harry sitting down to watch me sing. I think about how people who choose this path and walk this walk don’t have it so easy, have to have conversations like this where we’re too busy and we miss each other but fuck, we have to work. We have to pull ourselves together and say goodbye.

I remember Harry telling me that he hates love songs. Hates how they remind him of everyone he had to leave behind. Hates how they mean so much, too much, but he can’t have them mean more because he’s always let go.

We must be thinking the same thought. It hurts.

The confusion is partly my fault; if I wasn’t so cheap about everything, I’d have had my own lipstick and wouldn’t be using my best friend/roommate’s. And then she wouldn’t have confused a lipstick with a vibrator, and this awkward discovery at the back of a cab wouldn’t be necessary. On the other hand, I had a reason for the overboard stinginess. Being jobless with a hefty debt (courtesy of Princeton) tended to do that to a person.

“Shit, really?” She shifts awkwardly in her hotdog costume, looking into my open clutch. “Oh god, I’m sorry about that, Char. I didn’t check properly when you asked me to grab a pinkish shade for you. I haven’t used it, promise. It’s just one of those lipstick-looking vibrating ones.”

Our cab driver shifts in his seat and side-eyes (back-eyes?) the heck out of my friend. Honestly, with his ocular range he must be part owl. Yes, good sir. You are hearing about sex toys. Deal with it.

“I can see that Day,” I huff, tucking hair behind my ear. “What am I supposed to use now?”

“Here.” She draws her arms into the enormous foam mass engulfing her torso, evidently patting her hidden jean pockets. “Take mine, as soon as I find it.”

Her costume is 100% tacky and overboard (although to be fair, Daisy looks like the most legitimate hotdog in the world, if tall brunettes were hotdogs), but I wasn’t complaining. I got to be the cute little bottle of mustard, and she’d found me a Heinz mini dress that had graphics exactly like the bottle. To top it all off, I’ve got a shiny white hat that looks like a nozzle.

Daisy twists in her seat and almost presses the button to unbuckle her seatbelt (probably on purpose). The driver side-eyes us again and her expression changes from hopeful to disappointed. “Ugh.” Her pretty features contort gracefully. “Char?”

“Yeah?” I say, even though I recognize the expression on her face immediately.

“Don’t have it.”

I roll my eyes and offer her a small smile. “Okay, whatever. No lipstick tonight, that’s cool.”

“Shame,” she sighs, “because your makeup is otherwise lovely. But you know what that means,” she waggles her brows comically, before making a kissy face. “Nothing getting in the way of a hot and steamy make-out sesh. Red would’ve been so messy, anyway. Especially if he were wearing a nice YSL shirt or something.”

“Nobody’s going to be wearing a ‘nice YSL shirt,’ Day,” I sigh. “It’s a costume party.”

“So very like you to zero in on the irrelevant information.” She waves her hands in the air, obviously frustrated by my lack of cooperation. “Make-out sesh! Hot and steamy! Mmmm.”

I think about it. “Yeah, that doesn’t sound bad, actually.”

It isn’t the first time I’m Daisy’s plus-one to some upscale, networking function, and if the steady barrage of hot guys at these LA parties are to continue, it certainly wouldn’t be my last.

“Get some, girl!” Daisy throws a fist up in the air, entirely too excited on my behalf. “I’m evidently getting nothing tonight, dressed in this huge marshmallow-like sponge. Even if I do find a guy who’s got a major kink for hotdog-like ladies, I highly doubt he’ll even be able to get me out of this thing.”

“Yeah,” I observe, eyeing her. “We’re going to have to cut you out of that, Day.”

“Don’t remind me,” she groans. “Do you see this? No boob access, no nothing. Literally, he’ll just be able to stroke my biceps and ankles and that’s horrible! I can’t get off like that!”

I giggle spills out of my lips. “Gosh, Day. You’re so dramatic. Maybe I should’ve worn the hotdog, if it troubles you this much.”

“No!” she sits up, eyes alight. “Definitely not. You look fabulous, Char. And you are going to get some for the both of us tonight.”

“Yeah.” I raise a shoulder half-heartedly, biting back a smile. Halloween has always been a kid-centric holiday for me, but dressing up in a matching costume with Daisy has been quite fun actually, if not mildly traumatizing. All of her modeling has rendered Day obsessive over making me look good (the rare times I’ve given in and asked), and it had taken her a solid three hours to gain full satisfaction with her hair/makeup handiwork.

“Are you excited?” Daisy asks, looking over at me. She’s been an overflowing bubble of energy all evening, and I can’t help but wonder whether it has anything to do with a wonderful guy that she’s been mentioning all week.

I voice my thoughts. “Anyone special at this party?”

“Oh yes.” She presses her lips together, before shooting me a conspiratorial wink. “You’ll meet him in due time, don’t worry.”

“Okay. I’m excited for the free bar,” I say honestly, grinning. “Only time I get to have a high quality dose of my namesake.”

It’s sort of fabulous that my name is Chardonnay, and I’ve learned to love how effortlessly graceful it sounds on the tongue. Apart from the fact that I was teased mercilessly for it in middle school and that teachers eyed me unhappily during roll call in kindergarten, being named after a wine gets exponentially better after turning sixteen. People start thinking you’re cool and fresh and full of character, just like a glass of fine white wine.

I watch the bright lights of downtown LA brush by the window, before I look down and adjust my wristbands. Daisy had complained about them looking out of place, but I thought the white bands complimented the white detailing on the Heinz bottle. And I needed them anyway, to cover the tattoo on my wrist. I adjust it now, making sure that the edge of the ink isn’t peeking out, gaze flicking back to the window quickly, so Daisy doesn’t notice.

I wish the tattoo didn’t cause me so much pain. I wish she’d stop convincing me to keep it.

“Will you take my clutch?” I hand it over to Daisy, as our cab comes to a halt in front of the venue, the façade all sparkle and glass and chrome. Glowing orange pumpkins decorate the frame, and I almost chuckle. No spiderwebs or bleeding ghouls. The place is classy to the core. “I’m going to head straight to the bathroom, Day. I’ll come find you afterwards.”

She gives me a hearty nod, the tip of her hotdog foam catching on the taxi door. “See you in a bit, Char!” She waves, before hurrying around to the driver’s window to pay.

                 the surprise

It doesn’t take me long to collide painfully with a well-dressed blond in a sports jacket.

“Oh god, I’m sorry.” I stumble on my heels, and he catches my elbow.

“No problem, love,” he says, before eyeing me. “Hey, you look familiar. Think I saw you with Daisy Lowe?”

“Yes, hi!” I flash him my most brilliant smile. Holy smokes, this guy is hot. “I’m Char. Daisy and I are good friends.”

“Niall,” he grins, grasping my hand and squeezing. He has a faint accent, but I can’t quite place it over the hubbub of the room’s chatter. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you, Chardonnay.”

Before I can squeeze his hand back and ask him how he knows my full name (and also how he’s heard a lot about me – did I have a reputation? God, I hope it’s a good one; Daisy better be saying good things about me), Niall’s raised a hand in farewell, an apologetic look on his face. “I’ve got to go, babe. Someone wants to buy something in the lounge area and I’m a sales agent, so I live for that. Say hello to Harry for me? I haven’t seen him yet this evening.”

I’ve opened my mouth to make a smart little comment about agents so that he’ll remember me as witty and gorgeous and worth returning to, but Niall’s already slipped between two girls flapping their hands and tilting their heads, and disappeared from sight.

Wait, say hello to Harry?

I freeze, my heart pounding double time, and for a second I wonder if I’ve been paralyzed. Harry?

I swallow and brush it off. Niall probably meant a different Harry, yeah? Not the one I fell in love with nine years ago and… god, I yank my hair off my neck. The room is unbearably stuffy. I’m being ridiculous. Lots of people are named Harry. I scramble for thoughts, before I settle on thinking about the delicious buffet options in the other room.

If I don’t keep my mind moving, I know I’ll settle back into the question I ask myself once in a while, when I shut all the doors and close the windows and sit on my bed and whisper Do you still love him? like it’s a secret.

“Where’s Daisy?” I say out loud to distract myself, before the girl in front of me turns and smiles.

“Sorry?” she bats her amazingly long lashes, quirking an eyebrow up. I notice that they’re horribly uneven and Daisy would have a ball with this girl and a pair of tweezers (just like she had a ball with me and my own eyebrows).

“Oh,” I shake my head, glad that my mental commentary is private. “I’m sorry. Just looking for my friend.”

I move past her and towards the room’s corner, wondering whether Daisy’s in the bathroom or found a guy to romance with her pretty eyes (that were still very much visible, even in her hotdog form). It’s dimly lit, an enormous disco ball revolving lazily and casting a shimmery glow across everyone’s face. There isn’t anyone dancing though (there isn’t any music and there are other people on stage), and I wonder when the deejay is due to take his set.

“Couple-costume contest is underway,” a dude announces loudly from the front. “Are there any others? All are welcome! We’ve got eight entries so far, and we’d always love a few more!”

The crowd starts shifting as friends turn to each other excitedly, some couples making their way forward to the stage. There are contestants already lined up, and I figure they must’ve known about the contest in advance. I whip my head around, right and left. Where is Daisy?

I expect to see her around her model friends, but I’m surprised when I see Daisy chatting to a tall, curly-haired guy, her head bobbing eagerly and happily.

I frown, and then squint. I swear to god that the room spins.

As if on cue, Daisy steps back and looks around, spotting me and my gaping mouth. Her features light up and she doesn’t even say goodbye to the curly dude, instead waving a hand dismissively at him and waddling towards me (why did she wear stilettos with that hotdog chunk of foam?).

“Char!” she cries, entirely too happy, “I’ve been looking for you!”

I’m not even looking at her, instead eyeing The Curly Dude, who has calmly started talking to a leggy blonde who I can only assume is one of Daisy’s model friends. He raises a hand, shoulders stretching out, and I swear I can see his back muscles ripple, even if they are swathed in cotton.

“That is not who I think it is!” I say rather aggressively, giving Day my very best glare.

“Oh, but it is,” she gives me an innocent smile, batting her lashes and raising a shoulder demurely.

“Cut that out, Daisy. You aren’t cute, you’re a hotdog,” I huff. “And are you serious? No! How do you even know him?”

“Met him at one of these parties a while ago,” she shrugs nonchalantly. “We got to talking. About life. About work. About relationships.” Daisy gives me a wink, and pieces fall into place. Oh, god. She had planned all this.

I look up.

Unmistakable curls. Fucking green eyes that swallow you whole.

And he was dressed in the dorkiest costume ever.

I turn away from her and stare. “Harry?” The name falls out of my mouth, far louder than intended. That costume. That fucking costume that he’s wearing—

“Char,” he grins, spinning on his heel and turning to me. Fuck. His dimples are prominent as ever.

“You’re a bottle of ketchup,” I blurt, stomping purposely over to him, before I grab the red cotton of his chest and yank him close. “Harry, what were you thinking?” I whisper-yell. “That is such a stupid costume! Now people are going to think we’re matching! Go tell—”

Saying it out loud has clearly jinxed the entire thing, because a gangly dude with bright orange hair (dressed as a pumpkin, if you must know) has started waving us over. “Hey, hang on Chris!” he calls to someone on the stage. “We’ve got another couple-costume entry! Come on.” He motions to us, looking exasperated. “Ketchup and mustard, over here. Didn’t you hear the first entry call?”

Before I can protest, Harry’s already grabbed my hand and started pulling, a stupid smirk on his face. “Just run with it, Char,” he chuckles, as he tugs me forward to the front. “We might win the $200 prize. Nobody has to know we aren’t dating.”

I roll my eyes and try to phrase a protest, but he’s giving me that look and it’s obviously not too early for me to realize I’m still no match for his pleading face. “You owe me one, Styles,” I sigh, as we ease ourselves through the crowd.

Harry looks over at me, expression unnervingly serious. “I already owe you,” he says sincerely. My stomach drops down to my toes. His gaze suddenly hurts, green eyes piercing me way deep inside. A wave of emotions I haven’t felt in a long time comes bubbling up to the top, scratching and crawling into my throat. My tongue feels like iron.

I’ve opened my mouth, trying to deny his statement, wondering if he was thinking what I was thinking, all the sorry’s I had written years ago in my head falling back into the forefront. Except we’ve reached sidestage, and before I can even breathe some sort of idea into existence, Harry’s got his big hands around my waist, hoisting me up onto the platform so we don’t have to walk back around to the stairs.

I blink wildly. The lights are blinding. God, how did performers do this on the reg?

“Ketchup and mustard, mustard and ketchup!” an overexcited guy rambles into the mic, swiveling his hips. “You two look adorable! A couple years ago, my girlfriend and I did this couple costume, and it’s sweet and simple and savoury and sexy!”

I turn to look at Harry as he straightens behind me, eyes wide. I can tell he’s fighting not to laugh. Savoury and sexy aren’t really the words that come to mind when dealing with condiments, but hey, apparently we were running with it.

“Don’t look so frightened,” Mic Guy exclaims, starting to walk over to us. “You two look adorable!”

“Um, thanks,” Harry says, when the mic is thrust into his face. He coughs lightly into his fist, and I can’t help but remember that he used to do that years ago.

“How long have you two been dating?”

“Nine years,” Harry says smoothly, and I have to fight to keep my expression neutral. Nine years? The fuck? I should probably smile. A nine-year relationship lasting is something to smile about, yeah? I plaster a grin on my features, hoping nobody would call me out on my shit.

“Whoa!” Mic Guy yelps, and the small crowd roars. “You two look really young!”

“We’re high school sweethearts,” Harry says in his adorable, pretending-to-be-bashful voice.

The crowd sighs in approval. Somebody whistles, and I swear it’s Daisy. I am going to strangle her when we get home. Alternatively, I could just refuse to cut her out of the hotdog costume, and then she’d learn not to dress me as mustard ever again – especially if my ex was coming dressed as ketchup. But I figure she’d probably die if she spent longer than twelve hours in that thing, and Daisy does bring a lot of energy and positivity to my existence. Also, I’m not that cruel.

“It’s been the best nine years of my life,” Harry adds after a moment, for special effect. His grip around my waist tightens, and I nod at the crowd and beam before stiffening. Best nine years. My heart pounds as I realize that if we hadn’t broken up, we would’ve just had our ninth anniversary last month.

“Who came up with the costume idea?” Mic Guy continues his interrogations, absolutely oblivious to the fact that Harry was speaking lies. Well, half-truths, that is.

“My stunningly beautiful Chardonnay did.” My supposed boyfriend nudges my hip, and his over-the-top sappiness shakes me out of the past.

“Um, yeah!” I say as enthusiastically as I can. Mic Guy has the mic right up my nose, and I wonder whether he needs glasses. “Ketchup and mustard, uh, so sweet, right? And savoury? Yum, sexy too. It felt like a genius idea.”

Harry laughs, catching my eye. It’s clear my humour hasn’t improved. “Chardonnay’s a genius.”

“And I may be prying now,” Mic Guy goes on, “but your name is Chardonnay, babe? Like the wine?”

“Yep,” I reply, hoping that he doesn’t try to make a joke about that. I glance over at Harry and try not to groan – he’s got the look that says he’s going to take care of that joke bit.

“Honestly, the name does her justice,” Harry quips. “She’s like a fine wine. Gets better with age. I can only imagine what goddess I’ll have forty years from now.”

I can’t even help my exasperated grumble and eye-roll. I step on his toe.

“Ouch!” Harry cries, absolutely overreacting.

The crowd chuckles and titters, and I blow them all a kiss. Mic Guy thinks this is a great time to get down to business and yammer on about the $200 prize – honestly, only reason why I’m even on this stage – and past couple-costume winners. Then we’re ushered down to the edge as the other couples competing join us on stage. There’s a rather interesting one of Batman and Robin, and an absolutely cringe-worthy Male and Female Versions of Justin Timberlake. Honestly, who thought of that?

People are eliminated based on the loudness of cheer from the audience, and I’m honestly surprised that Harry and I make it to the final. We’re up against Batman and Robin, and I internally scoff. Captain Ketchup and Wonder Mustard have zero chance.

But when it comes to the cheer for our costume, Daisy must’ve bribed them all, because the cheer is deafening. Harry and I turn to each other, eyes alight. We’d won? “Ketchup and Wine!” is the chant, and Harry and I burst into laughter as we claim our prize.

“So, what are you doing here?” I eye Harry suspiciously, as I beeline for the buffet after our little win. Harry follows me, snagging some cute little bits of sushi and strawberries as I load my plate with a mountain of mashed potatoes.

“Is that all you’re going to have?” Harry raises an eyebrow. “You haven’t changed, Char.”

“Not in a lot of ways, no,” I ladle on the gravy. “And this is definitely what I’m having.”

We find ourselves in a booth that’s meant for six and not two, but everyone’s on the dance floor anyway and the tables are mostly empty. I want to tell Harry to go away and leave me be, his presence making me slightly unsettled. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in over four years, and my heart’s doing a weird rhythm thing again. I’m not quite sure I want to identify that feeling.

“You haven’t answered my question,” I say, trying not to notice that he’d let his hair grow longer, and that his shoulders were so fucking broad and his goddamn arms were—fuck. Even in an XXL droopy ketchup shirt, he still managed to look hot.

“I’m just enjoying the party,” Harry smiles at his vague answer, before continuing with a better one. “My roommate Niall – he does sales for this high-end corporation in LA. He does networking at these sorts of parties and there’s free food, so you know. He doesn’t have a girlfriend. I always come along.”

“Oh,” I say, mainly because between mashed potatoes and ogling Harry, there isn’t much brainpower left to be eloquent. I avert my gaze when he looks up. Close call – I was tracing his jawline with my eyes.

“What about you?” Harry asks. He plops a piece of sushi into his mouth, and I notice his lips. Pretty as ever. I try not to think about it.

“Uh, I’m here with my best friend Daisy.” My mood changes when I say her name. “She’s in a lot of trouble.”

“Daisy Lowe?” Harry frowns. “Why?”

“Because she orchestrated this entire thing,” I huff. “She talked you into being ketchup, and she talked me into being mustard, and this is none of her business. We’re broken up, Harry! It was almost five years ago. She has zero right to meddle in my past relationships.”

His expression is unreadable. “But this is nice,” he says sincerely, and I’m taken aback at how he’s calmed the mood. “I’m happy to see you again, Char. It’s been a while. Maybe Daisy’s got something up her sleeve, but I’m just happy to see you.”

God. Who gave him a mouth and taught him how to fucking use it – in more than one way? I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m happy to see you too,” I say back, but I wonder whether I really am. I haven’t let my feelings fully have a chance, but a million contrasting emotions bubble up inside. All the regrets and the what-ifs and the wishes and the never-dids are waiting to call me out, and I can’t help but think that if I hadn’t seen Harry tonight, I wouldn’t be fighting them in the first place. Still, it’s nice to see him. “I’m happy to see you too,” I blurt, before shaking my head. “Wait, did I already say that?”

Harry smirks. “Yeah, but I understand. Double the feelings. You’re thrilled to see me, then.”

“Oh shut up.” I wrinkle my nose. “I, uh, my head isn’t on right.”

“Yeah, because you’re thrilled to see me.” Harry grins. “I get it.”

“This party is so classy,” I change the subject. “You obviously don’t belong. Why is your costume like, triple XL? You look like a ketchup ghost.”

“You’re the one with a friend dressed as a hotdog.”

“Point taken.”

Harry plucks at his neckline. “And it’s like this because it’s Niall’s old costume.”

“That explains nothing,” I point out. Niall and Harry look to be about the same size.

“You look really nice, Char,” he changes the subject easily, holding his head in his hands as he watches me eat more potatoes. “How’ve you been?”

“I find it somewhat ridiculous that we’ve spent the past half hour together, and we are only now getting to the niceties.” My lips tug into a smile.

“We haven’t changed,” Harry says, and then there’s that heaviness all over again. Bringing up the idea that we hadn’t changed is sort of painful. I wonder if he’s thinking about all the times our eyes and our lips had done the niceties for us, hearts too eager to touch to bother with talking, or the fact that we’d been drawn to each other like a magnet the first time we’d met, falling into a deep discussion about Mozart’s sonatas before we’d remembered to ask for each other’s names. Beyond that, the last time we had talked left so much unsaid. I wonder whether we’ll have a chance to say those things now, five years too late.

“I’m good.” I shift in my seat, trying to stay comfortable. “What have you been up to?”

Harry shrugs. “Applications, I guess. Been working a job. I’m going back to school next semester, in January.”

My interest is highly piqued. “Oh,” I forge on, because it’s so much easier to talk about something like this. I could handle discussions on mundane life. “Elaborate, please – are you doing a grad program?”

“I’m going back to do my MPT, you know,” Harry says. “Be a physiotherapist.”

“So you stuck with biomed for your undergrad, then?” I smile. “That’s great, H. I’m happy for you.” Before he can ask what I’ve been up to, I’m already yammering on. “And so I’m guessing the applications were for that program?”

Harry nods. “Yeah.”

“Where do you work?”

He looks at me funny, and I wish that Harry didn’t know me so well. Even after five years, I had habits that were hard to let go of. I remember the way he used to always know when I didn’t want to talk about something. Gave me the look he’s giving me now, the one that says he knows me too well to be fooled. Still, he gives me a smile and I can tell he’ll humour me on this, at least for the time being. “Don’t laugh,” he chuckles, “but I work at McDonalds.”

I almost spray his face with a mouthful of potato and gravy combo. “Oh god.” I cough into my hand, a little taken aback. “But you’ve got a degree and all?” Good grace. I knew the job market was saturated – but UCLA grads in biomedical science were assembling Big Macs for a living now?

“No,” Harry says, “It’s not what it sounds like. I was, well— I went through a really hard time a year or so ago, and I couldn’t land a proper job in my field. I kept screwing up interviews and I felt depressed and horrible, but I still wanted something that would take up my time. There’s a McD’s right across where I live, and so I just went in with my resume, had a chat with the manager, and I was hired.”

His expression looks tired and a whole lot sad, and I suddenly have the urge to sit here forever and make him talk about what had happened. I wonder whether he’d tell me. If telling each other everything would be a habit that we’d fall back into, at least for tonight.

“I find flipping burgers really therapeutic.” He winks, before turning serious. “Really, though. You just clear your mind and flip burgers. It’s nice.”

“Yeah, I get that.” I sigh. “Maybe I should apply to McDonald’s? Clearing my mind sounds lovely.” And just like that, I almost clap a hand over my mouth, hating myself. I’ve drawn the attention back to me. My little white bottle-cap hat falls onto the table.

“Where are you working?” Harry chuckles, reaching out and picking the hat up. He pats the top of my head gently, smoothing the hair down before plopping the hat back in place.

“I’m not working,” I say, in a tone far too sharp to be reasonable. Harry’s being so nice. He didn’t deserve that. But I don’t want to talk about it yet.

“Okay,” he says easily, adjusting his nozzle hat. “So how do you and Daisy know each other?”

“She was my roommate on res,” I reply, happy he’s changed the subject. “We’re inseparable now.”

“I knew that,” Harry smiles cheekily. “I don’t know why I asked.”

I laugh a little, because the look in his eyes is playful and flirtatious, and for the moment, I’m going to revel in it. “How do you know Daisy?”

“I—“

“Actually,” I cut him off, feeling my face flush, “I know the answer to that too.”

We both freeze, staring at each other, before I give in and laugh. He follows almost immediately, our giggles a little misplaced. My cheeks feel hot and I want to squirm. Harry watches me finish the rest of my potatoes, adjusting his nozzle hat on his head. I notice that it’s got a stretchy little band that goes around his head, the ends of the strap tied under his chin. It’s cute.

“So,” I clear my throat, emotions grappling one another in my chest. “I think I’ll run to the washroom and then find Daisy.”

“Hmm.” Harry opens his mouth to say something, a thoughtful look on his face. “Uh, I guess I’ll head onto the dance floor.”

He sounds very half-hearted about the idea, but I’m glad that he hasn’t offered to come with me. He slips out of the booth before holding a hand out to help me up.

“See you later,” I say, even though I don’t know if I will.

I made a promise to myself, years ago. That if I saw Harry again—touched the heat of his hands and the tips of his fingers—I’d never say goodbye again.

iii.                the discovery

I’m plopped onto a cushioned stool at the bar counter, beaming at the bartender as she brings over my G&T, when Harry makes his second appearance of the night.

“What are you doing all by yourself?” His tone is curious, and he waves at the bartender to come take his order too. I listen to him order a standard beer – Heineken, a change from his old preference of Corona – and then he pulls the plate of coconut shrimp closer to him.

“Try it with the mango dip,” I recommend. “It’s fantastic.”

“Mmm,” he says appreciatively, popping one into his mouth. His lips are shiny, and I look away quickly. “Is this what you normally do at parties? Sit alone and drink?”

“Shut up,” I smile, raising my glass. “I’m here to drink away my sorrows. Got a lot of them,” I say wryly, before I take a sip. This is my first drink, so I’ve deviated from my standard glass of chardonnay. But I expect to get to that soon.

“Do tell.” Harry leans forward, looking concerned. “What sorrows have you got? We can share.”

“Let me get drunk first,” I laugh, eyeing him, before I change the subject. “Seems like your hands have gotten even bigger. Guess you’re an even better pianist now?”

A flash of something I don’t recognize crosses Harry’s face. “I don’t really play anymore,” he says, after two beats too long.

“Why not?” I frown. “You’re a fabulous player. That’s such a waste.”

I know instantly that I’ve hit a sore spot because Harry’s forehead wrinkles, and he sniffles a little, like he used to when he was nervous. He doesn’t look at me. “Can’t really play anymore,” he says, before pushing a hand through his hair. His left hand comes to cradle his right hand, playing with the rings on his index and thumb. I wonder how far I can push.

“What do you mean?” I go for it. We always told each other everything. I have a ridiculous urge to sit in his lap and put my arms around him, push that errant curl out of his eyes and tell him that everything’s going to be okay.

“I don’t have a lot of movement in my index and middle fingers,” he finally says, just when I think he isn’t going to say anything at all. “On my right hand. It was a soccer injury.”

Oh, god. For a moment it feels like everything’s slowed down, the air in the room thick with too many untold stories and hidden heartbreaks. When he looks up at me, my insides crumble into broken little pieces, my own fingers stinging in empathy from the pain in his eyes. I don’t even need to ask if this had anything to do with the rough time he referred to earlier.

Losing music might’ve been the only thing that could drive him off the edge. Other than, perhaps in a time that feels like a forever ago, the pain of losing me.

And then I realize that the Harry sitting next to me at this dim, pricey bar on Grand and 5th isn’t the Harry I kissed goodbye five years ago, the one who pulled my hands to his chest and told me not to forget that beat, our walking beat, the one that the most beautiful aria variations had been written to. The one who made me promise not to stop playing violin, because he’d be someplace else playing piano, and somewhere up in the stars, our melodies would unite and the moon would smile and shine.

This Harry is different, stronger, possibly a little lost, and painfully incomplete.

“Oh,” is the word that stumbles out of my lips, trashy and irreverent, and I wish I could take it back. Say something more substantial. My mouth betrays me, and I remember why I started playing music in the first place – it spoke for me, when I couldn’t.

“Yeah,” Harry says, a forced smile pushing itself onto his features. “Sometimes the universe is pretty fucked up. If you love something too much, it ends up getting taken away. Maybe it’s for the best. But I think it’s a cruel thing.”

“It is,” I say, but it comes out more like a whisper. “I’m so sorry, Harry.”

He raises a shoulder, before pushing his beer farther away from him. “Most days, it doesn’t bother me too much. I’m a busy guy. I have burgers to flip and people to tell me off when their apple slices don’t taste like apples, and fries to fry to perfection. So… yeah.”

“I — I don’t play violin anymore either,” I mumble, hoping the admission doesn’t hurt him. It does, though. It’s written all over his forehead, in flashing capital letters.

“Why not?”

Because it reminded me of you, I almost say, before I realize that it’s actually true. I had told myself I didn’t have the time anymore, that Princeton was demanding and rigorous and that I absolutely needed to sit on four different student councils. I told myself that violin would never land me a job in a business empire, that it didn’t have any value after my high school’s last music night. But taking a step back, I could maybe afford to be honest. Take those bills out of my wallet and pay for something I deserve. Truth.

I stopped because of Harry.

“Did you lack the time?” he asks.

I clear my throat. “Yeah, I guess.” It hurts me to lie to him; it’s new and uncomfortable. So I change the subject, my mind flitting to something practical. “What about your music scholarship, H? Did they cut you off when you couldn’t play anymore?”

He sighs. “They had some bursaries I could take advantage of, which helped. But yeah, the last year and a half were tough. UCLA wouldn’t cover the whole tuition any longer, and so I had to work my ass off.” He gives me a small smile. “Don’t have any debt though, so I’m happy about that.”

“I’m proud,” I whisper.

He tugs the bright red of his long sleeves up, probably because he feels warm like I do. “Thank you,” Harry’s sighing, but then my heart is skipping a beat for possibly the fourth time tonight, because there’s an unmistakable swirl on his right wrist and my stomach drops clear down to my tips of my toes.

“What’s that?” I blurt, getting to my feet abruptly.

Harry jumps in surprise, blinking in confusion. “What’s what?”

“You have a tattoo.” I snag his hand, pulling it up to my face. I stare, as if the longer I do it and the closer in proximity it becomes, the more real it will turn out to be.

“Yeah…” he trails off, evidently confused. I knew he had tattoos. He knew I knew he had tattoos.

But this one is different.

A bass clef is printed neatly on the inside of his right wrist, the symbol small in comparison to his large hands. He watches me stare. “I got that the day after my doctor told me I’d never be able to play piano again,” his voice is rough. “To remind me.”

And then I’m stumbling back from him, mouth agape, and I’m tugging the white wristband off my left hand, thrusting it at Harry because my tongue is throbbing and I don’t have words.

“What the fuck?” he breathes softly, before he takes my own hand, staring at the treble clef on the inside of my wrist. Our thoughts click at the same time, and he brings my hand next to his, the wrists side by side, the tattoos interlocking.

My mouth feels dry. Same size. His clef curves into my own, and the pattern created is unmistakable. An elegantly beautiful heart. (See the tattoo by clicking HERE)

“I…” My words falter. I’ve always thought that it’s a load of crap, the whole stars align sort of thing. To think that vibrant balls of energy would move for the sake of a feeling is ridiculous. But now I swear I feel the universe shifting, underneath my feet and overhead, and there’s something far bigger than I am slowly coming to life. Maybe it already was alive, and this is a rebirth.

A revival in the city of angels.

Harry coughs into his fist. “When did you get it?”

“A year or so ago, probably.” I take my hand back, but my gaze can’t stop flitting between our wrists, my tongue heavy in my mouth. I don’t say what we’re both thinking. That if we held hands, the tattoos would align.

“I got mine a couple years back.”

I shake my head, trying to find a point of balance again. My foot finds purchase on the foot ledge, and I ease back into the barstool. “I got it when I realized that I didn’t have room for music in my life anymore. Was studying for finals, ready to graduate, and I thought about all the things I had to do – put together a portfolio, find a fucking job to pay off my debt, find a proper roommate because I thought Daisy was dead set on moving to New York — and it felt endless. And I thought,” I sigh, wondering whether I should even continue, “that I had actually forgotten about all the time we spent together.”

I take a risk and look over at Harry. His green eyes are bright and thoughtful.

“And I mean, you know, the breakup didn’t hurt as much by then, and I thought I could get a tattoo of something music-related without thinking of you. But I was wrong.”

“You were wrong?” Harry asks, voice slow and soft. The words linger between us like an embrace.

“Yeah.” I swallow. “And I—I’ve actually been thinking seriously about having it removed. I have an appointment at the clinic next week.” The words tumble unceremoniously out of my mouth, and the moment is ruined.

Harry stares at me, eyes wide and heart bleeding. “Why?”

I almost tell him the truth, because that’s what I’ve always done. But I stop, because I realize that five years later, a million heartbeats past, I still don’t know where I stand with Harry. Haven’t known since that day we had held each other’s hand so tight, an act so ironic because the first words out of our mouths were I don’t know if I can do this. Ever since the title of girlfriend, the one that never cut it and always meant something along the lines of the person I love deeply, wholly, irrevocably was stripped away, I didn’t know where I stood. But in this moment, I entertain the idea of it not having changed at all. That beyond all the ways I’d learned to define myself since then, deep down I was Char, and Harry still loved me.

“Do you just not like the way it looks?” Harry asks hopefully, and the look in his eyes says more than I expect. He wants me to keep it. Wants the matching tattoos we got unknowingly to be salvaged, kept, untampered. My heart soars. Perhaps my hopes are true. Perhaps little has changed.

It tells me I can answer honestly, and my mouth feels dry. “I don’t like the way it reminds me of you.”

The gravity of what I’ve said hits me like a brick wall, but I don’t take it back. Don’t want to. Harry stares, his eyes piercing and probing, and I sit there and take it. “What are your other sorrows, Chardonnay?”

“I—it’s not a sorrow,” I try, before I give up and scramble for words. I didn’t expect him to say that so softly, smoothly, thoughtfully. The crease between his eyebrows is still there, and my heart pounds harder. I don’t know what he’s thinking. I fall back on the mundane. “Um, I don’t know. Another sorrow is that I don’t have a job right now I guess, and I don’t want one either. That’s a problem.”

Harry leans back, adjusts his feet on the footledge and tilts his head. God, I don’t know what he’s thinking. “Why don’t you want one?” he asks, but his tone says he already knows.

I yammer on, brave at heart. “Well I just came back from teaching English in Paris, and I don’t really know what I want to apply to. Like, I know what to apply to – bank manager or claims adjuster positions, numerical analyst jobs if I’m feeling confident. But yeah.” I lift a shoulder, slightly awed at how Harry’s dragged the main sorrow out of me. I told him I was going to get drunk first. “I guess I lack motivation.”

He looks thoughtfully across the room, like the wall on the other side has much to say. “Because you don’t like stats.”

“I—I mean, yeah.”

“I was hoping that you’d fall in love with stats,” he says after a moment, eyes a little glassy as he watches the couple on the other end whisper intimately to one another. “I was hoping it would be a thing. I wanted you to be happy. I wouldn’t have bet on it, but a little part of me always hung on to the hope that you’d blossom into a stats girl. A math girl. That maybe you’d find some sexy commerce major, future-CEO kind of guy, and he’d talk numbers and finance to you. That you’d find your spot in that world and have it click.”

I turn to him, interest piqued. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry looks at me, brows furrowed. “And then he’d do his business thing, and you’d be his analyst and adviser, and I’d go to some convention on money management, and you’d be there to break down the fact that people aren’t good with their money these days. Powerpoint and all.”

“Yeah, that didn’t happen.”

“No,” Harry agrees. “I guess I never thought it would.”

“Why not?” I frown. “You wanted it to happen, so why wouldn’t it? I just have bad luck?”

His lips purse, before he meets my gaze. “Some things just can’t happen, I guess.” A pause. “Do you have anyone you’d like to spend time with at this party?”

I think about it, and I wonder whether he’s asking me to leave, maybe go home with him. I’m not sure what to say to that request if it’s what he truly means. “Well, it’s typically just Daisy and her friends, but she seems occupied.” I give him a look. “I’d sit alone and drink, but you’ve managed to drag all my sorrows out of me. I’m not even close to drunk. I suppose there isn’t a point to get there anymore.”

“No more drinking for you?” Harry raises his eyebrows, looking at my G&T. It looks untouched, for all the two sips I’ve taken of it.

“Let’s go for a walk,” I suggest, my eyes flitting down. I’m scared he’ll say no. That this warmth between us is something he’ll push away, because his eyes say he knows it too well. Knows what’s lingering behind our breathy words and hopeful looks. “It’s sort of loud in here.”

Harry slips off his barstool and holds a hand out to help me down, and I take it. “I thought you’d never ask.” He tilts his head. “But you’ve barely had any of that G&T.”

“Yeah, well,” I laugh a little, feeling breathless. “You’ve made me not want to drink my sorrows away. At least for tonight.”

He reaches out for his untouched beer, and my eyes flit to the rings on his fingers again. This Harry felt impeccably styled, a little more confident in his walk and movements, more thoughtful and wise about the words he said. Still, it doesn’t take a deep look to find the Harry I once knew so well. The flirty, funny, at times dorky but sweet teen that I first fell in love with was there. And maybe that’s the bit that scares and exhilarates me the most.

“So do you still dance like you used to?” Harry asks, a teasing smile on his face. “We always were the hottest couple on the dance floor, moves-wise.”

I roll my eyes as we step out of the venue, not a single person to stop us. High-profile parties seemed to run on an entirely different set of rules, and nobody seems to care that Harry’s got an open beer in his hand as we step out of the swinging glass and chrome doors, the harsh feel of pavement greeting our feet. “Actually Harry,” I say pointedly, “my dancing has vastly improved.”

“Oh?” he grins, looking unconvinced.

“I took lessons.”

“Oh,” he says, sounding a little less unconvinced, but very far from being won over. “And how did that go?”

I halt and look up at him, trying to look as serious as possible, but the sparkle in his eyes calls me out, and I break into a guilty smile. He knows me too well. “Horribly.”

Harry laughs at that, and I’m all too eager to join him. We’ve just made a turn from the end of the parking lot, and I don’t think either of us know where we’re going – if we’ve even got a destination, or whether we plan to circle the block aimlessly. “It’s okay, Cee,” he chuckles. “You’re plenty good at a lot of other things.”

I make a dismissive sound, but my mind whirs into action. Cee? I hadn’t been called that in years. I always preferred Char, and it was only Harry who’d gotten away with calling me Cee. If I’m honest, it was only because the name frequented his lips most when he was coming, and I was horribly impartial to that.

“Char,” he blurts, coming to an abrupt stop. I freeze too, turning to him in question. “Can I, um, tell you why I agreed to wear this thing,” Harry gestures to his enormous, oversized costume, “and come to this party, even though I look like an idiot?”

“Aw, you’re fine,” I chuckle. “Daisy’s a hotdog, and even she can’t make it sexy. No judgment for crazy costumes. I was just kidding earlier.”

“Yes, well,” Harry looks guilty all of a sudden, “about Daisy being a hotdog –

she’s a hotdog because I made her be one,” Harry sighs. “So that she could find an excuse to make you dress as mustard.”

I blink. “What?”

“I just really wanted to see you again,” he admits, looking embarrassed. “I asked Daisy to be a hotdog and to make you mustard because I thought you might ignore me, even if we were at the same party—“

I can’t quite believe what he’s saying, but then again Harry had always been resourceful. It had been quite the chase for me back in freshman year, and he’d claimed to find it a stressful ordeal, but I think he enjoyed it at heart. “Harry, I’d never ignore you,” I shake my head, laughing a little. My heart thuds erratically at what he means by saying this, and I swallow the lump in my throat. “You know that.”

“But if it looked like we were wearing a couple costume, I figure we’d have to interact at least once. You’d have to say something to me, right?” He looks away, and I can’t help but smile, before it bubbles into a laugh. I’m flattered and thrilled and hopeful, all at once.

“You’re blushing.” I grin.

Harry blinks and pinks even more. “Am not.”

“Oh, please.” I’m a little breathless, and I snag his arm, pulling him along so we start walking again. There’s a small breeze carrying the hem of my dress, my palms a little hot and clammy. He’s blushing. I’m pretty sure I am too.

                the moonlit stroll

“So why’d you stick with stats?” Harry ventures, matching my slow pace in heels. “Why’d you continue if you knew it wasn’t what you wanted?”

“Because what I want isn’t legitimate,” I sigh.

“What is it you want?”

I don’t know. It frustrates me all the more. “I’m not sure. I like a few things, but there isn’t anything that feels like a passion, you know? I mean, I guess I like science. Some of it. I like chemistry. History is interesting sometimes. But that’s not enough. I need a passion.”

“Have you thought about music?” Harry comes at me out of nowhere, but it’s almost instinct the way I reply.

“Music was a hobby, H.”

“Music can be a career.”

“Yeah, but no.” I give him the look, because he knows very well what I’m talking about. “Come on. People say that, but who’s going to actually feed themselves going into music? And my family’s going to give me a crap for it unless I become some world-famous violinist, which is a little late now. Stats is a real career. More legitimate. Socially acceptable. Adherent to norms.”

“And it’s gotten you nowhere.”

“Shut up.” I sigh, inches from giving up and being resigned. It’s true, but I don’t want to hear it.

“I think you should play violin again,” Harry says after a moment. “Do something with it. Play some gigs around town, be on call for studio sessions. I’m sure there’s a list you can get yourself on for this type of thing.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he shrugs. “You love it, and that’s the kind of thing you should do. Things that make you happy.”

I give him a wry smile. “And what about my Princeton stats degree?”

“Who cares?” Harry says so confidently that I’m taken aback. “Do you care about that degree?”

“H, that degree took four years and over 100k—“

“I’m not asking what it took.” He frowns. “Do you care about the aggregate mean? Binomial distribution? Do shift and scale invariances stand up and speak to you? Do they make you feel all sorts of things? Happy? Sad? Wistful?”

I want to say Harry, you make me feel all sorts of things, especially because I think he’s been laying his trap (this whole I know your life is a mess and you don’t want to talk about it – but let’s talk about it) little by little tonight, and now he’s cornering me and laying his cards down. I want to kick him and kiss him for it, all at the same time. I know what he’s doing. He’s goading me to face what I would love to ignore. “No,” I sigh, letting out a weary chuckle. “They don’t, actually. Scale invariances are dry and boring as shit.”

“So?”

“It isn’t that easy, Harry. I feel so fucking guilty for not liking it.”

“But you aren’t happy.”

“No, I’m not.” I look up at him, a pleading look on my face. I know my expression is torn because I know he’s right but wish he was wrong. It would be so much easier if I just loved stats to bits and pieces. “My parents put a lot into that degree. I don’t want to let them down. Failure is the worst feeling in the world, you know? I just hate it when people trust me and I let them down.”

“The only person you should never let down is yourself.” Harry reaches for my arm, squeezing lightly.

“That sounds cheesy and impractical.”

“Life is cheesy and impractical.”

“That was a lame comeback that made zero sense.”

He laughs. “Yeah, but I mean it.” His laugh is deeper now, a little more resonant. It makes me smile, and I don’t expect it. “Don’t let yourself down, Char. Do what you love. When else are you going to do it? You only have now. That’s all you’ve got.”

“You’ve gotten quite philosophical, H.” I look ahead, blinking at the bright glow of the stoplight a block down. It changes from red to green. No yellow, I muse. No warning. Red to green. Why is that? We’re always cautioned to slow down, but never impeded to accelerate, careening forward to our destination.

“Yeah, well, that’s something I learned when I suffered my injury.” Harry’s words startle me out of my musings. “I only have now. Tomorrow doesn’t have any guarantees. So love what you have while you have it. You might not have it tomorrow.”

It hurts me to hear those words from him, because he speaks like he doesn’t have music anymore. Like it’s something that’s been taken away, never to be given back again. I know he can’t ever play like he used to, and my fingers tingle with empathy.

I wish Harry still had his music. I’d take my chance at it away, put down every instrument I’ve held and cherished if I could only give his back to him. I’d rather my notes be silenced than his. His were beautiful. Raw. Effervescent, but true.

I also wonder whether he means something entirely different. If the butterflies fluttering inside of me are worth listening to, and Harry means his sentiment in another way. To not just love what you have, while you have it, but maybe, perhaps love who you have, while you have them.

The stoplight ahead blinks green.

I’m pretty sure neither of us know how many times we round the block, strolling lazily under the waving palm trees and catching up with each other’s lives. We talk about a lot of things; school, parties, pumpkins, and coffee. We talk about dreams – the ones that dance in our heads at night, and the ones we nurture in the day. I learn that Harry wants a puppy. I want a cat. We bicker over it and giggle, our cheeks flushing in tandem as we realize there’s an assumption underlying it all – that maybe, in another time and place, we’d share a home and call it ours.

But things truly haven’t changed because we weave back to an old topic. The one we used to always end up chatting about, heads in our hands, stomachs on the grass, bodies lying underneath the pink or blue or starry studded sky.

“Tchaikovsky’s first concerto will always be the greatest. Nothing can surpass it.”

I glare at Harry’s haughty smirk. “The one Ravel has in G major is extremely underrated. And I listen to Rachmaninoff’s second when I need to stand in awe of the world again. It rings of a pure, unadulterated joy about the little things in life! Tchaikovsky’s first elicits no such response from me.”

“You’re a violinist,” Harry protests, far too offended by this fact. “You can’t decide which piano concertos are the best.”

“I’m the consumer, Harold. My opinion matters.”

“Tell that to the greats! Their work was hated in their time, yet we now laud them as hosts of impeccable creative genius. The consumers in that time could care less about Rachmaninoff.”

“Yes, but I’m the listener! I’m a musician and my opinion on this is valid.”

Harry’s lips form a pout. “I never said your opinion was invalid, Chardonnay. I’m simply pointing out that the Tchaikovsky piece is infinitely more technical and spurs plenty of emotion when I hear it.”

“Right.”

“And there’s plenty of bass work in that piece! I’m used to being the bass because you’re always treble, what with your high-octane violin melodies. It’s obvious that my preference for concerto will be influenced by what I like to do personally. And most of my personal music was work done with you where, as I said, you were treble and I was bass.”

We’re paused a few metres away from the road, my hands on my hips and Harry’s head tilted to the side.

“Well then.” I narrow my eyes, trying not to laugh. “We’ve discussed ‘bass’ in great detail. It’s treble’s turn. Why don’t we discuss violin concertos?”

Harry’s about to say Mendelssohn in E minor (ugh, what a cliché), but he’s interrupted by a shiny police car wheeling around the corner and halting a few feet away from us in the road’s shoulder. We both glance at it, but our gazes quickly flit back to each other.

I cock an eyebrow. “And for goodness’ sake, Harry. Don’t say Mendelssohn or you risk sounding like you’ve got limited taste. That one is so mainstream. Let’s talk about Shostakovich – he has such a reputation for—“

“Hey! Ketchup and Mustard!”

Both of us whirl around, slightly shocked when we find the cop slipping out of his car and walking purposefully toward us. He’s frowning. I’m of the opinion that cops (at least when they pertain to me) must always be kept pleasant-looking, or if required, indifferent. This cop is frowning. This is a problem.

“Hello, sir,” Harry says. “Can we help you?”

“Yes you can, Ketchup and Mustard.” The cop pulls something out of his pocket, his arms crossing over his chest.

I try not to laugh at the fact that we’d been called by our costumes yet again, and for the first time tonight I think about what we look like to people. Two meandering figures draped in yellow and red, pointy white nozzles tied to our heads. Gosh, it’s no wonder enforcers of the law were hailing us down.

“I’m stopping you for public intoxication,” the police officer declares.

Harry blinks confusedly, before looking down at his open beer.

Shoot. “Sir, we aren’t intoxicated,” I clarify. “He just has his bottle with him – which was an accident and we’re sorry – but we’ll get rid of it now.”

“Yes,” Harry nods, before handing the officer his bottle. “I’m really sorry; the bottle is still full. I haven’t had any. I’m completely sober. You can breathalyze me. I brought it out without thinking.”

The cop takes the bottle, brows raising into his cap. He’s got soft brown eyes, and it appeases me. With eyes like that, he’d be friendly at the core. Hopefully. “And who are you two?”

“I’m—uh, I’m Harry Styles.” He points to himself, before turning to me. “This is Chardonnay Benson.”

“ID?”

Harry scrambles for his wallet (me for my bra, because the dress doesn’t have pockets).

We wait as the officer eyes them. “Occupation?”

“I’m a student,” Harry says, before turning to me, unsure about what he should say.

“Unemployed,” I deadpan.

The cop eyes us, before taking the bottle from Harry. “Right. Do you want to tell me what you two are doing at this point in time? It’s—” a quick glance at his watch, “—quarter to midnight.”

“I, we uh,” Harry falters, and I understand why he doesn’t know what to say. What is it we were doing, two ex-lovers looping aimlessly in downtown LA, stopping on corners to blush and laugh and ask the other a curious question? It feels hard to place what exactly we were doing.

We aren’t walking, at least not right now. And it feels like more than talking. More than laughing. Than flirting. It’s a little like a rekindling. A revival.

“We’re just having a chat,” I supply quickly, because the last thing we need is the officer arresting us because we seem shady. “We were at the costume party on Grand and 5th. Just stepped out for a walk, and I’m very sorry we forgot about the bottle.”

“This your boyfriend?” he asks, tipping a chin at Harry.

We both blush, words stumbling over each other to echo, “No.”

The cop gives us a friendly smile, and my heartbeat slows down a little. “Okay well, I’m Officer Liam Payne,” he says, reaching a hand out to shake. He gives us both a solid squeeze. “Uncovered alcoholic drinks are illegal past five feet or so from the entrance or exit of licensed bars.”

“Yes, sorry about that,” Harry says again, shifting on his feet.

Officer Liam gives him a funny look, and then a knowing grin. “And so you don’t forget: next time, when you’re planning on getting lost in conversation with someone special, don’t bring a drink out at all. You’ll go gallivanting past the legal five feet and forget all about the drink because someone better is in your line of vision.”

“Right, sir.” Harry’s ears tinge red.

I’m pretty sure my face turns that much pinker.

“I’ll let you two go.” Liam tips his hat at the both of us, before turning back to his car. “Stay safe, take care.”

“Thanks,” I smile, lifting a hand in a small wave. “Um, sorry about the bottle and everything.”

“No worries.” Liam nods, getting into his car. He stops with one leg in though, gives us both an appraising look. “Like I said, stay safe, take care – and don’t forget to kiss sometime tonight. I get the feeling it’s long overdue.”

He drives off as quickly as he came, leaving Harry and I standing speechless on the corner and a little too flushed to break the silence.

                  the sugar

“Ouch.” I grimace, as my toes complain. I knew it was coming. We’ve been meandering for maybe two hours now, my feet wedged into the lovely stilettos.

“Shoes starting to hurt you?” Harry asks, a knowing smile playing on his lips. I’ve always been a heel girl, and he’d always had to deal with my complaining. “Take them off, then.”

“I wish I could,” I sigh, looking down at the nude leather. “But these are Louboutins and if I go barefoot, I’ll get the insides dirty later. I only have two pairs of Louboutins, Harry. They’re special.”

He gives me a dramatic eye-roll before holding his arms out. “Let me give you a ride, then.”

I stare at him, confused by what he means. “It’s okay. I’ll take a taxi with Daisy later.”

“No, silly,” he chuckles. “On my back. Come on. Take your shoes off and I’ll give you a piggyback, so your feet don’t get dirty.”

My hands come flying to my mouth, and I almost eat my fingers out of excitement. Harry’s offering to let me ride on his back? The universe is clearly rewarding me for all the good deeds I’ve done in life. “Okay,” I say, heart pounding as I eye his shoulders and slip my heels off.

I come up behind him and jump up on one foot and then the next, making Harry catch one leg and not the other.

“Agh!” I dangle sideways laughing, before he reaches back and snags the other leg and I’m safely on his back. God, it feels like he’s grown so much since I’ve done this. I can feel his heartbeat pressed next my chest and against the palms of my hands.

“Would you like to go to that bakery?” Harry asks, adjusting me and pointing to the brightly lit shop on the corner. I’m surprised it’s still open this late at night.

“Uh huh,” I mumble into his back, blinking happily. I’d go anywhere if my mode of transportation is Harry Piggyback. He doesn’t say much as he walks over to the spot, and I notice that there’s a tiny little patio out front, two plastic tables and chairs set behind a small white fence. “’M kinda hungry, H.”

“Do you want to go in?” he asks. I nod because I don’t want him to set me down and leave me behind. I want to feel his heart beat against my palms for as long as I can have it.

We slip into the warm bakery, a small bell dinging at the door. A curly redhead looks up, alerted to our arrival. I can’t help but think that we look a bit crazy and likely drunk, even though Harry hasn’t had a drop of his beer and I’d only had two sips of my cocktail. I wrap my arms tighter around Harry’s neck, and the girl looks at us, bemused. Mustard hitching a ride on ketchup; her everyday customers.

“Hello, how are you?” Harry says politely, and I smile proudly against his shoulder. Such a gentleman. I wonder how much of a claim I have on him, if I’m the only one who gets to ride on his back. I cross all my fingers and toes that this means Harry thinks I’m special, even a tiny little bit. I beam at the girl, proud that Harry could be interpreted as mine.

“I’m doing well, thanks,” she responds, smiling. “I’m Julia. What can I get for you?”

Harry bounces me on his back, gaining a better grip. He chuckles because I’ve started sliding, far too relaxed in this position. “What do you want, Cee?”

I look over the counter to peruse items and almost scream when I zero in on a massive chocolate cupcake. It’s the only one left and it’s the size of half a birthday cake. Those exist? Where the fuck have they been all my life?! “That one!” I squeal (entirely too loudly), pointing at the lonely sweet. I’m vaguely aware that this isn’t helping our normal customer impression on Julia, but it’s too late now.

Harry isn’t even embarrassed by me, instead turning his head back. The soft curls poke my cheek. “Are you going to eat all of it, Char?”

I pause thoughtfully. “Nah, we’ll share.” I think a little more. “But only if I get my own hot chocolate.”

His shoulders shake the tiniest bit, and I can tell he’s laughing about the fact that my chocoholism has only worsened in the gap of his absence. “Right, uh, we’ll get the cupcake and two hot chocolates, please.”

“Of course.” Julia rings our order up, the total displayed on the counter. When she turns away to pour the hot chocolate, I nudge Harry’s tummy with my knee.

“Let me pay!” I whisper into his ear, as ferociously as I can.

He chuckles. “Why?”

“So I don’t feel guilty when I eat the whole cupcake by myself.”

“God,” he gets an even bigger kick out of this, laughing a good deal before making a small resigned noise. “Go ahead, babe.”

I dig through my bra, and find a bill. I pull it out. A dollar bill. “Oh, fuck me,” I mutter, my cheeks flushing in embarrassment. I hadn’t brought my wallet! Is this the only money I have on me? This is shameful. I have one dollar.

“Sorry?” Harry sounds amused. “Did you say fuck me? I know we’ve been reconnecting and all Cee, but it seems a little soon for that sort of reconnection.”

My heart flutters involuntarily, and I swear I get a little bit wet. He did not have to make that joke and start an influx of mental images in my head. Gosh, I can only imagine how much better he’s gotten with his mouth since—I clear my throat pointedly. “Not what I meant, Styles!” I knee him a little harder in the tummy.

“What’s wrong then?” he asks, bringing a hand up to rub his nose.

My face feels so hot and I’ve probably crossed over from pink to red at this point. I’m still fighting memories of Harry and his hands. “I, uh, do you think you can pay?” I whisper into his ear. “I forgot I don’t have any money.”

“Does this mean I actually get to eat half the cupcake, and you can’t hog it?”

I roll my eyes. “It’s tragic, but I guess so.”

Julia arrives with the cupcake on a plate and two tiny forks, as well as mugs of hot chocolate. Harry sticks a hand into his pocket for money, and I get a little bit flustered at the fact that he’s holding me with one hand, and it seems like the easiest thing to him. Fuck his shoulders. Fuck his bulging bicep. Ugh.

Once we’re out of the bakery, Harry sets me down on one of the seats at the patio, his green eyes sparkling in the light from the single lamp on the street. I set my heels down and straighten the tray before reaching for the plate with the oversized cupcake. Goodness, it’s huge. I’m absolutely thrilled and it’s really hard to hide.

“You look adorable like this.” Harry grins, watching me ogle the icing. “Have the first bite, Cee.”

“No, no.” I shake my head, even though I’m salivating to the point of danger. I could die from dehydration like this, right? Especially with a huge cupcake and Harry within my two foot vicinity? “You have the first bite.”

“I’m handing you my first bite, so you can have it.”

I squirm. “I just don’t want to wreck it,” I admit. “The icing is so pretty.”

Harry rolls his eyes, a smile playing on his lips. “How are we going to eat it then?”

“Oh, we’re going to eat it,” I clarify, making sure this point is very clear. “I just don’t want to be the one to cut into that perfect swirl.”

Harry picks one of the tiny forks up, before stabbing it into the big cupcake and carving out a bite. I’m surprised when he holds it up to my mouth, a bemused look on his face. “Have the first bite, babe. I did the dirty work, come on.”

I beam, opening my mouth. “Mmmm,” I mumble as Harry feeds me the fluffy cake and soft buttercream. “Sho gurd.”

He echoes my smile and takes his own bite. “Mhhmm.”

“Thanks for doing the dirty work,” I say gratefully, cutting into the ruined swirl with zero qualms.

“Always happy to, Cee.”

I can’t help but look at him adoringly. He takes a little bit of the icing off his side and stirs it into his hot chocolate, his tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration. When he catches me watching, I blush but keep doing it anyway. He used to stir whipped topping into his hot drinks. I remember.

It’s funny that tonight, under the navy LA sky and cool autumn breeze, my mind flits to our first time. We have so many memories with steaming mugs and fluffy cream, but right now, it’s this that stands out to me. That cold day in January, our cheeks red from the stinging wind.

I remember the way we had fallen into each other’s arms and hearts and souls and made each other more ours than we’d dared to before, than we’d dared to do with anyone else. Harry had made us hot tea that afternoon, put his warm hands over mine as I held my mug, stirred two spoonfuls of whipped topping into the steam. I remember the exact moment I made the decision, fumbled in the dim light for his hand to hold and fingers to weave amid mine.

It had stung but I expected it to, and his touch was soft and sweet. All flushed cheeks and bright eyes, forehead creasing in concern. I remember my heart racing, pounding wildly against his. That was the day I learned how to breathe all over again.

After, I had told him that I loved him. His curls were falling into his eyes, cheeks red. It felt late because he’d told me he loved me two months before then, but I wanted to wait until I meant it. Couldn’t imagine saying anything else. I loved him.

I don’t think I’ve ever turned back.

“Makes it creamier and sweeter, doesn’t it?” Harry laughs, startling me out of my reverie, before taking a celebratory sip. “Funny how we started the night looking to get drunk, and it’s almost over now and we’re still sober.”

“Yeah.” my voice is raspy, like it’s unused. I take another bite of the cupcake. “Are you mad about that?”

He gives me a confused look. “No. I’m happy we’ve gotten to talk without addled brains. If we stayed at the bar, you’d be ranting to me about the slushie taste test vid you saw on Buzzfeed the other day. You’re a silly drunk, Cee.” He smiles, dimples poking into his cheek. It’s charming, and I’m charmed.

I’m glad he doesn’t add the fact that beyond being a silly drunk, I also tend to be a horny drunk. I’d be thoroughly impressed if – should things have gone to plan, and we were sitting at the bar intoxicated – I wasn’t ranting about Buzzfeed whilst trying to get his hands down my shirt. “Do you like the cupcake, Harry?” I ask, mind elsewhere.

I try not to think about how gentlemanly Harry would’ve been if I was drunk and trying to get on his lap. I’d gone through a party phase in my senior year, always showing up on Harry’s doorstep at 2am, drunk out of my mind and ready to jump his bones. He’d always shush me (mainly because I’m a silly, horny, and loud drunk), carry me to his room carefully and plop me in his bed. I remember clinging to him many a time and saying some awfully dirty things, but he’d do his good-natured sigh and tuck me in and tell me I’m drunk and I need to sleep. I’d mumble some incoherent things, he’d kiss my cheek, and we’d wake up cuddled in his cocoon of a duvet. I’ve no doubt he’d do the same today.

The tears spring out of nowhere, and I don’t even notice that my fork is clenched tightly in my fist.

“Char, are you alright?” Harry leans forward, forehead wrinkled and eyes wide.

I furiously blink, trying to shoo away the stinging. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just, uh, thinking about things.”

“Are you still upset about your job?”

Oh, Harry. Always so positive. Always my job instead of the lack of one. “No,” I say honestly. I stare down at the cupcake, before driving my fork into it and having another bite. I savour it carefully, fighting the roiling feelings inside that are remarkably impudent and refuse to be placed.

“I’m happy,” he says, gaze bearing into me. It seems misplaced in this conversation, if someone were to overhear. But I’ve never heard anything more fitting.

“I’m happy too.”

                the dance

We share the cupcake until there isn’t any to share anymore. It’s quiet, our hearts doing the talking and touching and telling. Harry’s hand makes it across the table to mine, the pads of his fingers resting lightly, pressing gently.

Soft jazz plays from the patio speakers. I’m surprised I hadn’t noticed it, but now that we’re both silent, the music is impossible to ignore. Harry clears his throat.

“Do you, uh, want to dance?”

I look up, surprised. “Here?”

Harry shrugs nonchalantly, but his eyes beg for me to agree. “If you want to.”

“Yeah,” I breathe out, barely audible. “I do.”

He gets up slowly, pushes all the chairs around us closer to the tables. There’s a small space on the patio, just enough for two.

It’s a new feeling when we touch, his hands on my waist, my hands on his chest. I’m barefoot and he’s grown in the last five years, forcing me to tip my head back a little farther to look up at his face. “We’re grown-up dancing,” I say softly, not able to hold back the teary smile.

Harry grins, one hand squeezing my side lightly. “Have we ever done this before?”

“No, silly,” I chastise, chuckling and sniffling as we start to sway from side to side. Small steps. Together.

“We’ve never danced all proper like this? Not even at prom?”

I give him a look. “Nuh-uh. At prom we were too busy with awkward dance moves and kissing. Remember the photobooth?”

Harry flushes a little. “Yeah, but let’s not talk about it.” We’d had the strangest reel by far, our memories immortalized in ninja poses and bright smiles.

“We’ve never danced like this. But it’s easy and I like it.”

He smiles at that, because I’ve never quite been a dancer.

So we keep doing it, moving side to side, back to front if we’re daring. My hands come around his neck, my ear against his chest. I listen to his heartbeat. Our walking beat. The tempo of the greatest arias. I don’t think I mean to say anything out loud, so I’m startled when I hear my own voice breathing, “What happened?”

His hands grip my waist a little tighter. “What happened where?”

“What happened to us?” I lean back and our steps falter. All the tears I shooed away earlier come brimming back, threatening to blur the world around us. “Did we—did we just not love each other enough?”

“We loved each other enough,” Harry says, like there isn’t a question about it. He makes me believe him. “But we were young and naïve, and we didn’t know what we had.”

My throat is thick. I think about all the ways Harry and I had explored so much, done so much growing together. But also how painfully stupid we were to give up on something that meant the world to both of us, just because it got easier to take steps apart, rather than together.

“Maybe I should’ve gone to a school closer to LA.” I shake my head. “It isn’t like Princeton’s helped me figure my life out.” I let out a little laugh and shake my head. “Still don’t know where I’m going, H.”

“No, you shouldn’t have gone to another school. I wouldn’t have let you.” Harry stops our movements completely, making me pause and look up to see all of him. “Princeton was exactly where you wanted to go, Char. You loved the castles and the open green spaces; Nassau Hall inspired you to write that beautiful sonata piece that you played at graduation. You dragged me to every spot on the campus during visitation week, this enormous, winning smile on your face. You started following the Tigers games a year before applications even started. You were in love with that place.”

“But I was in love with you too.” My voice is small, because I can’t believe he remembers all of this so easily, like it had happened five days ago and not five years.

Harry gives me a small smile. “But Char, you were over the moon when you got in. I was so proud of you I cried.”

“You cried?”

“I did,” he mumbles, the tips of his ears tinging pink. “Once you got off the phone. I hadn’t heard back from UCLA then. Your success was practically my own. I was so happy. So fucking proud of you.”

I reach out a hand, not entirely sure where I want to touch Harry, but just knowing that I desperately want to. My fingers splay against his chest. It’s soft and hard all at once, and it feels exactly like I remembered. Like how it felt all those years ago. I focus on his heartbeat, our walking beat, the tempo of the greatest arias.

“When steps apart start to become easier, it gets so dangerous. It’s so easy to give up. Forty-two hours is an awful long time to drive, Harry. I know you said it wasn’t a big deal when you did it and you flew all the other times, but shit got in the way.” My eyes start stinging. “You didn’t have the money to get on a plane to fly and see me, and I didn’t have a car and the money to fly either. And god, this seems so shabby, but I’m sorry for not trying harder. Money seems like a stupid excuse.”

Harry stares at me, forehead wrinkling. I want to kiss the crease between his brows. “It isn’t,” he says. “But I regret it. I just wish I had all these memories of you in college, you know? I wish I had a chance to take you to that ice cream shoppe that I went to all the time after late night classes, and go for a lazy ride around campus on a bike. I wish I heard about all the profs you loved, and all the ones you hated. I wish I got to hold you when you failed your first exam.”

“I wish I could take back that time. Spend it with you.” I can’t hear the patio music anymore, because we’re both breathing hard, both fighting the universe’s way of being fucked up. Fighting the memories that hurt us. Fighting the decisions we made and regret.

I realize that the worst thing you can do is steal time. Time is something everyone has equally. It exists beyond the different classes and privileges and social injustice. Time is standard. Time is just. Time is one of the fairest things we have. And to tamper with that, to steal time, to take it away from someone and a person they love – that may be the cruelest thing of all.

“You don’t understand,” I choke out, my eyes blurring. “There was a point in my life when I thought this – us – like, this was it. I thought that love was one of those things that couldn’t lose, you know, like love always prevails. It always wins. That’s what love does. And then you were --” a sob falls out of my mouth, and Harry pulls my head close to him, “you were just gone. And then I had to rethink and redefine everything I thought was true, because I thought that the time we spent together wouldn’t fade. But it did. Time let me down, too.” It slipped between my fingers when Harry left my life. I was wanting the past in what felt like the endless present, a gaping chasm, a divide between where I wanted to be, and where I was. I shake my head, a sob falling out of my lips. “I’m just so happy you’re here. I’m happy I’m here.”

“I know what you mean.” Harry’s brows furrow, his thumbs on my cheeks, smoothing away the tears. “I was there too. But I think love does always win, Char. Because we’re here, aren’t we? We fought our demons and we’re here. We’re stronger. We’re better for it. And—and I still love you. More than I used to. I don’t think I ever stopped. I tried, but it wasn’t something I could do. You were always there. Everywhere. In the successes, in all the songs. You haunted me. You never let go.” He grips me tighter until it almost hurts, my hand fisted in the cotton of his shirt.

        “I — I lied about why I got this.” I swallow as I lean back, running a finger over my wrist. I can barely see it through my crying, but it tingles and I know it’s there. “It isn’t just because music was drifting away from me. I got it because I didn’t want to forget. About us, and the time we spent together. About what love felt like.”

“So why are you getting it removed?”

“I’m not getting it removed,” I say, meaning it. “I don’t want to forget, even if it hurts. I don’t want time to take more from me than it has.”

And then Harry’s pulling me closer, holding me tighter. I’m content to stand here forever, his heartbeat against my cheek, the top of my head starting to go damp with his tears.

When our lips meet, it isn’t anything like the movies. The world around us doesn’t fall away, and I don’t feel like it’s just us in this moment. Rather, I think I become even more aware of everything else. Like I can pick out every single person and place and every little thing down this street and know distinctly why I don’t find belonging there. Why I find belonging here, with Harry, our bodies touching along every point.

It’s a sweet kiss, Harry’s lips pressing against mine, urgent at first but then soft, like we’re both savouring it. It’s been a while since we’ve been in the right place, done the right thing.

My wrist feels hot, and as if on cue, we both look down. Harry takes my hand and we do what we both wanted to do earlier. Our fingers entwine, and the tattoos interlock.

“So fitting,” Harry whispers. “I love you, and I love music, and life is incomplete without the treble for the bass.”

My throat has twisted, my eyes still blinking furiously against the tears. I nod because I can’t say more, and then my lips find his again, desperate to find home after being away for so long.

“Promise me you’ll play, Char,” he gasps between kisses. “Promise me you’ll play violin again.”

“I promise,” I whisper, lips trembling against his. “Promise me you’ll play too, Harry.” His face feels hot between my palms, our tears mixing as his cheek brushes mine.

“I can’t promise that,” he says so brokenly, pulling away. My chest hurts so much I want to scream. “I wish I could.”

“No,” I sob, shaking my head. “Promise me, Harry.”

He looks desperate. “How?”

“You’ll play again, one day. I know it. Promise me you’ll take that chance. Promise you’ll believe me.” I squeeze his fingers, begging. I need him to promise.

“Okay,” he takes a deep breath, eyes looking at me for an answer, for affirmation, for hope. He trusts me. “I promise.”

“You know what love feels like?” I whisper after a moment. “It feels horrible. It feels like you can’t live another day because something simple like breathing is so fucking hard. I thought that I would forget what love felt like when we broke up, but I think I felt it every day. Because you were everywhere. I couldn’t escape you. Love isn’t something you run from. It follows you. It makes its presence known.”

“Do you still love me?” Harry asks, voice rough.

“Of course I do. I love you.”

“I love you too,” he says softly, our foreheads pressing together.

I don’t know how long we stand there, sniffling and wiping each other’s tears, only for me to bite my lip and let a sob escape again. Five years is too fucking long to be away from someone you love. Too long to feel helpless and alone and lost. But it isn’t so long that you forget.

Time is forgiving, in the end.

The sound of a car makes us both turn our heads, breathless and warm. It’s a police car and it slows down a little as it passes. It takes a moment for either of us to process what’s happening, my grip tightening on Harry’s fingers.

“It’s—“ Harry starts, his voice catching.

Liam. Officer Liam Payne and a shit-eating grin, flashing us an enormous thumbs up.

I bring my hands over my mouth and laugh, joy bubbling from inside.

vii.               the request

The moment is hard to let go of. Our words linger between us, like an embrace. Eventually we catch our breath and wipe our eyes, put our empty mugs on the tray and leave Julia a tip.

“We should get back,” I sigh softly, when I’ve found a voice again. “Daisy may be looking for me.”

“Of course.” Harry’s eyes sparkle in the streetlights. “Would you like a lift again?”

I nod eagerly, reaching out, climbing carefully onto his back. I’m making myself at home, arms around his neck, my cheek resting in the little dip between his shoulder blades when Harry clears his throat softly, sounding a little bit hesitant. “Char?”

“Mmm?” I mumble into his back. “What is it?”

“I, uh, do you think…“

“What?” I whisper, my lips mouthing against his shoulder. It takes a few seconds for him to answer, his exhale pushing breath into me, my hands rising and falling with his back. He starts walking, thumbs stroking circles just next to my knee. I feel nothing but this moment.

I’m loving who I have, while I have them. It’s the purest, most unadulterated gift of life.

“Char,” Harry says softly. “Can I see you again? After tonight?”

viii.             the promise

Six months later—

                The time it would take to fix my heart.

It’s a little chilly as I make my way down Harry’s street, cardigan pulled tight around my waist. It’s a good seventy degrees, but there’s a cool wind blowing, and I regret wearing such an airy, flimsy dress.

I hug the piano books I’ve brought to my chest as I take the few steps up to his small townhome. The past three months have been exhilarating, despite the fact that Harry and I agreed to take it slow and sweet. My heart pounds in my chest as I raise my hand to knock, and I can’t help but feel like I’m experiencing déjà vu, memories of standing all those years ago on Harry’s step, a request on the tip of my tongue. Now though, I’m not asking if he’d like to have some ice cream on the corner of Rhodes and Elle Street. I’m asking for what feels like a lot more, given all he’s been through, but I’m also here with a promise.

The door swings open before I’ve managed to bring my knuckles to wood, and Harry grins happily at me.

“Hi Char.”

“Hi Harry.”

He licks his lips, opening the door wider. “You going to come in?”

I step up into his home, a familiar place after my newly-acquired habit of coming over. Harry looks like he’s just gotten out of bed, shirtless and joggers slung low on his hips. He leans forward and plants a chaste kiss on my mouth in greeting.

“What’ve you got?” he asks, looking at the bundle of books in my arms.

“I’ve got a project for us,” I say, looking up at him. “Just like old times.”

He laughs. “Yeah, just like old times.”

I don’t let him see the books, tilting them away and giving him a wink. He follows me as I make my way into his rarely used den, marching purposefully to the red silhouette in the corner. My chest starts to hurt all of a sudden, because I think about the way Harry’s avoided this room, thrown a velvet blanket over the instrument that had caused him so much happiness and so much pain. I think about the way he pretends there isn’t a piano in his home anymore, because he can’t really explain why he has one if he can’t play it. And then I think about the way he admitted to me a month ago that he keeps the piano in-tune, just because.

And how sometimes, if he was feeling brave, he’d tune it himself.

My eyes sting.

“So,” I say, grabbing the edge of the velvet and yanking it clean off, “I’ve been taking piano lessons the past couple months.”

Harry’s frowning, but then his brows rise, and he gives me a small smile. “Char! That’s great. Are you going to play me something, then?” I can see a faint sort of pain bubbling under his smile, and I know it hurts him to be reminded that he couldn’t play.

I turn to him, feet planted on the ground. His green eyes are wide. “No, I’m not going to play you something. Music needs to be part of your life again, H. That’s why I’m here. You’re going to play piano.”

Confusion and then pain blooms across his face. “Char, you know I can’t do that anymore.”

Tears are poking at the back of my eyes, but I swallow hard. “Your left hand is just fine,” I say, reaching for his hand and squeezing it tight. “Come on. You’ll do it with me. I’m going to play the right hand.”

I walk around to the right side of the piano, and pull out the bench. Harry watches me as I pull out a simplified Tchaikovsky. Concerto No. 1. His favourite. His cherished piece. The one we had bickered over, minutes before Officer Payne came to lay down the law. “Come sit,” I pat the spot next to me, as I scoot to the far right side.

Harry swallows, and then reluctantly sits down next to me. “Char—”

The way his voice breaks over my name only makes it harder not to cry. I twist in my seat, looking at him. “Harry, I’m so proud of you. We’ve always played music together, and that doesn’t need to stop. You told me to go back to what I love, and I did. I — I had an interview at Madame’s, yesterday.”

“Oh?” Harry says, looking at me in soft surprise.

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “And I… took a job. I’m going to teach violin. Four days a week.”

“Char, that’s lovely,” he sighs, bringing an arm around my waist. “I hope you’re happy.”

“I am,” I say, and a rogue tear trails down my cheek. “I’m so happy, Harry. Happier than I could have imagined. It feels like I have direction again. Meaning. And I—it breaks my heart that now I’ve found what I’ve lost, this thing that I loved and left behind, and—I don’t want you to do what I did.”

Harry stares at me intently. “What did you do?”

“I gave up,” I breathe. “And I don’t want you to give up. For as long as I’m in your life, I am never, ever going to let you give up on what you love, Harry. You love making music. And you love doing it with me. You love the way we fall onto the same wavelength so easily, without fail. You love the way music brought us together, and the way it kept us together, and it’s sort of funny how it’s brought us back together again, isn’t it?”

“The tattoos,” he says, like it’s a question.

“Yes, the tattoos.”

“I—I can’t play anymore, Char,” he chokes out, curls falling into his face.

“When was the last time you sat at a piano?”

Harry blinks, before bringing the back of his hand to rub his nose. “Two years.”

“Well now, we’re going to sit at the piano every day,” I say, absolutely sure about it. “We made music together before, and we’re going to do it again. You used to play the low bits, and I would play melody on the violin. So you can play the left hand, and I’ll play the right hand now.”

Harry looks over at me, a small smile on his face. I poise my right hand over the keys. “That takes an awful lot of connection, Char. It isn’t the same as playing two different instruments. Now we’re sharing one.”

“I don’t doubt our connection one bit.” My spare hand grabs his, and we both look down, watching our tattoos align. Treble and bass. Two wholly different ideas, concepts, beings. Together, in love. His clef curves gently into my own, the heart perfectly matched, and a tingle runs up my spine.

“You’re—you’re doing this? You’d do this for me?” Harry blurts, eyes rimmed with red. “You’re going to learn piano so you can play the half I can’t play?”

I look up at him, blinking back the tears. “Of course I am.”

He looks at me, and then he scoots over suddenly, his lips finding my forehead. I feel his tears wet a little of my hair. “I love you, Char.”

“I love you too,” I say, trying not to cry.

“So I’ll play the left hand,” he chokes out, straightening himself and placing his hand over the keys. I’m already nodding. “And you’ll play the right?”

The entire day has been miserable so far, if I’m honest. From the 6am wakeup call informing me that my boss had died and his funeral was mandatory for all employees (the self-centred git, honestly) to the shoddy weather app telling me today’s forecast was sunny skies to the girl who had the audacity to show up to a funeral wearing a bright pink dress to go with her bright purple hair. I naively thought the day couldn’t get much worse, but it was only 8am yet and as was par for the course, I ended up being wrong, as usual.

Jenny from accounting came over to me after the service with her obnoxiously large umbrella in tow. She gave me a sad smile at the state of my drenched black suit and offered to share her umbrella.

Thanks, Jenny, thanks so much. Where the fuck were you half an hour ago?

“Alright, Harry?” she said, letting out a breath as she fished around her purse for a cigarette. What was the etiquette on smoking at funerals – was it allowed, was it crass? Jenny didn’t seem to care, either way. “You’d think we’d get the day off, seeing as how the big man’s kicked the bucket.”

“He wouldn’t be Mr. Smithers if he didn’t torture us from the grave too,” I muttered darkly. I had half a mind to quit my job right then and there. It was 8 in the morning and I was carrying half my weight in water soaked into my clothes. And now I was expected to go straight to the office right after?

Purple Hair was walking over to us and when she got closer she offered a migraine-inducing grin and started waving like a loon. I casually looked behind me and hoped to God someone was waving back at her, but again, as was par for the course, me and Jenny were the only two people standing around.

“Hi guys!” Purple Hair said excitedly when she’d reached us. “What a day, huh?” she sighed heavily with a huge smile still on her face. We were at a funeral, for fuck’s sake, show some decorum. “Looks like you got a bit wet there, Harry.”

Fuck. 

Did I know her? Had we met? This was one of my worst nightmares come to life – meeting someone thinking it was for the first time, only to find you both used to be best mates or something.

“Er – yeah, a bit,” I said cautiously, trying to buy enough time for my brain to find a context for this crazy-haired bird. I gave up after ten seconds, but I’d be damned if I was going to let her know that.

By some sick, twisted turn of fate, I ended up in the backseat of Jenny’s car on the way back to work, with Purple Hair in the front seat. So I’d established that we worked together in some capacity, but I still couldn’t place the loon. I kept hoping one of the two would drop some kind of hint during their insipid conversation, but as was par for the course, they found it more worth their while to chatter on about tampons versus diva cups. Diva cups were winning, whatever the fuck those were.

I couldn’t get out of the car fast enough, but the second I stepped into the office I immediately wished I were back in the car. I’d take listening to those two go on about menstruation over having to work in an air-conditioning-less office any day.

“Christ, it’s hot in here,” Jenny commented redundantly, fanning herself with her hand.

“Air conditioning is busted,” Lisa the receptionist said sympathetically, “Guess the whole office is out of wack with Mr. Smithers gone, may he rest in peace.”

Fuck off, Lisa. May he rest in peace, honestly, the whole office knew she was shagging him. Even his bloody wife knew she was shagging him. It was such a cliché it nearly made me gag. What did make me gag was the night I’d forgotten my wallet and had to come back in to the office for it – only to be greeted with the sight of Lisa sprawled out on the very desk she was manning right now, moaning Mr. Smithers’ name. I’d literally washed my eyes out in the sink afterwards, but the image was permanently etched into my brain.

“Ceiling fans are working, though,” she continued, “So we’ll get some circulation, at least.”

What a relief. Good to know we’d all be stuck in a cramped office with our hot breaths circulating around. Who knew how many people’s breaths I’d be inhaling by the end of the day.

“I think it’s quite toasty in here, actually,” Purple Hair chimed in brightly from behind me. Bugger, I thought I’d lost her in my mad dash from the car. “I quite like it!”

That’s brilliant, Purple Hair, that’s bloody brilliant.

I grunted noncommittally and walked away without another word. The sound of my wet socks squelching around in my shoes made a quiet getaway impossible, but I pretended I didn’t hear Purple Hair call after me. I was wet and tired and I hadn’t had my morning coffee. People were just going to have to deal with it today.

I managed to avoid social contact for a good two hours as I hid in my cubicle, pretending to be hard at work on a review for spices. I’d even managed to slip back home for a few minutes to get my car. I resentfully thought back to this morning, when I’d decided to walk to the funeral because the goddamn weather app had conned me into thinking it would be sunny.

This was Mr. Smithers’ last ever assignment for me: write an article dissecting the different kinds of spices. Because obviously, being a white, English male who grew up on bangers and mash, I was some kind of authority on spices.

I idly remembered putting in an order for a spice array so I could at least try them out, but as was par for the course, they hadn’t shown up yet and my article was due by 5. Or did I get an extension as a courtesy for Mr. Smithers being dead and all? In fact, who was in charge now? Was anyone in charge?

After a half hour of essentially copying and pasting random Wikipedia articles on cumin and coriander together, a delivery man showed up to my desk with a cart of stacked boxes in tow.

“Harry Styles?”

“Yes?” I responded skeptically, eyeing the cart behind him.

“Got your order of cherries for you, I just need your signature,” he said, handing me a clipboard.

“Order of cherries?” I repeated, “I didn’t order any cherries.”

He raised a brow at me, a ‘give me a break, arsehole’ type of brow raise, and said, “Says right here: nine pounds of cherries to be delivered to H. Styles.”

I snatched the clipboard away from him and my heart honestly stopped when I saw the order receipt.

“I ordered nine ounces of curries, not nine pounds of cherries!” I seethed, making him jump back in surprise. “Take them back, I didn’t order these!”

He shrugged at me uselessly. “Listen, mate, I’m just the delivery guy and I’m obligated to leave these here. You can take it up with the company you ordered from, but I’m not leaving here without a signature.”

And that’s how I ended up with nine 1-lb boxes of black Tartarian cherries. The best part? Cherries gave me indigestion. So they were well and truly useless to me. All in all, this was shaping up to be one of the worst days of my life and I thought, it cannot possibly get worse than this now, but as was par for the course, it did.

“Hi Harry!” Purple Hair cried, making herself at home by sitting on top of my fucking desk and swinging her legs like a five-year-old. She finished the last sip of whatever she was drinking, and threw the glass bottle into the rubbish bin with a loud clang. 

“There’s a recycling bin right there,” I pointed out through gritted teeth.

She shrugged at me, uncaring. “Bin’s closer.”

There were two types of people in this world: the ones who recycled and the ones who didn’t. As far as I was concerned, the ones who didn’t could rot in hell. The world had enough shit to deal with; we didn’t need No-Named Purple-Haired Polluters™ on top of it.

Then she did the unthinkable and reached over to take my glasses off my actual fucking face. If I weren’t blinded I’d probably have reached out to smack her on the head. I think I could make a case for it being out of self-defense.

“God, your glasses are smudgy,” she said as she spit on them and proceeded to wipe them with her obnoxious pink dress. “Are these prescription glasses? I know some people that wear fake ones just to look cool, can you believe it?” she babbled before putting them on her own face. “Wowsa, you’re blind!”

I snatched them off her face. “Can I help you?” I spat as harshly as I could, not that she noticed at all.

“No, I’m alright!” she said brightly, “Just came down for a coffee break and thought I’d stop for a chat. Are those cherries?”

She didn’t even ask before ripping into one of the boxes and popping a few in her mouth. I had a momentary vision of me shoving the entire box down her throat and clamping it shut until she choked and died. My hand actually twitched in consideration.

“I love cherries,” she said around a full mouth, giving me a front row view of the red mush in there. “Bit excessive though, innit? These don’t have a very long shelf life, you know.”

“I didn’t order these, I don’t even like cherries,” I growled, wondering when the fuck she was going to leave.

She dropped her jaw in shock. “How come? They’re such a versatile fruit! You can do cherry pies, cherry jam, oh! I like to mix it with muesli and put it in my yog – ”

“—Can I help you?” I said again, cutting through her psychotic tirade. “Weren’t you getting coffee? Don’t you have work to do?”

She shrugged again and I swear to god I actually lunged forward with the idea of throttling her when she crossed her legs, which momentarily gave me pause and allowed me to get myself back in check.

“Well, it’s kind of a light day, Mr. Smithers being dead and all,” she said thoughtfully. “I never did like that guy, he always smelt of mothballs.”

This was the first sensible thing she’d said all day, but it wasn’t enough for me to consider giving her the benefit of the doubt. She was a loon, a madwoman, a nutter of the highest calibre who’d lost her damn marbles, and she needed to be eliminated immediately. Purple hair was suddenly the least of her offenses.

“Well it’s not a light day for me,” I deadpanned, “But feel free to take a box of cherries or five with you on your way out.”

I turned away from her and back to my computer screen, effectively ending the conversation. Or so I thought.

“Is your shirt still wet from this morning or is that just sweat?” she asked, leaning forward to place a hand on my shoulder to feel for herself.

Seriously, who the fuck was this bint? I’d worked in this office nearly two years now and I swear I’ve never seen her obnoxious purple hair before. That wasn’t really saying much, seeing as how the only people’s names I actually knew in this office were Jenny, Lisa, and my deceased prat of a boss, Mr. Smithers. But still, just who the fuck did this girl think she was, eating my cherries and spitting on my glasses and asking incessant questions?

Enough was e-bloody-nough.

“Look, you may enjoy chattering mindlessly at work but some of us are here to earn a bloody living, so could you go away please?” I snapped at her.

The maniacal smile that I’d started to suspect was permanent by the way it hadn’t left her face once since this morning finally slipped just a little. I wanted to feel bad, I probably should’ve felt bad, but who was she to me anyway? For all I knew, she could’ve been an actual psycho who’d broken out of the loony bin! 

She recovered quickly though, and thank God for that, because I was almost considering apologizing. That would’ve been a first. Her infuriating smile was back on her face in an instant.

“Yeah!” she said, a little too enthusiastically, “Yeah, of course. Sorry about that, Harry!”

And then she was gone. Ten minutes later and it was like she’d never been there at all. I was back to the blissful solitude of an empty cubicle – mostly empty cubicle: the bloody cherries were taking up a rather lot of space. I didn’t even have it in me to contact the company and rip them a new arsehole for their egregious error. 

This day was up there as one of the shittiest – up there with the day my dog got hit by an old lady who had no business driving anymore. Up there with the day my cantankerous whore of an ex-girlfriend dumped me in a public restaurant. I’d say it was even up there with the day my witless wonder dentist forgot to anaesthetize me before starting a root canal. 

So when 5pm finally rolled around, I didn’t hesitate to submit my shitty, unedited article on spices. I had my doubts over whether anyone would actually read it, but I made sure to submit some of my worst work in Mr. Smithers’ honour, the repugnant git, may he rot in hell. I’d been a diligent and rule-abiding employee for every other day of my life, and if anyone had a problem with it today they could just sod off.

I walked past Lisa the receptionist and didn’t return her farewell greeting. I thought I was homefree, but, as was par for the course, I was wrong. Again. The rain had picked up again, with interest. And I’d left my sodding umbrella in the car, which was on the other side of the car park. So the dress shirt that had finally dried was about to get wrecked again.

Whatever modicum of happiness I might’ve felt over the day finally being over was promptly quashed when I saw Purple Hair standing by herself at the bus stop. My first instinct was to run right past and pretend I didn’t see her, but for the first time all day her face was devoid of its Joker smile and she was stood there looking like the most pathetic basketcase, drenched and defeated.

“You need a ride?” I asked reluctantly from my car when I’d finally pulled up to the bus stop.

She startled and looked back at me with her wide eyes. “Oh! Harry! No, no, I’m fine, I’m just waiting for the bus.”

“You’re soaked,” I said flatly. 

“Well, so are you now,” she pointed out. “I’m fine, really, thank you though! Have a nice night, Harry!”

Even when she was clearly not in the mood, even when she was sopping wet, she was still annoyingly nice and it made me want to throw myself off a very tall building. I never understood people like her, it just wasn’t normal. God knows when I’m angry the whole bloody world has to suffer with me.

I let out a frustrated huff. “Get in the bloody car, please.”

When she finally got in the car, I thought I’d drop her home quickly and maybe salvage my night with vino and telly until I passed out. But, as was par for the bloody fucking course, I was wrong. Yet a-fucking-gain. Vino and telly were a distant dream when she insisted on having me in for a cup of tea, and that cup of tea turned into an hour of me sitting there listening to her chatter about anything and everything, and that hour turned into me falling asleep on her sofa, and me falling asleep turned into me waking up to find myself embarrassingly wrapped up in her.