#mackabees

“Already done,” I informed her, stretching my back out and gripping hard onto the steering wheel. “Jude made a gross misogynistic joke, so I made one about his dick and was outta there within five minutes.” I smirked, remembering the eventful evening the night before. The look on Jude’s face when I insinuated my fingers worked far better magic than his manhood could’ve cut glass, but it was totally worth it.

 “Okay, before I have a good laugh about that, I need to check in…” Quinn paused, looking over at me cautiously. “I know you two weren’t technically together or serious, but how are–”

 “Chill,” I interjected, holding my hand up for extra emphasis. “Like you said, we weren’t serious, so I’m honestly okay. Wasn’t even sure I really liked him for anything other than his dick – well, actually, that’s quite debatable.”

 “Ah, my baby sister is growing up.” Quinn pressed her hand to her chest and pouted her lip as if she was a proud mother – she even went as far to wipe her finger under her eye, pretending to wipe away her tears of pride. She was an idiot.

 I shook my head and laughed. “You’re an idiot.”

 Quinn flashed a cheeky grin my way until I decided we needed to embrace the entire road trip cliche and have the wind blowing in our hair, so I pressed the button on my side to wind down both our windows. “Ro, no! Don’t do this!” she cried, furiously pressing the button on her door to wind her window back up. “I will not stand for my hair being a right mess when we arrive!”

 “Excuse me,” I said, frowning hard at my sister, though still making sure to keep my hands between nine and three on the steering wheel – if I’m the one behind the wheel, you could always count on the utmost safest driving; there would be no car accidents so long as I was the one driving. “But how are we supposed to enjoy the cliches of a road trip if we’re not allowing the wind in our hair?” I questioned, tilting my head back slightly and letting my hair float freely in the wind.

 I spotted Quinn glaring harshly at me through the rearview mirror, while she attempted to tuck her blonde hair behind her ear as the wind made a right mess of it. “We’re going to have to make a quick stop before we arrive at the festival, y’know,” she instructed. “I will not tolerate my hair looking like a birds nest when we meet up with–”

 “Waverly?”

 “–The Digi Fairy family,” she continued, narrowing her eyes towards me. “But, I mean… Ensuring I look half-decent before I see Waverly is cool, too.”

 I scrunched my nose up and tried to hide the giggle of happiness wanting to escape. “That’s ‘cause someone’s in looove,” I said, lips tugging into a cheeky smile.

 “We’re not – I’m – Romee!” Quinn cried, burying her face into her hands as she brought her feet up onto the seat. “You’re being ridiculous.”

 “Am I?” As I pulled up to a cross section, I pouted my lips and tilted my head to the side as I tried to give her a look that insinuated I was right. “Oh my, are you – are you blushing, Quinn?” I definitely couldn’t hold back my laughter now as I reached my hand out to pinch her blushing cheek. “You totally are! Aww, you and your little schoolyard crush!”

 “No – no, stop!” she spluttered out, pushing my hand away from her as she continued to squirm in her seat. She was in luck, however, as it was time for me to continue driving – she was going to get it later, though. “And, besides,” she went on after I hit the accelerator, “it’s not like you can talk.”

 I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please. I never felt weak at the knees when it came to Jude.”

 “Not talkin’ about Jude, babe,” Quinn said, running her fingers through her hair. “Pretty sure you almost came on the spot when I mentioned that one Harry Styles may be tagging along with Gemma this weekend.”

 “I did no such thing!” I cried, almost offended she would accuse me of such a thing. Quinn fell silent as soon as I replied, and it wasn’t until I glanced at her in the rear view mirror that I realised she had been staring at me the whole time with one eyebrow raised. “Okay, maybe I was just a teeny bit excited…” I admitted quietly.

 To be fair, possibly being in the presence of a famous person is enough to warrant anyone’s excitement. But I certainly couldn’t deny the boy’s incredibly attractive looks and how animated he was on stage that one time I went to a One Direction concert the year before – and when the band was on X Factor, but he was only a baby cherub back then and I was only merely interested in squishing his cheeks together.

 I mean, I would be lying if I secretly hadn’t been wishing for the chance to even get a glimpse of Harry Styles the second Quinn announced she had a new job working alongside Gemma Styles at Digi Fairy. It’s not that I was some crazy fan; it was more about the fact that I had a connection to someone so many people in the world admired, someone who many people would kill to be in the position I could be in. I simply wanted a taste of how it felt to be around him; I wanted a taste of what it was like to be in the same room, to be conversing with the very boy the whole world had fallen in love with.

 “Mhmm, you keep telling yourself that it was only a teeny bit,” Quinn said with a laugh.

 “Just like you’ll keep telling yourself you’re not in love with Waverly?”

 Quinn didn’t say anything further, she simply scrunched up her nose as she reached forward to turn up the music – Fleetwood Mac, of course – and drowned out the sounds of me mocking her being in love. Ah, the joys of road-tripping with family.

 ***

 It may be the end of summer, but that sure didn’t stop the heat from rising amongst the crowd of sweaty and alcohol fueled madness surrounding us wherever we went, even to the point of dragging us in as the evening came. Throwing my head back, I downed the hard liquor and scrunched my face up as the burning sensation slid down my throat. I only prayed that the alcohol would help the weekend become more appealing because, so far, things weren’t exactly going to plan. If it wasn’t the sucky parking or the almost rear-ending someone, it was the rain earlier in the afternoon that not only dampened the ground, but also my mood.

 “One more!” Ellie, one of the members of the Digi Fairy family (or so that’s what Quinn keeps referring to them as), exclaimed, holding up the bottle of vodka in one hand and her shot glass in the other. Quinn was the only one who held her glass up, and looked around at the rest of us wearily, but Ellie didn’t seem to care. “I knew I could count on you,” she said, throwing her arm around Quinn’s shoulders. “You make a great asset to our team.”

 “Because she’s willing to do a shot with you?” Gemma asked, raising a curious brow.

 I chuckled as I sat there quietly, watching the chaos around me. It had been an eventful day, that was for certain; it was nearly ten when we arrived, which was almost half an hour later than Quinn had initially wanted. It was her own fault, though. If we hadn’t stopped every two seconds for her to pee or stretch her legs, we would’ve made it in time for her to not be the last of the Digi Fairy family to arrive.

 Seeing as it was a weekend festival and camping was essential, I made sure to throw in a tent for Quinn and I, though we both knew that Waverly was bringing a tent of her own. So that was where Quinn would be spending the two nights. I didn’t mind, however; I was just happy that Quinn had found someone who made her happy. She hadn’t always had the best luck when it comes to romance, both before and after she came to terms with her attraction to girls. I was just bummed that I’d most likely be spending the two nights alone, which was okay; I just added it to the list of things that put a damper on my mood.

 Quinn did help me setup my tent, but I mostly found her to be more of a nuisance than anything. So I told her to go find us some food while I finished the rest, and she happily obliged. Of course our tents were near Gemma and Ellie’s, as well as the other members of the Digi Fairy family that I was struggling to remember, so it was a great time for us all to bond and get to know one another. If we were going to be spending the weekend together, I found it very important that we got to know each other and, well, actually got along. Luck had been in my favour, for everyone was very friendly and welcoming to both Waverly and me. Quinn, who continued to believe she was the newbie and was yet to fit in, meshed well with her coworkers, and it made me beyond happy to see that.

 “Hey, at least someone is!” Ellie proclaimed. “It’s nice to know that at least someone is willing to party with me!”

 “I’ll have you know, that I would much prefer to be sober when my brother arrives,” Gemma replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “Don’t get to see H often, so when I do, I’d much rather remember it for the most part.”

 Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Quinn’s devilish smirk at the sheer mention of Harry’s impending arrival. “Ah, so Harry’s going to make an appearance?” she asked, though her eyes were focused on me and my reactions rather than Gemma, also known as the person she was actually speaking to.

 “Yeah, the poor sod is in between shows and missing his big sister,” she said with a laugh. “And – shit, what’s the time?” Gemma reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone, then stood up immediately in somewhat of a panic. “He shouldn’t be far away now, I’ll – I’ll meet you guys back here soon?”

 “We’re about to head to the main stage for The Wombats, so meet us there?” Ellie offered, to which Gemma agreed to instantly and fluttered off to find her brother. “Right, one last shot before we go?” She held up the vodka bottle and looked around the rest of us, and we all decided one more shot couldn’t hurt.

 ***

 The staging looked majestic with its bright lights and high tech equipment, sending vibrations through my body as the bass sounded as though it got louder and louder. Girls and boys danced in spirals in front of us, twisting and turning as they shouted the lyrics to “Greek Tragedy”, sweat dripping down their faces. I held my hands in the air as I followed suit, swinging my hips from side-to-side as I belted out the words to each and every song in their set, without a single care in the world.

 There was something about being in a drunk and sweaty crowd, watching a band you love play their hearts out, that was almost magical – it was as if anything that had been a major stress in your life was gone, as if there was a sudden calmness in the world, and the only people left were those surrounding you. I barely said a word to Quinn, or my new (hopeful) friends, as each song passed, for I was throwing myself into the scene and the music, embracing the festival culture as much as I possibly could.

 It wasn’t until “Moving To New York” finished and Matthew Murphy began thanking the crowd that I realised Gemma had finally returned, and right behind her was the very person she had left us to retrieve. Before anything else, I noticed his hair – it was long, it was curly, and it blew against the warm summer wind. Harry was whispering something into Gemma’s ear, forcing a laugh out of her, and I felt something twist inside me the second his eyes flickered through her group of friends and landed upon me. His vibrant eyes were brought alive with the images to come, forcing my lips to tug in a faint smile as I flicked my wrist into a wave.

 Harry’s brows furrowed in confusion (and maybe worry, which was almost offensive), until Gemma leant over and seemed to have let him know who I was. Immediately, his face brightened, and he nodded as if there was some prior understanding. I was now the one left with confusion.

 Matthew Murphy introduced their next song – a Taylor Swift cover, in fact – and so I returned my attention back towards the stage, already bopping my head and jamming to the opening chords of “Blank Space”. I let the music take over my being, the thumping bass pulsating through my veins and taking me into another world. Running my fingers through my hair and ignoring the wetness of my forehead, I continued belting out the lyrics with the rest of the crowd, until I felt a hand around my waist. As I twisted my head to the side, I was greeted with Quinn’s mop of blonde hair glazed over eyes as she grinned wildly at me. I chuckled and shook my head, but threw my arm around her shoulders as we continued to sway together and enjoy the music.

 As another two songs passed, my mouth became more and more dry, reminding me that I was actually in need of a drink – not just another alcoholic beverage. I asked Quinn whether she had any water left, but she didn’t, and though I didn’t want to miss any more of The Wombats’ set, I knew I had to stay hydrated otherwise I’d risk passing out. Finding somewhere that sold water nearby was the tricky part, but I found a stall and quickly purchased a bottle of water and downed almost half of it in one go. I span on my heels to return to the crowd, realising that it was going to be hell to find Quinn and co. again, when I came face-to-face (or, really, chest-to-face) with the very person I had secretly hoped attended this weekend.

 Harry apologised quickly, but looked mildly confused with his furrowed eyebrows and pouty lips, until his eyes brightened in realisation. “Ah, Romee, yeah?”

 My heart quickened at him knowing my name. “Yeah, that’s me,” I replied, unable to hold back a smile. “Harry, yeah?”

 He knew I was only playing around, but an appreciative smile still tugged on his lips, and I almost died then and there as his dimples carved into his cheeks. “That would be me,” he said, taking a step forward as the line ahead of him progressed. “Nice to officially met you.”

 “Officially?” I asked, quirking an eyebrow.

 “Yeah, uh – Gem named everyone who was gonna be here and I could only match a few names to faces,” Harry explained, reaching into his back pocket to grab out his wallet. “Knew who Quinn was ‘cause I’ve seen photos on Gem’s Instagram, but wasn’t sure who you were.”

 I bit down on my lip and nodded sharply. “Ah, right,” I concurred. “Well, hi, yep, I’m Romee Chandler.”

 “Like Chandler Bing?”

 I rolled my eyes, for that was something I had heard many, many times throughout my life. “Yes, like Chandler Bi–” I was cut off the sounds of Harry’s name being called out from almost screeching voices nearby.

 Harry flashed me an apologetic smile and span on his heels to attend to the fans that had spotted him (I wasn’t sure why I was so surprised, but for some reason I was), but I couldn’t help but notice the small roll of his eyes and frustrated breath he let out before he greeted them. I stood back patiently, but as I remembered he had also been lining up for water and that the line was free, I quickly jumped in and bought one for him in the time I had waiting for him to finish.

 “Sorry about that,” Harry said once returning back to the line. “Didn’t wanna be rude to them, y’know?”

 “Understandable,” I replied and held out the bottle of water. “Here, bought this so we can head back and hopefully not miss the rest of the set.”

 “I, oh – Romee, you didn’t – you didn’t have to,” Harry stuttered over his words but still wrapped his fingers around the bottle that suddenly looked tiny in his large hands. “I’ll, uh – here,” he went on, reaching back into his pocket to grab out the wallet that he must’ve put back there since before, “let me give you the money–”

 Loose strands of hair stuck to my skin as I shook my head, causing Harry to pause mid-sentence. “Don’t sweat it, honestly,” I told him, even waving my hand to brush it off. “It’s only a bottle of water; it’s not like I bought you something crazy expensive.”

 “Considering the prices of things at festivals, I beg to differ.”

 “Listen, Harry, we could stand here and do this all day, or we could go back to the main stage and jam to The Wombats.” He seemed like the type of guy who would think it was the polite thing to do to pay someone back, even if it was something as simple as a few pounds, and I didn’t exactly want to miss out on the rest of the set – “Let’s Dance To Joy Division” would be playing soon, and that was one of my all time favourite jams.

 Harry seemed to ponder it at first, but in the end he agreed with a nod and we began making our way back to the main stage. We’d both sent a million texts to our sisters to see if we could meet back up with them, but upon no reply from either of them and awkwardly standing towards the back of the crowd, we decided it was no use.

 “Why did I decide I needed to be hydrated?” I whined, crossing my arms over my chest and regretting that very stupid decision. “We had a good spot, too!”

 “Mmm,” Harry hummed. “Would be nice if we could see–” Harry paused mid-sentence and pulled his phone out of his pocket immediately, tapping away. He grinned cheekily down at me and my creased eyebrows, until he pressed his phone up to his ear. “Romee, mind waiting here for one moment? I have the best idea!”

 I didn’t really have a choice in the matter, so I stood there at the back of the crowd and waited for Harry’s return. “Kill The Director” was blasting through the speakers, though it was almost pointless to sing or bop to it because I was so far back and couldn’t see a thing. It was merely five minutes before Harry finally returned, grabbing hold of my wrist and pulling me away from the crowd.

 “Har–Harry!” I cried, frowning. “Where are we going? I – I wanna stay and watch the set!”

 “And how do you expect to do that from way back there?”

 “I don’t – I don’t know!” I creased my eyebrows further and tried to hide the tinge of red in my cheeks as slight embarrassment took over. “But where are we going? We’re going even further away, so if you think I’m the one being dumb, I got news for you.”

 The occasional head turned our way as we rushed past them, and I only prayed that they weren’t some huge One Direction fan who was going to post a horrible photo of me all over the internet. I didn’t need people speculating about me. I had things to do – most involved making sure I was fully prepared for my second year of university when it began in two weeks. Besides, my eyebrows were also in need of a wax, and I didn’t want photos of me everywhere online looking like I have caterpillars above my eyes.

 Harry let go of my wrist as we grew closer to the large crowd of people, while I was too focused on the muddy ground and making sure I wasn’t about to fall straight on my arse. Honestly, with the way everything had gone throughout the day, it wouldn’t surprise me if it happened. Since my head had been down and I was more focused on not slipping than anything else, I hadn’t noticed our surroundings change, and it wasn’t until Harry gave his name to someone who looked like part of a security team that I actually decided to take in where we were.

 I was surprised to find that he was guiding us through a backstage area, the sounds of The Wombats’ music growing louder the closer we walked to the stage. I gulped hard as I stood still and froze on the spot, finally coming to the realisation of what Harry had done.

 “Are we – Harry!” My eyes widened and lips parted, unable to believe where I was actually standing. “Did you seriously bring me back stage?”

 Harry’s cheeks flushed pink as he shrugged. “Couldn’t see from the back, and I know a guy, so, yeah…” he explained, running his long fingers through his hair. “Hope that’s – that’s okay.”

 “Okay? That’s – holy shit!” I couldn’t contain my excitement any further as I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him into a hug out of appreciation. Though we had heard of one another before today and had our sisters as a connection, I’d still barely known the guy for five minutes, yet here we were, backstage, because Harry wanted to do something nice. I couldn’t believe it. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I repeated over and over again.

 Harry chuckled as he returned the gesture, pulling me in tight as he wound his arms around my small frame. “C’mon,” he said as I eventually pulled back, placing his hand on the small of my back. “Let’s finally go watch the last few songs.”

 It was absolutely insane being backstage and seeing how everything worked behind the scenes, but the best part was seeing the band so up close and personal. We were still far enough away that no one could see us, but I almost cried at one point when Matthew Murphy ran to the side of the stage to get another bottle of water and waved at the two of us. I had texted Quinn to let her know where I was and that I was okay; I doubt she even remembered I left and was no longer beside her, because I knew The Wombats were one of her favourite bands. She was going to be incredibly jealous when she found out that I had found myself a backstage pass in the name of Harry Styles.

 As it came time for them to announce their final song for their set, and the opening chords for “Let’s Dance To Joy Division” blasted through the speakers, I felt Harry tap on my shoulder. I twisted my body to the side to glance at him curiously, only to be greeted by him holding his hand out with a cheeky smile plastered across his lips. “Shall we dance?”

 It was ridiculous, but I couldn’t help feeling a smile tug on my lips as I allowed him to take my hand and twirl me around. We sang the lyrics to one another as we bopped our heads and shook our hips to the beat of the music, jumping and spinning around on the spot. The thumping of the loud bass pulsed through my body, but it was the electricity that shot through my skin and into my veins from Harry’s touch that made my heart beat faster.

 “Yeah, we’re so happy! So happy! Yeah, we’re so happy!”

 Throughout the whole song, neither of us could wipe the smiles off our faces as we somehow found the fingers of both our hands entwined, and we shimmied to to the beat. As the final lyrics were sung, we practically screamed them to one another through a fit of laughter until the song ended, and we pulled one another into another close hug between giggles and short breaths. I pressed my cheek against Harry’s beating chest, and he wrapped his arms around my waist, leaving me feeling so warm and secure in his arms.

 “I’m so sweaty and gross,” I apologised as I was still panting, the dancing having got the better of me. “But you give such nice hugs, so I don’t want to let go.”

 “M’sweaty and gross, too,” Harry replied, lifting his fingers to trail up and down my back. “We can be sweaty and gross togeth–okay, well, that sounds like it could have a sexual connotation, but I promise I didn’t mean it like that.”

 I giggled against his chest, listening to him rambling about how sorry he was for even suggesting such a thing. But, somehow, it turned into him apologising further as he believed to have stuck his foot in his mouth even more and thought it sounded like he didn’t want to have sex with me or that I wasn’t worth it, or something of that nature. I had lost track, for I had lifted my head to look up at him and laugh in his face, but I was greeted by a defined jawline and pink, puffy lips and all thoughts of making fun of Harry went straight out the window.

 Before my thoughts could go any further, the band had run off stage, and I was left trying not to wet myself out of pure excitement and slight anxiety, that I no doubt looked like a sweaty mess, as Harry quickly introduced me to them. I got a photo with them all, which I sent to Quinn right away, and expressed how much I loved their music and how talented they were. They thanked me and were on their way to wherever they were off to next, which left both Harry and I wandering around the festival as we attempted to find the rest of our crowd for the weekend.

 Quinn had never been more upset and disappointed in her life that she hadn’t checked her phone throughout the set, because if she did, then she would’ve known where I was and probably would’ve come running and had the chance to meet the band as well. But, in a way, I was kind of thankful she wasn’t there, for I enjoyed the time I had spent with Harry. It just wouldn’t have been the same if she was there, right by my side. I mean, I love her – she is my sister, after all – but I felt this connection with Harry that I wanted to explore further, and I didn’t think that would’ve been able to happen if she had been there.

 After we had all found one another, we decided to head back to our tents and get plastered. Well, the plan was to have a few drinks and then visit some booths and see what we could find, but with the amount of empty bottles lying around, it was obvious that things had gotten a little out of hand.

 “Okay, okay, okay!” Ellie exclaimed, holding her hands above her head and only spilling a little of her drink. “Never have I ever… Slept with a someone on the first date.”

 Oh yeah, we were super cool and brought out the classic Never Have I Ever game, leaving us to really get to know one another in a way I never thought I’d be able to do this early in a hopeful friendship.

 A few heads were thrown back as they downed their drinks, though I wasn’t surprised to see Quinn being one of them. We were pretty open with what we told one another, and I had been informed of her many sexual endeavours.

 “Alright, my turn?” Harry questioned, and as Ellie nodded in reply, he smacked his lips together in thought, until a cheeky smirk spread across his lips. “Never have I ever taken someone’s virginity.”

 A slight pause fell over the group, until a majority downed their drinks at hand. Quinn narrowed her eyes towards me as she noticed me following suit, so I quickly reminded her about my boyfriend from sixth form. She remembered quickly about the story I had told her of two awkward virgins. She let out a snort of laughter, no doubt the god awful incident flooding back into her mind – she liked to remind me of it occasionally, making me want to bury my head in whatever surface I was standing on.

 “I say let’s pause the game for a moment, ‘cause I need to know what’s so funny,” Harry announced, holding his palm up as if that was supposed to signal the rest of us to shut up.

 “No!” I cried, reaching my arm out and slapping my hand across Quinn’s mouth before she could say anything. “There’s nothing to tell, let’s go back to the game, yeah? Who’s turn is it? Gemma’s or mine?”

 Harry shook his head, not taking no for an answer. “This sounds intriguing, and I like being intrigued.”

 “Not this time you do–ugh, Quinn! Gross!” I pulled my hand back quickly as soon as she had stuck her tongue out and licked my hand, and as I wiped her saliva on her shirt, she was already licking her lips and smirking, most likely working out the best way to say it.

 In that moment, Waverly stood up promptly from the other side of Quinn and announced she wanted to go to bed and if Quinn wanted a repeat of what happened last time they were left alone in a tent, then she should follow soon. I scrunched up my nose at her comment, mumbling something about how that is not something someone ever wants to hear about their sister.

 “I hear ya,” Harry agreed, taking a sip of his drink. “Heard some things about Gemma I wish I never did.”

 “Honestly, I know we’re super close and all, but there are some things I just don’t need to hear about.” The presence between Harry and I drew closer as he scooted his chair closer to mine, ignoring the questioning looks of Ellie and Gemma opposite us. “I’d rather, I don’t know, talk about my new nail polish or an assignment or something.”

 “Oh, yeah, totally same,” Harry joked, lips tugging into a shit-eating grin. “Love talking nail polish, or even makeup in general, with Gem. It’s a real hoot.”

 I shook my head and chuckled. “You’re an idiot.”

 “What can ya do?” Harry shrugged.

 “Oi, you two wanna come for a walk with us?” Gemma called out.

 As I shifted my glance towards her, I saw her almost stumble over her own feet as she took a step forward; Harry threw an insult at her, which resulted in an unpleasant gesture thrown back. “And for that, I’m not going with you anywhere,” Harry pointed out to his sister, folding his arms across his chest in a child-like manner.

 Gemma rolled her eyes, but wished us both goodbye because it was already getting late and I was tired, so I had no doubt I’d be heading off to bed shortly. Harry and I were left in silence, sipping on our respective alcoholic drinks and letting the buzz take over our minds.

 I threw my head back to yawn, and as I did, I pouted my lips and stared straight above me at the pretty stars. I always knew they were pretty, but with my alcohol-induced mind, I had the urge to stare at them for the rest of eternity. Pulling my body weight from the chair and onto the mat that was luckily there between all the chairs, I rolled onto my back and placed my hands behind my head, admiring the view from above.

 “What are you doing?” I heard Harry ask from above.

 “Star gazing,” I replied, like it was the most obvious thing ever – I mean, it kind of was, considering the situation. “Come join me!” I patted the mat beside me. It took Harry all of two seconds to take my suggestion, placing his drink onto the ground beside him, before plonking his arse down onto the mat beside me. “Thanks for today, by the way,” I added, turning my head to the side and smiling sweetly at Harry.

 “No problem,” he replied, matching my facial expression – though I do wish I had cute dimples like he did. “It made you happy; I liked seeing you happy.”

 I rolled onto my side, sitting up on my elbow. “Really? You barely even know me.”

 “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t warm my heart to make you smile – to make anyone smile, actually.” He followed suit once more, also rolling onto his side and sitting up on his elbow and biting down onto his lip as his eyes met mine briefly. “Besides, it’s been awhile since I’ve seen the band, so it wasn’t entirely a selfless act.”

 “They’re good, hey?”

 Harry nodded in agreement. “Nothing gets my body moving more than “Let’s Dance To Joy Division” does,” Harry said, shimmying his shoulders as he hummed the chorus, causing me to shake my head and laugh at his idiocy. “Ah, there it is!” He pointed his finger towards my lips. “There’s that smile I’ve grown to love!”

 Though I wanted to bury my face into the mat, I was suddenly curious by his words. “Grown to love? Interesting choice of words, Harry.”

 “What can I say, you have a very nice smile, Romee.”

 “Do I?”

 “Mmm,” Harry hummed, his gaze leaving my eyes to land upon my lips. “Nice smile, nice lips…”

 Harry lifted his hand to brush stray strands of hair behind my ear, my eyes following his hand as much as possible and my heart beginning to race inside my chest. Slowly, his fingers trailed down my skin until his warm hand was cradling my jaw. I gulped as my eyes left his hand, only to be met with the green of his eyes twinkling against the moonlight. There was a faint smile tugging on his lips as I felt the tip of his thumb brush against my bottom lip.

 “Romee, can I–”

 He didn’t need to say any more, he didn’t need to tell me what he was thinking, because I knew – I knew what words were about to escape the very lips I wanted to feel in every way possible. I nodded my consent as his eyes flickered to my lips one final time as Harry dipped his head, but his lips paused in front of mine, like he was having second thoughts. I gulped, the most horrible thoughts running through my mind (bad breath was definitely number one), and just as I went to pull away, Harry’s hands cupped both my cheeks as he made that final step and pressed his lips against mine.

 The sweet taste of his alcoholic drink was still lingering in his mouth as his lips moved expertly against mine through slow and languid movements. I twisted my arms around his body and brought one hand up to the back of his head, tangling strands of hair between my fingers as I helped push us closer together. The way his lips connected against mine felt like magic, like it was right and meant to be – I was no longer drunk off alcohol, I was drunk off Harry.

 Time escaped me as Harry captured my bottom lip between his one final time before pulling back from the kiss and leaning his forehead against mine. A smile tugged on his lips as he relished in what had just happened, and though he had smiled many times throughout the course of the day, there was something so genuine and real about the smile before me – something so unveiled and authentic that only came across someone so vulnerable as Harry was before my eyes

 “Mmm, I like kissing you,” Harry murmured against my lips, his warm breath sending goosebumps up my skin.

 “And I like kissing you,” I taunted, brushing my lips lightly against his enough to cause his breath to be caught in his throat. “And I’d really like to do it again.”

 “I think that can be arranged.”

 As Harry crashed his lips against mine once more, making my head spin in a way I thought only happened in movies. I smiled into the kiss, my lips parting just enough for Harry’s tongue to swirl in my mouth, leaving me in quite the tizzy.

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?”