#poor decision making

smoke and sugar

warning: heavy breathing, angst, make out session

A/N: there is SO MUCH DRAMA in this chapter. i don’t know why i added the photo of harry holding out the flower - just seemed like kind of his vibe this chapter (sad!harry). love on tour, harry styles au, slow burn romance

word count: 4.12k

It felt like slow motion to Izzy.

George took her hand, intertwining their ring and pinky fingers, and tugged her out of the green room, leaving his band behind. They passed through coloured curtains and they walked down the hallway toward the stage door exit, past Naomi and Meg, past the Starer, burning holes into her back. She couldn’t feel the floor against her shoes; they were a little tipsy, and Izzy had gone through most of a joint herself. They were in the van, and then the lobby, the elevator, holding hands the whole way. Izzy thought she saw a camera flash outside the entrance.

Then they were in the hotel room, George’s hotel room. It was so plush and quiet Izzy could hear her heart beat. She could feel it everywhere: in her feet and in her hands.

She wasn’t afraid anymore.

George dropped his keycard on the table and pulled out his phone, letting go of her hand. He ran a finger from her neck to the small of her back, over her new bustier and onto her bare skin. The lights in the room were low; he didn’t turn them on.

The music in the room flitted through songs too fast for Izzy to tell what they were. George landed on something fast and dreamy: she recognized it as something by Baths, Static Dream. A song from the green room on one of the Starer’s playlists. Her heartbeat matched the music.

George went over to a glass bar cart in the corner of the room and poured something dark into two short glasses. The song sped up and the base kicked in. Izzy crossed the room to George and ran a finger down his back over his shirt, from his neck to the small of his back, copying him. Then she raised both hands to his hips, and pushed his shirt up. She didn’t know what she was doing. But she wanted it so badly. She had waited such a long time. He pulled it off and turned around. His lips were on hers again, kissing her quickly, teasing her, biting her lower lip lightly. His teeth grazed her neck before before he sucked the sensitive skin into his mouth. Izzy’s nipples hardened painfully against the tight crop top. He rolled it up and she raised her arms so he could push it over her head.

Is this how it feels? Is this how it’s supposed to feel? She felt so nervous, needles of excitement pierced her skin, and the air felt electric, vibrating with static. She could see stone skyscrapers with gold tops out the window, hear muffled sirens and car horns down below. She didn’t feel like she was outside, looking in anymore; she was finally where she wanted to be, inside, and alive.

She pressed her body to his and he buried his face in her neck, kissing down her chest. He looked up suddenly, and said: “You’re so pretty.” He was like a drug.

He slipped her skirt off and edged her underwear down her thighs, running his fingertips along her slit from the outside. Izzy gasped. He traced his fingertips from his other hand down her side and she shivered. She wound her hands through his hair.

I don’t have to tell him, do I? Izzy thought. I don’t have to tell him.

He dropped his middle finger into her panties and stroked her clit. Izzy moaned. He rubbed it lightly, teasing her, speeding up. She could feel the ridges in his fingerprints against it. She fumbled with the button on his jeans.

The room lit up in a sudden flare of light, and then another one, like lightning. Izzy closed her eyes.

George rushed to the window and shut it.

“Probably just the cameras for Harry,” Izzy said. “They’re always waiting outside for him when he comes back from the show.”

“We’re too high up,” George said. “Doesn’t make sense.” George peered around the edge of the curtain. Izzy pulled her underwear up and put her hand on his back. The song ended and the room went silent. Another flash burst around the curtains.

“That’s so weird,” said George. “I have to go check it out.”

“Now?” Izzy asked.

Izzy waited, but George didn’t come back. She put her clothes back on and looked up and down the hallway. Harry had just come in; the flashes could have been for him, right? Izzy thought.

“Meg’s looking for you,” Harry said as he passed George’s room. His eyes ran over the bed, still made, and the drinks on the cart.

“Thanks,” Izzy said.

“George won’t be coming up any time soon,” Harry added. “Ryan’s got the whole band downstairs.”

Izzy glared at him.

Harry tapped his fingers on the door, opened his mouth as if to say something, and then left. Then he came back.

“Tonight, when I…” He stammered, “I’m trying to help you.”

“Thank you so much,” Izzy shot back. She thought he was referring to the you don’t belong here conversation they had in the arena.  

“Just try to remember that,” Harry said. He walked out of the doorframe before she could reply. 

Izzy closed the door behind him, letting it slam a little. She got under the covers and fell asleep, cold in the hotel room’s air conditioning, and alone.

…

Izzy felt a hand run through her hair and cracked her eyes open. She woke up next to George, who still smelled like smoke and sugar. Two new boxes sat at the foot of the bed: his suit and her dress for the event this afternoon. Frick Fall Fete. He had the perfect explanation for last night: he had gotten trapped with the band, just like he said. Ryan was relentless when it came to planning the next shows. After breakfast on the balcony, overlooking the city and checking out the hotel across the street, Izzy went down to see Meg. She couldn’t put it off any longer.

…

“A few more days?” Meg asked, packing up her purse.

“Yeah, George says I can stay and it’s not like the store has been swarming with customers, so…”

“I thought we were leaving here together,” Meg said. “Why did you wait until now to tell me?”

Izzy knew she couldn’t hide from Meg. “I was worried you would think… I don’t know, that you would think it was a bad idea?”

“Do you think it’s a bad idea?”

“No, I want to stay.”

“Then it’s weird that you didn’t tell me.”

“Sorry,” Izzy repeated. “Do you want to stay for a few more days? Ask work! They were so chill about you taking off a few weeks, they might be fine with it.”

“I can’t tell them I’m not coming in tomorrow today, with no notice, Izzy—“

“I want you here!”

Meg pouted. “I’m leaving at four.”

Meg helped Izzy get ready. George had ordered Izzy a new dress, again, in a beautiful lace that felt only a little bit itchy on her skin. Izzy ditched the shoes that came with the dress—she couldn’t walk in them—and went with her new rainbow sneakers, her only comfortable option. No one would see them under the dress, anyway. Meg was going to the Museum of Medical Sciences for the afternoon and left as soon as George knocked on the door to their room to take her to the party.

George wore a dark green tuxedo. He looked like a rockstar. As George stepped forward to kiss her hello, Ryan popped out from behind him to snap a photo of them on his phone.

“Come on, Ryan,” George said.

“It’ll play really well,” Ryan said.

“I said no private photos,” George said. “You don’t want that online, right Izzy?”

“Us kissing? No, no—I’m not sure I want to be part of, like, the ‘content creation’ angle and—"

“Fine,” Ryan said, cutting her off. “Official photos only. It’s deleted.”

George thanked him and spun Izzy around, complimenting the dress. Meg had helped Izzy put waves in her hair, parting it down the middle.

“You look like a 70s goddess,” George said.

“You look like a rock god,” Izzy replied.

“He is a rock god,” Ryan said. “Car’s out front, let’s go.”

Ryan commented angrily on the lack of photographers outside. He disappeared back indoors, not joining them for the drive over. To Izzy, it was odd: he was always glued to George.

In the car, a Tesla with a driver in one of those driver hats and a suit, George pulled Izzy over to his side and took out her phone. “Just for you,” he said. He turned the camera around and took a video, saying, “just here with this amazing woman.” Izzy put her hands over her face. George pried them away. “Look at how pretty she is,” George said. Izzy wondered internally: did they make George in a lab in an experiment to make the perfect boyfriend? George kissed all up and down the side of her face in his light way while she laughed and tried to push him off.

When Izzy stepped out of the car, a few flashbulbs went off—there were photographers on either side of the entrance to the museum, and they were on a red carpet. She smiled, not knowing what else to do. She couldn’t really see; the lights were blinding.

George took her arm and whispered in her ear, “inside it’s just you and me.” He kissed her earlobe and then led her up the stairs and into a room that looked like it was decorated for a lavish wedding, flowers hanging from the ceiling and huge sprays of greenery in large planters under gold and green lights. The room had a domed glass ceiling, like a greenhouse, and a fountain surrounded by columns. Izzy had never been anywhere like this.

Once Izzy’s eyes adjusted, she could see that it was a truly boujee crowd. George seemed to know them; they were instantly swarmed by couples in their age.

“Patty! Samson! And this must be Georgina—“ George shook hands with his buddies and air kissed their female partners.

“You look well, man,” one of the guys said. “Doing much better, I see.” George thanked him and guided Izzy to another set of friends.

Izzy introduced herself, and George interjected to say that she worked in fashion. The women wore glittering gowns with intricate beading and delicate draping that made a whisper sound as they walked on towering heels. Izzy was surprised that he knew this crowd; she thought this was just an event for him, and that they grew up in similar circumstances.

“What house do you work for?” A petite and stunning woman with pin-straight black hair asked Izzy.

“House?” Izzy replied, confused.

“Are you under Chiuri? Burton?”

Izzy felt like she was trapped in Devil Wears Prada, at the beginning of the movie before the main character learned anything about fashion. “My mom owns an independent line and does her own designs,” Izzy said. The lie fell out of her mouth so easily. She chastised herself for saying line and not store.

“Oh, fantastic! An indie line!” the woman replied. They were trying to be nice to her. Another chimed in: “I’m sure she’ll be the next Sarah. What’s the name of the line?” Another said: “I just love what Alessandro is doing.” She gestured toward Izzy’s dress.

“Thank you,” Izzy said. “Your dress is beautiful, too.”

“Ugh, ready to wear,” the woman replied. “You know how it is.”

Izzy laughed in reply. She had no idea what was going on. All her worst instincts were at work: she felt desperate to please these people and fit in, to not embarrass George. She felt her cheeks burn. But she told herself to relax. She could hang—the last two weeks had shown her that.

“My mom is more of a bespoke tailor than a designer,” Izzy said.

“That’s so cute! She does all custom work?” The woman replied. Izzy could feel the woman tuning her out. But she felt oddly okay with it—the relief from being honest outweighed the pain of rejection. Her desperation faded.

“Yes, all her own stuff. About eight years ago she inherited a store that my grandmother started way back in the 70s.”

“That’s great. You sound like a good fit for him. What a nice change, right?”

“Thanks,” Izzy said, not really understanding what she meant. Change from what? Good fit, why?

George pulled her aside. “None of your friends are here?” George asked.

“This isn’t really my crowd,” Izzy said.

Lunch was five courses of foams, tiny crackers, and meat in forms she had never seen. From her chair, Izzy could see into a very manicured, but beautiful courtyard with a pond full of lilies. She recognized it instantly from one of her secret boards on Pinterest. The lilies were the only wild things in the very manicured landscape.

Dancing after lunch happened out there on the grass—some of the women struggled in their heels, and Izzy was surprised to see some switch to bare feet. She pulled up her dress to show off her running shoes when George wasn’t looking, and was met with laughing approval and some applause.

George tapped his fingers on her back as the music started. A brass band stood under a colonnade outside, and they struck up Only Have Eyes For You by the Flamingos. A singer in an old-timey suit crooned into an old fashioned microphone:

My love must be a kind of blind love

I can’t see anything but you

Izzy remembered what Harry had taught her, and she danced with George in a small circle among the other couples. The air was just beginning to turn crisp, and the first leaves were on the ground. George chatted to the other dancers as they passed them. Izzy’s phone buzzed, and after the song ended, she stepped aside to check her messages.

omg are you okay?

It was from Lauren, one of the married’s (Meg’s married friends). She was still typing.

Izzy began to feel needles of anxiety through her scalp and arms. What had happened? Was it her mom? Another accident?

what can I do to help? I can’t reach meg rn

can I call you?

Just as Izzy was typing her reply, her phone rang. It was Lauren, in a panic. “I can’t believe Lydia got you mixed up in this,” she said. “This is so like her. I’m sure they’ll take them down if you ask. I can write you something.”

“Take what down? What’s going on?”

“Oh god, Izzy,” Lauren said, “I’m sorry. The photos. I just refreshed The Daily Mail and some photos of… you came up.”

“What photos?”

George wandered into the room, looking for her. Lauren sent a link and Izzy opened it.

Her jaw dropped open.

“What is that?” George asked.

It was a story, published online, about Jess Harper’s band lead guitarist and his new mystery girlfriend.

With photos from last night.

Through the window, into their room.

Izzy’s face was blurry, but if you knew her, you knew it was her. And she was half naked, George’s face buried in her neck.

“What is this?” George said. He pulled out his phone. “Ryan! What is this?”

They raced back to the hotel, Izzy trying not to throw up. George berated Ryan the entire drive, imploring him to make them take the photos down and find the money. Ryan insisted he had nothing to do with it.

Three cameramen waited for them in front of the lobby. “No, the back. We’re going to the back,” George said. His ear was still glued to the phone. The driver peeled out and they had to run from the car into the back entrance, where Tara was waiting to greet them at the service elevator.

“I’m so sorry, Izzy,” Tara said. “I don’t think anyone knows it’s you yet. Nobody took photos of you together at this thing this afternoon, right?” Izzy was shaking.

Tara went up in the elevator with them, George disappearing to go find Ryan. Izzy found Meg back in their room.

“It’s going to be okay,” Meg said. She sat on the bed with a laptop on her lap, Lydia pacing on her phone in front of them.

“Where is that asshole?” Lydia asked.

“With Ryan,” Tara said.

“Lydia, I don’t think he knew—” Izzy started, but Lydia was already out the door.

Meg showed Izzy her laptop screen. Lauren was a lawyer and had helped her draft a note:

To whom it may concern,

This notice is to inform you that I would like to have a series of images deleted from your website and all other properties. These photos were taken in a private residence…

The letter went on with a bunch of scary legal terms, like without permission, cease and desist, immediately remove, consider further legal action. Meg hit send.

Harry stopped in the doorway. Probably here to gloat about how right he was, Izzy thought.

“Please fuck off,” Izzy said. He set a cup of tea down beside her.

“They’re still up?” He asked.

“Yes, yes. We’re trying to fix it now, we wrote a letter,” Tara said. “Ryan says his hands are tied, whatever that means.”

“Sent!” Meg said. “Okay, that should do it, right?”

Harry vanished down the hallway.

“George didn’t know,” Izzy said. “I hope Lydia isn’t being too harsh on him.”

“I don’t think Lydia was mad about the photos,” the Starer said from the doorway.

“George said it could have been Harry,” Lisa chimed in, “trying to get Ryan thrown off the tour.”

They heard shouting echo from down the hall. It was Harry’s voice: “What the fuck were you thinking?” He was screaming.

“Probably mad about his set list again,” Meg said, trying to lighten the mood. Izzy put her face in her hands. “You can’t tell that it’s you,” Meg said.

Suddenly, Tara cried: “They’re gone!”

“That was so fast,” said the Starer. “Refresh and try another browser.”

“No, they’re gone.” Tara tilted her screen toward Izzy. The story was gone, not showing up even when she searched it.

A message came through from Lauren on Izzy’s phone: I don’t see it anymore! Can’t wait for you to get back here, away from those people

Izzy exhaled. Some photographer out there still had a bunch of half naked photos of her, but at least they weren’t out there for public consumption right now. Her hands were shaking. “Do you think my parents saw them?” Izzy asked.

“No, no. Since when do your parents read The Daily Mail?”

“No one decent reads that rag,” Tara said. “Wait…”

Tara refreshed the page again, and the photos of Izzy were still gone. The article’s URL was now a broken link. But a new story came up on the homepage, with photos of Meg and George that first morning in New York, outside a deli. Izzy had been cropped out of the photos, making Meg and George look like a couple.

“Oh no,” Tara said.

“Why would they use these?” Izzy said. In the photo series, Meg and George were smiling at each other while walking down the street, holding bagels.

“These aren’t anywhere near as bad as the other ones, I guess,” Meg added.

“I can get George to tell your husband that it’s all—“

“No, no, that’s fine,” Meg said. “He’ll believe me. But why the switch?”

“They clearly spiked the other story for this one. Someone fed them these photos,” Jess said.

Ryan appeared at the door. He was met with universal glares. “It’s fixed!” He said.

The room was silent.

“Would you guys mind leaving me and Izzy alone for a bit?” Meg asked.

…

Once Tara closed the door behind her and the Starer’s voice had faded down the hall, Izzy sat down across from Meg.

“I’m so, so, so sorry about the photos, Meg. I had no idea—“

“Are you actually okay, Izzy?” Meg asked, putting her hand on Izzy’s arm. “That’s so crazy, like through the window. How is that not illegal?”

Meg tried to comfort Izzy, who felt just mostly relieved that they had been taken down. It all happened so fast, it had barely landed on her.

“Our train leaves in an hour—our seats aren’t together, but we can probably ask someone to switch.”

Izzy’s stomach filled with dread. “Thanks, but I think I’m still going to be here for another few days, as planned. It wasn’t George—“

“Deadass? You’re staying. After last night?”

“It sounds like it was Harry who set it up, like Lisa said. We don’t know it was Ryan.”

“You don’t know it wasn’t Ryan.” Meg shook her head. “We’ve been here for two weeks, we’ve done the whole thing, don’t you think it’s time to go home? What’s a few more days gonna do?”

“I’m not going home, Meg.”

Meg could only look at Izzy, quizzical and concerned.

“I was locked up for like three years, and even before the pandemic, living at home, working in the store. Watching other people actually live their lives on Instagram. Every day. Every single day. And now I finally have everything, and I’m not letting go. It’s not like we won’t be messaging the time—”

“For how long?”

“The rest of the tour.”

“Izzy…”

Meg took her hand away.

“After last night?”

“I’ve let it go,” Izzy said.

“You sound like Lydia.” 

“Good.”

“You’ve known this guy for two weeks and now you two are like, going to live together?”

“I guess so.” 

“You had all these plans when we were growing up. Like, what about the combination book store plant store idea, with all the permaculture stuff?”

“Meg, that was a fantasy. You don’t know how hard retail is.” 

“What about starting to look for jobs, outside the store? You don’t use your major at all. Or moving out with roommates? I think you have enough savings to do that.”

“That’s not fast enough. It’s not enough,” Izzy said. “Don’t you see? I’m going to get it all back now. The last three years, all the time since the accident. All the work, all the missed dates, all the going out, all the beauty—it’s all here, right? Lydia’s found it. This makes it so that… I haven’t missed anything.”

Meg put her bag down. 

“Izzy,” she said slowly. “You can’t get that back. Those years are just gone.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Izzy said. She was tearing up.

Meg nodded. “Okay.” She slung her purse over her chest and went to the door.

“I’ll text you, the whole time. Call me from the train?” Izzy asked hopefully, trying to patch things up.

“If you’re going to do this… I don’t think I can hear about it, Izzy. I can’t watch you… I can’t watch this.”

Then she was gone, closing the door behind her.

Izzy pressed her lips together, trying not to cry. Her phone buzzed.

apparently someone inside the tour, maybe on harry’s team, tipped off the photog

ryan paid the paper to swap the photos

i’m so sorry izzy

we’ll take it slow, k?

The messages were from George. Izzy tried to type a response, but ended up messaging Lydia instead: can I stay in your room?

The cup of tea Harry brought had gone cold on the side table.

Just then, Lydia threw the door open.

“All the photos have,” she snapped, “disappeared. It has worked out how it was supposed to work out.”

Lydia closed the laptop in front of Izzy on the bed and threw a colourful boa around her neck, pulling her up.

“It’s almost five,” Lydia said, trying to tease a smile out of her cousin. “Amps on, monitors in, Elisabetta.”

“Wasn’t the last show last night? Isn’t the tour going to Austin?” Izzy sounded totally deflated.

“That’s tomorrow,” Olivia said, wearing four boas and carrying an open bottle of something. “Tonight, we dance.”

“I don’t know—“

“Don’t even think about it, Izzy. It’s like it never happened. It never happened! Come and dance with us.”

Tara bounded in, wearing a matching boa. “Come and dance!”

“Company move! To the dance floor! And then, Austin and California and Peru and…”

“What are you guys doing?” Izzy asked.

The Starer appeared, carrying a boa. Tara glared at her. “I’m not putting this on,” she said. “We’re here to cheer you up. After your trauma.”

Izzy was touched that Jess was even trying, had even been roped into this. She stood up.

“Yes!” Tara said.

“Yaaaas,” Lydia echoed.

They pulled her into the van, where Lisa was waiting with at least a bottle of something bubbly per person. It sprayed everywhere, soaking through the Starer’s outfit. They kept pouring—Izzy didn’t know how many glasses they had. They put on Watermelon Sugar over Jess’s protests that it was his worst song and Lisa and Olivia sang along, belting the chorus.

sugar high

watermelon sugar high

Lydia put her arms around Izzy, and Izzy let the window of the van down, leaning out, watching the towering city blocks pass by, seeing little views into the lonely apartments: a woman ironing, a man sitting alone eating. 

Lydia put her chin on Izzy’s shoulder.  A cyclist whipped past, her hair blowing in the wind. Izzy smiled. More and more, her life seemed like a list of things she had because of the things she had done, instead of a list of things she didn’t have because of what she hadn’t done. 

She wasn’t afraid anymore, and now she wasn’t alone anymore.

Nah fam you good

----

Max’s brother installed this AC unit. The following day Florida Man decided this was the best way to break into the store to rob it. He fell 35 feet, was too injured to move, and had to call the police to come and get him.