It was raining the day Camila decided to visit her stepbrother, and she almost opted to put it off for another day. She'd stood at the entrance to her apartment building, holding an umbrella over her head, watching the potholes on the road fill with soiled water. She'd considered turning back around, changing into her pajamas and spending the day making sure that the windows in her bedroom didn't leak. Then she remembered Harry's face the day he'd stormed out of her parents' apartment, and she knew she couldn't wait another day to talk to him. Already she had waited too long.
During the trip to Queens, she'd sketched the sleeping homeless man stretched out across the seats in front of her. On her way off the train, she tucked a pack of crackers under his arm, feeling sad that she didn't have anything more to give him.
The wind picked up during her walk to Harry's apartment building, making her umbrella obsolete. Trying to distract herself from the rain, she tried to think of what to say to Harry once she got to where she was going. She couldn't think of a single thing to say beyond, "I'm sorry." The possibility that he might not even be home didn't enter her mind until she was a block away.
She could have called, Camila knew. She could have called and done all of this over the phone.
She could have saved herself the trip to Queens, saved herself the awkwardness of facing her stepbrother almost two weeks after his announcement, but she owed him more than a phone conversation. She owed him, at the very least, a hug.
A woman and three of her children were exiting the building as Camila approached, and one of the kids was nice enough to hold the door open so Camila could sneak in. She thanked the boy with a smile, and voiced her appreciation to the mother, who seemed more irritated than pleased by her son's gallantry. Camila blamed it on the weather.
The umbrella left a trail of raindrops on the floor as she walked inside. It formed a puddle by her feet as she stood in front of Harry's apartment, staring nervously at the crooked black numbers on the white-painted door. She could hear music coming from the other side.
After a moment, Camila knocked.
The music grew louder as the door opened, and Camila stared stupidly at the blue eyes looking back at her. "Yes?" said a guy that Camila didn't recognize.
"Hi, I'm sorry, I'm looking for Harry Styles." she said, wondering if she'd somehow gotten the wrong door, or if Harry had moved without telling anyone.
"And you are...?"
"Camila Cabello," she said. "I'm—"
"Oh, my God!" he shrieked, his tone rising and his demeanor changing to one of pleasant surprise. "You're Camila? The Camila?" He let the door swing open and he looked Camila up and down. "You're even hotter than your pictures." He smiled and stretched out his hand. "I'm Louis."
Camila was certain she was missing something, but she shook his hand anyway.
"I know you have no idea who I am," he said. "But I know all about you. Come in, come in."
He stepped aside. "Harry's not here right now, but you're welcome to wait for him. You're soaked. Do you want a towel or anything?" He disappeared into a room, and the music stopped abruptly.
"Ah, no, thanks. I'm okay," Camila said when Louis emerged.
"Some coffee? Tea?" Louis moved toward the kitchen, which was immediately to the left of the entrance. He cleared a stool by the counter, and motioned for Camila to take a seat. "He's going to be so happy to see you. He's been all mopey ever since he came out to your folks, and I've been telling him, 'Honey, you have to give them time. They'll come around' and here you are, proving me right." He arched a brow, looking confused. "Did you say coffee?"
