Paper Airplane

32

Chapter Thirty-Two

 

 

                There was once a time when wee little me was sat on the floor of our living room directly in front of the television watching 10 Things I Hate About You with no value for my eye sight’s development because I was too busy being dazzled by Heath Ledger’s curly hair, killer smile, and slight Australian accent. 

                I was ten.

                The irony of that little anecdote is that I am now sat on a bed, eight years later, watching 10 Things I Hate About You, still dazzled by Heath Ledger’s curly hair, killer smile, and slight Australian accent while simultaneously being dazzled by Harry Styles’ curly hair, killer smile, and very prominent British accent.  And really, for my sanity’s sake, this is only happening because my love for young Heath Ledger is affecting my usual annoyance toward my fake boyfriend, who happens to be standing right beside the damned TV, stopped on his way back to the bed to view a picture that Niall had sent him on his phone.  It was a trick of the eyes.  An illusion.  A mirage.

                Okay, maybe Harry’s always been a little attractive.  Big deal.

                The movie was just finishing, and I knew the credits would be rolling soon.  It was the final scene.  After unpacking whatever we felt like unpacking, Harry unveiled this bag of DVDs he’d rented for the occasion, surprising me with more than just chick flicks.  He had plans for a little later, but we had time to kill first, apparently, and a movie was the way to do it.  As soon as I’d spotted 10 Things, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to watch it again (probably for the first time since that one time when I was ten).

                Harry tucked his phone back into his pocket after a moment, his eyes flickering up at me, and I realized that he’d caught me staring, and unfortunately at him, not Heath Ledger.  I cleared my throat and pretended that it hadn’t happened, focusing through slightly squinted eyes at the screen.  In seconds, Harry was ungracefully belly-flopping back onto the bed beside me. 

                For a second, he just laid there.  But then he rolled onto his side, facing me (much to my dismay), and reached into the bowl of popcorn on my lap.  Unceremoniously, several kernels fell out of his handful and onto the bed between us, rolling towards my butt where the bed sank the most.  Sighing, I reached for them and dropped them into his hand.

                “Sorry,” he mumbled, mouth full.

                “Pig.”

                His hand appeared by my face, and before I could react, he patted my cheek twice and said, “You don’t mean it.”

                Forcing myself not to give him any satisfaction, I fought a smile and swatted his hand away.  “Shut up, the movie’s not over yet.”

                “Haven’t you seen it a million times already?”

                I raised a brow.  “If you’re going to exaggerate, at least use a more sensible number.  And no, actually.  Only a couple times, and the last time was probably around eight years ago.”

                He sat up and matched my position, using the headboard of his bed as a backrest.  “How on earth do you even remember that?”

                I felt my face heating up, so I just shrugged, hoping he’d drop it.

                He did.  The movie concluded, and the make-out session that ensued between Julia Stiles and Heath Ledger was one to envy, and I got to watch it without interruption.  But when the credits began, Harry hopped off the bed and shut the TV off.  That grin was back, but without Heath Ledger wearing the same one simultaneously, it wasn’t nearly as effective.