The Love Club

Ten

There is nothing more satisfying than waking up in my own bed. I know this now, can appreciate this fully as I roll over and snuggle deeper into the familiar comforter. 

I only have a week home between the South American tour and the European one. Luckily, the first show is in Ireland, the next ones here in England, so that gives me a little wiggle room to commute back and forth. 

I find myself excited, which is strange.

When I force my eyes open to look at the time, the digits on the clock read 11 AM. I’ve slept much later than I usually do when I’m home, but without any clients, I find I have an entire week to myself and I’m not quite sure what to do. I’m never not busy.

Gatsby is already up, clawing at the bunched sheets near my feet and trying to catch my toes when I curl them and stretch. She nearly claws right into one and I promptly push her off the bed with my foot, hearing a light but satisfying thump when she hits the ground and hisses. 

The first thing I do, out of habit, is reach over and check my phone. I have a few missed calls from Felicity and a voicemail from my dad. I roll my eyes, knowing they’re expecting me for dinner sometime this week. Next, I open my messages. 

Two from Duncan, three from Harry, and one from Niall.

I send Duncan a quick text to let him know I’ll stop by to see him at the grocer’s, but ignore Harry and Niall’s texts, too tired to engage in their small talk. I appreciate the effort on both their parts, but after an entire flight stuck between the two as they bickered, I’m more than ready for a little bit of a break.

Not that I don’t miss them a little.

With a yawn, I force myself up and out of bed, my feet hitting the plush rug covering the hardwood flooring. It feels nice to be home, and I find myself smiling as I make my way to the kitchen, grabbing an apple and biting into it as I absently pour Gatsby a bowl of food. She’s still eyeing me in betrayal, but seems happy enough to accept my peace offering.

When my phone begins to ring, I sigh and run a hand through my hair before reluctantly answering it.

“What the hell have you been doing?” comes Felicity’s annoyed voice.

“Sleeping,” I respond boredly.

“In the eleven years since I’ve known you, you have never slept past 9:30. I thought youdied,” she stresses.

I can't help the quiet giggle that escapes my lips.

“Chill. I’m jetlagged.”

“When should we be expecting you?” she asks.

I turn to my refrigerator where a calendar is hung on a magnetic hook. What day is it again?

“Tuesday,” Felicity answers, frustrated.

“I guess I could come Thursday,” I shrug, despite the fact that she can’t see me.

“You guess?”

I don’t respond, too busy observing the view outside my window. It’s nice to properly appreciate it after weeks of being gone. Even the sounds of police sirens and honking horns are a welcome sound.

Felicity seems dumbstruck by my indefinite answers. I’m usually on a tight schedule, one on which I have to pencil in my visits. To her, I’m sounding somewhat flighty and I know she’s worrying about my well being. I turn from the window and focus back on the task at hand.

“I’m just exhausted and glad to be home,” I explain. “I have to get back to the tour thing in a week, so I don’t have any clients right now. I guess I don’t really know what to do with myself.”

“Come stay with us for a few days,” she suggests.

“I’d rather stay here, I think. It’s nice to be home.”

If she’s offended by me declining her invitation, she doesn’t show. Instead, she tells me she’ll make chicken and dumplings, my favorite meal. I smile as I hang up, setting my mobile on the coffee table as I finish off my apple and start in the direction of my room.

I have a rather hefty load of dirty clothes I should probably be taking to the laundromat, but instead I slip on a casual dress and cardigan and pair it with some sandals. There’s not much I can do with my hair, but I swipe on some mascara and eye liner before deeming myself presentable and grabbing my keys. 

Giving Gatsby an affectionate kick to the rump, I head out the door and am on the pavement outside my building in no time.

London, rainy and cool, is a nice contrast to the tropical oven that was South America. At least here, the temperatures aren’t completely unreasonable, and I’m somewhat relieved by the drizzle that collects in my hair and clings to my cardigan as I walk.

I pause to let the automatic doors slide open before stepping inside the grocer’s and surveying the area. It’s later than I usually come, and I wonder if Duncan is still here or if his shift has already ended and he left. I’d sent him a text that I’d come by, but he didn’t respond. 

As I pull out my mobile to double check I didn’t imagine sending the message, I hear his voice ring out, calling my name. I turn, smiling at him as he approaches me in a pair of jeans (not skinny) and a plaid shirt (buttoned thoroughly to the top). 

Surprisingly, he greets me with a hug, which I return after a moment’s adjustment. When he pulls away, he’s grinning at me. 

“You’ve been gone for eons,” he tells me, and I roll my eyes. 

“Try five weeks.”

“Nope. Distinctly longer than that.”

“Why aren’t you in uniform?” I ask, changing the subject.

“I didn’t work today,” he says.

Oh.

Well, now I feel like an idiot.

“You should have told me!” I say, giving him a light punch in the arm. He hardly moves, but winces to amuse me.

“I didn’t mind coming by to see you. Figured you might want some company to catch up on all the groceries you haven’t been buying.”

I have a feeling Duncan didn’t just stop by to watch me decide between oranges and bananas, but I don’t say so. Instead, I offer him a smile and grab a basket, leading the way toward the produce. He keeps stride with me easily. 

“You got a haircut,” I remark, if for no other reason than to have something to say.

He smiles at me sheepishly and runs a hand through his newly shortened dark hair. Brown eyes twinkling, he shrugs. 

“Thought it was getting a bit unruly,” he tells me.

I can think of another person who’s hair is getting out of control, but I don’t bring it up for Duncan’s sake. The last thing he probably wants to hear is me rant about the length of Harry Styles’ hair. 

“I like it,” I tell him.

And I do. He looks less boyish with a clean haircut and a scruffy face. He hasn’t shaved in a few days and it suits him, somehow accentuating his jawline. I don’t say so, but I can tell he’s taken to working out in his free time. 

In an attempt to keep my mouth shut before I can stick my foot in it, I grab a bunch of bananas and set it gently in my basket before heading over to survey some plums. 

“So, tell me all about tour.”

“It’s not all that exciting,” I answer immediately, feeling somewhat awkward about the situation I’ve found myself in. 

“You spent the last month and a half in South American stadiums with the world’s most popular boy band. I’m sure you’re downplaying it,” he rolls his eyes. 

I drop a few plums into my basket and start in the direction of the vegetables, biting my lip.

“It was fun,” I try.

“Really painting a picture for me, Mina. Feels like I’m there,” he says dryly. 

Pursing my lips, I turn to him. He’s watching me with a confused expression, like he can’t fathom why I’m reluctant to talk to him about. I find myself wondering the same thing.

“It was hot. I was exhausted a lot. The schedule was really tight and I had to pick girls out of crowds. I missed home a lot,” I tell him.

“Did you miss me?”

The question is innocent enough, but I’m not an idiot. I know it holds weight, and I’m tip-toeing around the subject while I reach for a bunch of carrots. 

“A little,” I finally concede. “I didn’t have much time to dwell on it, though. Didn’t have a lot of alone time.”

He nods in understanding, shoving his hands in his pockets as he follows me into the next aisle where I pick up a few cans of Spaghetti-O’s and soup. I’m kind of relieved that we’ve fallen into a thoughtful sort of silence. I don’t know what to really say.

“So how was the band?”

I almost groan. 

“Very welcoming,” I roll my eyes.

“How welcoming?”

I turn to him abruptly, eyeing him up and down.

“What are you really asking me, Duncan?” I ask finally, tired of the game. 

He looks dumbfounded.

“I’m just asking about your trip, Mina. You’re being guarded. It’s unlike you.”

I stand there a moment longer. There may be some semblance of truth to this. Duncan has always taken an interest in the mundane goings on of my life. He’s always clung to my every word, whether it be about matchmaking stuff or family complaints. 

But I’m not cupid for nothing. I know what he’s really getting at, even if he’s reluctant to say it.

So I let it drop, sighing as I turn back to the shelf on my right and decide if I want peaches and cream or straweberry and cream oatmeal. Behind me, Duncan is reaching up to run his hand through his hair, but it’s too short, so he lets his hand fall to rub the back of his neck instead.

It’s a habit that reminds me of Harry, and I realize suddenly we’ve been around each other a lot more than I took notice of.

“I’m just saying, you’re Niall’s personal assistant, right? That’s the title you carry on the tour?”

I nod, picking up the peaches and cream and moving on. Frozen pizzas are calling my name and who am I to deny it? 

“So you spent a lot of time with all of them. Probably hours on end, every day.”

“So?”

“So you were around them for that long and didn’t develop any attachments?”

“I’m not interested in any of them, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

“Then why are you getting defensive?”

“I’m not getting defensive!” I snap, throwing open the freezer door and grabbing a handful of pizzas. When the foggly glass door swings shut again, Duncan is watching me with an unamused expression, arms crossed over his chest.

I frown at him.

“I’m hired to do a job,” I explain, voice softer. “They guys have been very kind and very welcoming and I consider them friends, but that’s it. I’m their matchmaker, for god’s sake.”

He accepts this with a slight nod. After a moment, the tension in his shoulders relax and he breaks into a smile.

“Good. What are you doing tomorrow night?”

–

I don’t know why I did it.

Maybe it was because it was the first time a boy actually took interest in me, rather than an interest in me finding them a different girl, but I accepted.

Immediately after returning to my flat, I’d had a panic attack, only calming down after a long shower and a pint of ice cream. Snuggled up in a blanket with Easy A playing out over my TV screen, I fell asleep easily and woke up again mid-afternoon.

I had another set of texts from Harry, but they were nothing but chit chat, asking what I was up to or how my day was going. As much as I appreciate him checking in on me, I decided I have bigger fish to fry.

I rub my hands over my face in a desperate attempt to keep myself awake as I sit across from the washing machine in the laundromat. For a while, watching the fabrics swirl in the water was enough to keep my mind from wondering, but that only worked for so long. 

Now, I’ve pulled up the BBC news app and have taken to reading current events, hoping desperately they’ll keep me from realizing what I’ve done.

I’m going on a date.

With Duncan.

The dryer buzzes to let me know it has finished its cycle and I sigh in relief as I shove my phone in the pocket of my joggers and stand. Pulling open the door, I begin to fold the warm clothes, wanting nothing but to disappear into a heap of freshly dried laundry and never face this decision again.

It’s as I’m folding a pair of yoga pants that the idea hits me.

I could just like, not go. 

I mean, obviously I’d never stand him up. Duncan’s my friend and I value that friendship. It’s the only one I have. 

That’s probably what makes this whole thing so terrifying. Also, because things like this never tend to work out for me. The one catch about my talent is that I can’t use it on myself. I like to call it Cupid’s Curse.

I’m remembering the curse as I pull out my phone and find Duncan’s name in a list of messages. Before I can fully process what I’m even doing, I’m typing furiously and hitting send. 

Hey, Duncan. So sorry to bail on you last minute, but I’m feeling poorly. Maybe we can work something out another time?

I don’t even review it. I just send it, locking my screen and plopping my phone atop the neatly folded laundry. I have it on my hip and am on my way down the street, into my building, and onto the elevator when I recieve the response.

No worries. I’ll bring the date to you. (;

I let out an audible groan, slumping against the elevator.

You really don’t have to. I answer.

When I reach my flat, I set the basket on the floor to pick up my buzzing phone.

’Course I don’t. That’s what makes me so great.

It’s obvious he’s not letting me out of this one. There’s no other way to go about this and I’m at a loss for ideas. I settle for cursing beneath my breath as I run a hand through my short hair. Turning to pick the basket up again, I frown at the sight of Gatsby curled atop my mountain of freshly laundered clothes.

“Get off,” I growl at her, snatching her furry body from the still warm fabric. She mews in protest, claws digging into my arm, but I’ve already released her in a swoop and she’s scattering to land on her feet. 

Maybe it’s not fair to let my frustrations out on Gatsby, especially since this is almost entirely my fault for conceding to a date in a moment of weakness, but I can’t help myself. She’s there and prying for attention, something of which I have none to give. 

Glancing at the clock, I’m cursing again as I rush to my room to unload this basket of laundry and try to make myself look somewhat presentable. I’m rummaging through my make-up bag when it hits me that I’ve told him I’m sick. Maybe the worse I look, the more afraid he’ll be of my contagions and he’ll leave earlier. 

I let the mascara fall back into my make-up bag with a soft thud. Examining my reflection in the mirror, I try to see myself the way he sees me.

With a short pixie cut, my hair isn’t anything I ever concern myself with anymore. Anyway, it’s flattened to one angle on my head. Without make-up, the bags under my eyes are a prominent feature. My face is starting to break out from stress, but also from the weird climate I’ve had to get used to in South America. A constellation of small pimples have formed over my left eye-brow, and a few others dot my face here and there near my cheeks and chin. I’m looking less than my usual dapper self in a pair of charcoal joggers and a tucked in tank top with a cardigan thrown over it for good measure.

I give myself a mental pat on the back for looking horrendous just as a knocking sounds at the door.

I grip the edges of my sink in a blind moment of panic, before settling myself down by taking deep breaths. Nodding encouragement at my reflection, I turn on my heel and head toward the door.

This whole ordeal is really stupid, I decide on my way there. I just need to tell Duncan I’m not interested in him romantically. We can hang out as friends, everything out in the open, and all will be saved. Things can go back to being normal and I’ll be alone, but okay with that, and he’ll be sort of upset at first but then realize it’s been a stupid crush all along.

I suck in a deep breath, preparing myself for my big speech as I swing open the door.

But it’s not Duncan standing there.

Leaning against my doorframe with his head hanging low, Harry slowly looks up to meet my eyes and I’m temporarily short of breath. His name tumbles from my mouth in surprise, and he seems just as shocked at my appearance. 

“Are you okay?” he finally asks after he regains his composure.

No, everything is certainly not okay. You look like a male model and I’ve just put forth effort into making myself look hideous in an attempt to scare away another bloke who is on his way over here right now and thinks I’m poorly.

“I’m fine,” I answer instead.

“You didn’t answer any of my texts,” he says next.

“Didn’t have time.”

The excuse is pathetic, and the look on his face tells me he doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he lifts a white bag and offers me a grin.

“Brought you Chinese.”

I tilt my head to one side, my tongue poking into my cheek as I look from the bag to him, then back again.

“Why?” I finally manage to question.

He shrugs, brushing past me into my apartment. Gatsby is immediately zig-zagging between his legs and rubbing against him affectionately. 

“Wanted to make sure you were still alive. Was in the mood to eat Chinese food, but didn’t want to eat it alone.”

“How did you even know where I live?” I try again.

“Niall told me,” he replies easily.

He’s setting up shop in my kitchen, long body poised over the counter, gripping the top of cabinets I usually have a hard time reaching the handles of as he searches for plates. His shirt lifts slightly and I avoid my eyes so as not to follow the tattoos that reside there. 

With a cry of delight, he locates two plates and sets them side by side on my granite countertop. Next, he’s pulling open drawers and grabbing utensils before pulling out an assortment of takeout containers.

I lean against the doorframe with my arms crossed over my chest, completely entranced with watching him move easily throughout my flat. I’m so caught up in it that I jump when I hear another series of knocks at my door. 

Harry freezes in his motions, turning to me. His cheeks are tinged pink as the idea suddenly occurs to him that I may have other plans.

I’m not sure what to do, and Harry doesn’t seem to have any clue either. He’s staring at my door like it might burst into flame, and when the pounding happens again, I know I can’t keep Duncan waiting there any longer.

I pull open the door slowly, smiling sheepishly at him. He grins back at me, making a move to step into the flat.

I don’t know why I let him.

I immediately regret letting him.

Because standing there in the doorway with a brown bag full of tacos from my favorite nearby Mexican restaurant, Duncan stops dead in his tracks and takes in the popstar standing in my kitchen. Confusion and shock are written all over his face, and I’m at a loss for words as Harry eyes him just as warily.

I realize when both their eyes settle on me that I should probably say something. So I clear my throat and quietly shut the door.

“Duncan, this is Harry. Harry... Duncan.”

Neither of them say anything and I realize it was probably wishful thinking to hope a simple introduction would clear the thick fog of awkwardness shrouding us. 

“Duncan and I had plans for the evening, but I didn’t feel much like going out,” I explain to Harry. Turning to Duncan, I say, “Harry popped in to see how I was doing because I hadn’t returned his texts.”

Another moment of awkward silence fills the air. Harry is the first to recover.

“I should have called. Sorry, I’ll just go...”

He’s making a move toward the door when I reach out and grab his wrist.

“No, it’s fine. You should stay.”

Something in my voice must ring sincere, because he stops and looks over at me, sucking his lip between his teeth as he considers this.

My eyes flicker over to Duncan, whose gaze is locked on my fingers wrapped around Harry’s wrist. Immediately I loosen my grip and let Harry’s arm fall from me. 

“You should both stay,” I say, and Duncan’s eyes return to my face as his cheeks redden, though I can’t be sure if it’s from embarrassment or anger. 

As if to prove my point that no one is going anywhere, I take the bag of tacos from Duncan and set it on the counter beside Harry’s Chinese. I’m pretty sure I’m shaking from the pressure of it all as I reach up and grab at a plate, standing on my tip toes. 

A muscular shoulder appears suddenly in front of me as Harry nudges me softly aside, grabbing the plate easily and rolling his eyes at me like my height is an annoying personality trait. I huff, but don’t protest as he sets a third plate beside the other two. 

Getting to work with the tacos, I divvy them up evenly between us before reaching for the Chinese containers and heaping spoonfuls of lo mein noodles on each plate. Satisfied with what I’ve created, I grab a plate and open the fridge, somehow grasping three beers in my hand.

I have a feeling we’ll all need alcohol to get through this awkward sit-in I’ve created.

All in all, I feel like I’ve made the best decision a girl could have made in my position. I couldn’t turn Duncan away and ruin the one friendship I’ve had since moving to London. I didn’t want to turn Harry away, too moved by his sincerity in checking in on me despite the fact that I was sure there were a million other things he could be doing instead.

So I plop down somewhere near the middle of my couch and reach for the remote, landing on some superhero movie to keep the boys entertained while I shove my face and try not to do anything else stupid. 

Harry easily settles beside me on the right, Duncan on my left. Neither of them seem keen on conversation as they crack open their beers and stare intently at their plates, which is fine with me because I feel as if there’s absolutely nothing I can say that would start a conversation which applies to both of them. 

I suffer in silence throughout the entire ordeal, putting in a slight cough or sniffle here and there to throw Duncan off my scent. Unfortunately, this only puts Harry on my scent, and he glances to me every few minutes, as if I’m going to cough too hard and die.

It’s safe to say none of us are enjoying this.

Still, I couldn’t have come up with an alternative under the circumstances.

Eventually, Duncan stands to leave. I follow him to the door, apologizing quietly for the awkward night in. He doesn’t look all too forgiving, and I hope I haven’t permanently mucked up anything between us. 

The quiet looks of disappointment he’s been sending me all night prepare me for him to leave without a word. Instead, he wraps his arms around me in a hug and presses his lips softly to my cheek before disappearing out the door.

When I turn, Harry isn’t fast enough, and I catch the look of utter horror on his face. In a moment, it’s gone, and he’s turned back to the screen. 

I’m shocked to find any sort of jealousy in him, but I shake it off quickly, certain I must have misread him.

You don’t find jealousy in a boy who asks you to set him up with other girls, an unfortunate lesson I’ve learned long ago.

Note to readers

I really enjoyed writing this chapter. It wasn't even something I had originally planned to throw in here, but I'm really glad I did.

Let me know what you thought! Mina was sort of all over the place in this chapter, but I think that's really reflecting her confused state of mind. Maybe she's starting to change a little bit? Hmm? Possibly? Hmm?

Tell me here or on Tumblr what you're thinking! I wanna hear from ya!

beggingforfics.tumblr.com