just one song - harry styles

one

Leo was the closest thing Milo could call to a best friend. They fought like siblings. They'd met in high school at Dalton and both went to Columbia. Leo graduated early; Milo dropped out.

"So, you won't be waking up in his bed tomorrow morning?"

"Definitely not. He never lets me stay the night."

Milo quickly filled in her eyebrows and dabbed perfume on her wrists. Leo stood from the couch as she re-entered the living room.

"It looks good on you." he remarked.

"Duh. You picked it out."

They were headed to a hole in the wall bar in Soho, much to Leo's chagrin. He was more of a lounge off Fifth Avenue type. So was Milo, by birthright, but she liked to pretend she wasn't raised with a bedroom overlooking the reservoir. And, so, when it was Milo's night to choose their venue, they prowled open mics in lower Manhattan, never stepping a hair above the Flower District on twenty-eighth.

They took a cab and bickered until it stopped. Milo hopped out first and rubbed her arms, wished she had brought a jacket.

"Head in, I'll join in a few." she said, yanking her cigarettes out of her back pocket.

Leo scrunched his nose. "Gross."

When he disappeared into the bar, Milo leaned against the wall beside the door. She watched people rush by ahead of her and popped a cigarette into her mouth. She cupped her hand around the end to shield it from the wind and flicked her lighter.

"'Scuse me, but can I steal a light?" A man interrupted. She looked up and quickly lit her cigarette. He was tall, wore a black hoodie and sunglasses. He had on a yellow baseball cap that read "Free and Easy" and his brown hair stuck out from underneath. Milo didn't say anything, just lifted her hand to offer the lighter. He took it and moved to lean on the wall beside her. He lit his own cigarette and handed it back.

"They say smoking's pretty bad for you." He said. He had an accent that Milo thought might be British.

"Whatever kills me the quickest." she said. She exhaled the smoke through her nose and watched the cars drive past.

"You don't mean that." he said. Milo could see him watching her out of the corner of her eye. "Or else you would've done it yourself."

She snorted and pushed herself off the wall. She dropped her half-smoked cigarette and pressed into it with her heel. She smirked at the man as she walked to the door of the bar.

"Don't tempt me."

She left him there, in the cold, and dove into the sea of sweat and beer inside the bar. Some poor girl had the microphone, singing a sad rendition of Bob Dylan, and the rest of the room talked over her. Milo's friends were crammed into a corner booth and she elbowed her way through the crowd to reach them. Leo was already seated across the table from Quinn.

They were an interesting group. Leo, Quinn, Vivienne, Max, and Milo. Max was like Leo and Milo, Manhattan trust-fund babies. Born and bred on the upper east side. Max and Milo hooked up for years, through their years at Dalton and into college, but it never really meant anything to her. He was too blonde, too nice for her to fall in love with.

Viv's parents were Brooklyn wealthy. The Park Slope townhouse, vacation home in Hudson instead of the Hamptons type. The group had picked Vivienne up at Columbia and she'd stuck around ever since. As for Quinn, Milo didn't mind him, but she didn't much like him. She let him stick around because, eventually, he and Leo would stop hooking up and admit they were in love with each other.