Ghost Writer [Harry Styles][H.S. Fanfic]

22 - WALK ON THE WATER

Pushing the door open once I finally get the damned key inserted into its flipping slot—with a little help from my curly-headed friend—I swoop my hand inside the room dramatically, feigning an air of poise and refinement. "After you, sir."

"Why, thank you, madam." With an uncoordinated bow, Harry shakes his head at my atrocious English accent and steps through the threshold. "But for your information, I shared my toys fine. I just don't like sharing you."

Be still, my shitty heart.

Be still!

He's making this whole you-should-date-around-till-I-get-my-life-together arrangement really fucking hard!

Twisting my lips to side in an attempt to hide the ghost of an egotistical smirk that's trying to sneak out, I follow behind him and shut the door.

"Keep saying things like that, Curly, and I'll get a big head," I giggle, taking a closer look at the room I'll be spending the night in.

Although, the word "room" is a freaking understatement, seeing as I could fit at least three replicas of my shipping container house in this singular loft. White, exposed brick holds true to the industrial aesthetic of the warehouse-turned-private-club. Sporting a touch of the '70s and '80s vibe, it's complemented with hemp-colored furniture, all sitting as the centerpiece for the art deco walls, which are littered in artwork created by local artists. Between the mini-bar, curtain wall-divider, barn doors, and clawfoot tub, I fall in love, and I never want to leave. He can't make me.

He scoffs, "Is that even possible? Your head is already bloody massive."

Shots fired!

His witty comeback has my head snapping in his direction so fast that I'm fairly certain I just gave myself whiplash.

I hold my hands up in shock. "Whoa there, buddy! Did Mister 'Treat-People-With-Kindness' just roast me?" I gasp, pretending to clutch my pearls, my eyes wild with delight. "I'm kinda... proud. I didn't know you had it in you."

Harry chuckles, wrinkling his nose in an adorably guilty manner as he launches a pillow at my head. "Shut up and pour our drinks. I'll find us a movie to watch on Netflix."

"Roger," I quip, sending him a two-fingered salute.

"You like romantic comedies?" he asks.

"Hate them," I say, mixing a potion of several liquors together.

"Rom-Com it is."

<<<>>>

Two hours, four mystery margaritas, and an entire box of tissues later—I'm sitting in the nook of the fluffy sofa with my knees curled into my chest in an upright fetal position, and... I. Can't. Quit. Crying!

Gaping at the sixty-whatever-inch flatscreen TV, utterly speechless, tears flood down my flushed cheeks at a disturbing, unyielding rate. I didn't even know I had this much water in my face to cry. It won't fucking stop! I threw in the towel on clearing away my broken dam of emotions a while ago because it started to sting after my skin grew raw from the constant wiping.

Now, when I say that I cried... I mean full-on, distraught, somebody-fucking-sedate-me, ugly-crying—puffy, bloodshot eyes and all. Oh, and let's not forget the fun time where I hyperventilated because I couldn't seem to get my shit together. I'm not going to lie; I totally thought I was about to pass out from the lack of oxygen flow to my brain.

The English bastard just Notebooked me!

While I was tanked!

Watching that damn movie sober would've been hard enough to handle, but I was off my face, drowning in an obscene amount of tequila. Thus, amplifying all of my emotions to heights I never wanted to reach at this stage of my life. I felt like I was on a runaway rollercoaster of feels, but my safety bar wasn't working, and I was holding onto that bitch for dear life while spiraling in never-ending loopty-loops of death.