I Fold [h.s.]

5

I get home after dark, but not too late. Tomorrow I start working for real. I have to pack for London tonight, meet with Harry at the studio tomorrow to see the band, then catch a flight later that night.

All my things are spread out across the living room floor, and I'm sitting criss-crossed in the middle of it. Rita is on the couch, listening to my detailed recount of the day with Harry. Georgie keeps rubbing up against me and trying to shove his way into my arms, almost like he knows I'm leaving for a while.

"I know, Georgie, I'm sorry," I mumble, packing up the pieces of one of my cameras into its respective bag. He lets out a small meow then finally settles between a pile of shirts.

"So you told him about Mai?" Rita asks, leaning over to pet Georgie between the ears, just how he likes it. He purrs and closes his eyes.

"I mean, I didn't get into the whole sob story. I just told him the answer to his question."

"Why though? You didn't have to," She presses. I push the camera bags into my big black backpack and zip it up, then sigh.

"I don't know," I say, turning to her. "He just has this thing where like, I feel comfortable with him. Like I can tell him stuff and he doesn't seem to care—not in a bad way. He's just...nice."

Rita looks at me with her familiar, knowing look. I shake my head.

"No."

She just chuckles and stands up.

"I'm gonna get dinner started, you hungry?"

I smile. "Ravenous."

***

The next morning is an early one. I wake up and slam my alarm off, then roll out of bed and push my hair out of my eyes.

"Today's a big day," I say, turning toward the cat lying in the windowsill. He looks at me with utter disinterest, then turns back to waiting for the sun to rise. I guess the sadness about me leaving faded pretty quickly.

I reluctantly pull my pajamas off—if you call a giant tee shirt pajamas. I inspect (another) hole in the stitching, then throw it into the trash instead of the hamper. I pull on my clothes for the day—an old pair of broken-in pants and my favorite sneakers—and try to style my hair and makeup as quickly as possible. My stomach has been churning for hours on end just thinking about meeting the band, and the producers, and the managers, and the assistants—fully entering Harry's world is a lot different than a lunch date.

I roll all of my luggage—a single suitcase and my camera bag—into the living room, trying to be careful not to wake Rita. Harry told me someone was coming to pick me up, a driver. Because millionaires have drivers.

I try to shake the nerves out of my hands and turn the coffee maker on, then sit at the counter watching it heat up. My chin rests in my hand, and my eyes keep fluttering closed.

"Fuck," I murmur. "Wake up."

The coffee maker finally kicks on and I quickly make my daily coffee—oat milk and a little sugar—in my favorite travel mug. The one Rita got me freshman year as a moving in gift. I put the cover on the mug, then juggle my bags, trying to stay quiet on my way to the door. The driver will be here any minute and I'm so anxious I might explode.

"You gonna leave without saying goodbye?"

I turn and see Rita standing in the doorway to her room, arms crossed, but a smile on her face. For the first time, I feel my chest clench with sadness. We'd been together since freshman year—neither of us had lived with anyone else. She knows everything about my life, all the ups and all the downs. Leaving her is like leaving the other half of myself.

I rush over to her and wrap her into a tight hug. She grips the back of my shirt and sniffles.

"Don't forget about me, 'kay?"

I shake my head and pull away. "I could never forget about you, you're too annoying," I reply. She scoffs and moves to help me with the big suitcase.

"I'll walk you down," She says.

We bring the bags downstairs and wait on the sidewalk while I sip my coffee and obsessively crack my knuckles and neck and back and every other joint that could possibly crack. Finally, Rita's had enough.

"What's making you so nervous?" She asks calmly. I sigh and sip coffee.

"I don't know any of these people and I want them to like me."

She smiles softly. "Trust me, babe, they're gonna like you. It's impossible not to."

I shrug, feeling more and more sick and tired. "I'm just really scared. What if it doesn't work out?"

As I finish speaking, a big black Range Rover pulls up and the driver waves to me. He's young, about Harry and I's age, and has a friendly smile. He takes my bags and packs them in the trunk, then lets Rita and I say our goodbyes.

I sit in the car and I sit in a weird, anxious feeling. The driver, Dan, tries to make conversation, and I try to keep conversation, but my voice trails off and my eyes stray towards the window.

"Nervous?" He asks finally. I chuckle.

"Understatement of the year," I reply. He smiles over at me, a kind, warm smile.

"Trust me, they're all nice people, even when they're drunk. And I couldn't tell you how many times I've driven them home drunk."

I laugh softly again, a kind of polite laugh.

"Plus Harry told me to drive safe 'cause you're important, so I think he's already thinkin' pretty highly of you."

The rest of the ride is a little better, and I start to feel more at ease. Harry thinks highly of me? I hope I can only live up to whatever standards he has for me.

The studio comes into view, and like the well-paid companion he is, Dan helps me carry my bags inside and shows me to where the band is recording. I thank him, try to tip him, am refused, then left alone.

I take a deep breath and steel myself, then raise my hand to knock on the studio door.