sculpted | l.s. DISCONTINUED

nine

Harry Styles  •  Now
   
"Fucking hell." I looked up at my father, startled.

"This chicken is overcooked," he complained, staring down at his plate. "Fucking idiots." If he wasn't sitting across from me, I would've rolled my eyes. He's such a prick.

"Des honey, I'm sure they can take it back and get you another one," Mum chimed in, from the seat beside him.

"Yeah, no shit, Anne. They better give me a refund, this is ridiculous." You're ridiculous. I watched as he waved down some random server. "This is disgusting. Get me another, yeah?"

"Of course sir, I'll go find someone you can talk to," the young woman said nervously, before walking back inside. I glanced down at my plate and poked the food with a fork, thinking back to the day before. The rain, the smiles, the laughing.

In an instant, I was back there, standing in the pouring rain with the quiet artist. I couldn't help but laugh when I thought back to the look on his face before we burst into hysterical laughter.

"Well now what?" asked the blue eyed boy, staring up at the sky as the rain fell down.

"We go home? I don't want to take up too much of your time."

"Yeah ok," he nodded. "Well it was really nice seeing you. I liked this." I smiled.

"Rain and all?"

"Rain and all." We stood still on the sidewalk, like stars in the sky, smiling so bright. "Alright, well I better go."

"Yeah, me too." Both of us pointed in the opposite direction. "See you," I said, as he smiled and turned the other way. I turned as well and began walking, before suddenly stopping.

"Wait!" I yelled, running back towards him. "Fuck, you walk fast," I panted, metting his gaze. He giggled

"What is it?"

"I uh– Could I get your number?"

"Oh um, yeah," he said, sounding flustered. Or maybe surprised. I handed him my phone and he typed in his number, then handed it back to me. "Here."

"Thanks," I mumbled. "Okay, have a good day."

"You too," he waved, and started walking again. I did the same and walked through the rain with a smile stuck on my face.

"Harry!" I looked up. "God, you never fucking listen. You're always off in your own little world," spat my father.

"Sorry, just got distracted," I mumbled.

"Quit it with the goddamn mumbling."

"Sorry." A click, followed by a flash turned all the heads away from me. Paparazzi. Over my fathers shoulder, on the corner of the street across from the restaurant we were at, was a group of people gasping and pointing at us, each person holding a camera. I turned away from them, resting my forehead on the palm of my hand and closed my eyes.

"Son," my father whispered, giving my arm a pinch. I glanced up at him and furrowed my brows when I saw his fake expression. "Smile for the cameras." I glared, pulling my arm away at his touch and wrapped the other around Ivory, seated in the chair beside me, and pretended to laugh.

Every other Saturday my parents, Ivory and I would go out for lunch, mainly for publicity and to get people talking, but none of us enjoyed it. It was just two hours of fake laughs and forced smiles. Although Ivory and my mum did get along quite well, my fathers presence always seemed to ruin everyone's day.