Honey Smiles // Harry Styles Series #3 - Jamaica

Port Antonio 8

I could say the next few weeks were like a dream, but they weren't. They were absolutely real.

I didn't spend every minute with Harry. In fact often a day or two would go by without seeing him. He was working hard, and he inspired me to do the same.

I made the decision to go home in time for Thanksgiving, so my mother wouldn't be alone. I also decided to begin the pursuit of a PhD with the new year, and began putting out feelers for study opportunities. I contacted a realtor and discussed selling my apartment and buying something new. I didn't want to be in the space I'd shared with Phillip for a single night.

Harry was unpredictable, with moods running from ecstatic to brooding depending on how his work progressed. On some days we'd go for a long and silent run in the hills over Geejam, while on others we'd spend an hour or two lounging by his pool or my little beach, chatting. We rented a small private yacht for a day cruising the coastline, and ventured inland to picnic by a secluded waterfall.

He was very private, rarely discussing his family, and never his former lovers. I got the Harry of the moment. Although determined and committed to make this album his way, a current of self-doubt and desire to please his fans was discernible below his often irreverent demeanor.

I liked to cook us dinner at my house, and we both preferred swimming in the sea, but overnights were always at his bungalow so he could be near the studio if inspiration struck. When that happened it was all hands on deck, no matter the hour, and I would finish the night alone.

One evening I was cooking dinner at his villa while he worked, and he was over an hour late, with no call or message. I was frustrated, but had accepted from the beginning that nothing about this 'relationship' would be normal or predictable.

"Hello," he gave me a quick kiss when he finally arrived, then looked at the table, where the dishes sat, covered. "Am I late?"

"Only a little."

"You won't believe what happened today. I was sitting in the studio with the guys, at the piano, you know, just playing chords. Then I found something good, really good, and we started working with it. We had the music going and I was thinking about how bad things happen to good people, and good things happen to bad people, and how do you explain it.

"What if you were a parent who had to explain the state of the world to a child?

"And we played, and we wrote, and I sang for three hours straight and we finished it. In three hours we finished it, a six minute ballad. It was amazing.

"Of course we'll need to mix in the backing vocals and make a few changes back in the studio in LA, but still... three hours!" He flopped into his chair at the table and began dishing out his dinner before I was even seated. I couldn't be angry.

His euphoria was catching, and I found myself asking him something I'd never asked before.

"Can I hear it?"

As soon as I said it, and saw his brows lower and his fingers reach to pinch that lower lip, I regretted it. I had never asked to hear the music or be in the studio. He'd never said I couldn't, but I felt as though asking would be intrusive, and, frankly, I had no idea how it worked. If I was even allowed to hear.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

"No..." he was deep in thought. "No... of course it's alright that you asked. Now that I think about it, I suppose it's a bit strange that you haven't asked before."

"I didn't want to intrude, or be annoying. And I don't know if I'm allowed to hear anything."

"Look, I'm starving. Let's eat and then I'll take you to the studio. The more I think about it, the more I want you to hear it."

We ate quickly, then cleaned up, before taking the path toward the studio building. From the outside it might have been a normal bungalow, but the interior was far from average.

The studio was divided into two spaces. You entered a room with the soundboard, a few chairs, and a sofa, and other equipment I didn't recognize. Through three windows you could see the recording room. There was a drum kit and other percussion instruments, a few guitars, a synthesizer, and a grand piano.

I followed Harry in and it took my breath away. One entire wall was glass, looking out over the rainforest and across the bay; it must have been an inspiring place to create. Looking at the piano, I smiled as I imagined Harry there just hours before.

Back in the mixing room, he indicated that I should sit at the center of the black leather sofa.

"It'll sound best from there."

It was unfinished, raw, missing the depth that would come with backing vocals and final mixing. It was spectacular. I was in tears as it ended, as I looked up at Harry, leaning in a doorway, rolling his lower lip harder than I'd ever seen him do before. I didn't know how it wasn't always bruised or chapped.

"Harry..." I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing for a moment.

"Harry that was incredible. I had no idea that your voice... that it could be so powerful. And the lyrics... Jesus. Obviously I don't know a damn thing about making a song, but I'm pretty sure that creating that, in three hours, is extraordinary."

"Thank you," he said, a myriad of emotions bundled into those two small words. He turned off the equipment and took my hand before we walked, silent, to his bungalow.