Nothing Good Gets Away

Chapter 8

HARRY STYLES

June 1st

California is alright. I like waking up to the sun, and it's almost impossible to feel lonely. There are people everywhere, and they always have something to say to you. It's all nice things, of course, but sometimes I don't feel like commenting on the perpetually nice weather with a total stranger while waiting for an Uber on the street. I guess it could be worse and they could be assholes. That would definitely be worse.

My flat is more or less in order now. Doesn't quite feel like home yet, but it's getting there. The couch is nice and at least gives me a place to sit when I'm eating a microwaveable meal. My bed frame is also finally assembled, and that's enough to make me feel like I have at least a bit of my shit together.

I'm going to see Rowan at her bakery opening today, and I'm looking forward to it.

I slap my journal closed, but leave my music playing on my laptop resting on the coffee table as I stand from the couch. My outfit of jeans and a short sleeve button-up shirt is fine with me, but I do brush my teeth and take my fingers through my hair until it's just the right kind of messy.

I'll admit I definitely could have gone to the bakery earlier today, but I had a feeling it would be busier in the morning, and I don't want to feel like I'm in the way, or inconveniencing Rowan in any way...despite the fact that she obviously invited me to come any time.

But now it's around 4:00, so I figure most people will be heading out to dinner rather than getting dessert. And maybe, selfishly, I think I'll have a better chance of having an actual conversation with her.

My phone vibrates on the kitchen counter, signaling that my Uber has arrived as I chug half a bottle of water. I snatch my wallet and keys to lock up, taking long strides to get to the lift.

"Chéri," my Uber driver says as I buckle up, "what's that?"

"Oh, it's a new French bakery," I explain. "My neighbor is the owner, and she just opened it up."

"Nice," the woman spares me a smile in the rearview mirror, and I mindlessly scroll through my phone for what I know is about to be a traffic-ridden drive. On Saturdays, I've learned, it seems that the population of Los Angeles doubles in size.

Rodeo Drive is packed with luxury cars, and luxury people walking on the pristine sidewalks. Everything is shinier and brighter than it is in Hollywood, and there isn't a homeless person in sight. I guess this is what Rowan meant when she said it's easy to forget that there's poverty when this is your reality.

"This okay right here?" The woman asks, stopping in the middle of the crowded street.

"Yeah, thank you," I step out of the car and get out of the road to stand between a black Lamborghini and a bright yellow Ferrari parallel parked by the sidewalk.

Chéri's sleek storefront is painted black, which helps it stand apart from its white brick neighbors. The gold lettering reflects the sun and the wide glass windows are spotless. Strangely enough, I feel almost proud, or maybe relieved, when I see that all the tables inside are full, and there are people both leaving and walking in.

I catch the door to hold for three younger girls heading through, then let myself in to be hit with the scent of warm sugar–just like Rowan's flat was the other night.

As someone who has spent time in Paris myself, she hit the nail right on the head with the decor inside. There was a heavy vintage European feel about the brown woodwork in comparison to the black and white tile floor, down to the spotlights in the ceiling. I can imagine that it's a cozy spot when the sun goes down. A good date spot to end the night with.