Diligence [H.S.]

FIFTEEN

Chapter Song: Shakes by Luke Hemmings

...

HARRY STYLES

She didn't run. Well, not the first night.

In this first week of her stay, she made many attempts to sneak out. Her creativity wasn't lacking with each strategic effort.

The monitors on the entry and exit doors downstairs have become her worst enemy and my savior. Sleep has become a rarity, not because I have to, but mostly because I worry; if I drift off by accident after Andrea falls asleep, the monitors wake me up. There haven't been any instances where I've had to chase after her; she usually gives up when she sees me at the top of the stairs or the front door when she nearly reaches the driveway.

She always turns around and begrudgingly returns once she realizes I'm not far behind her.

Something I've learned quickly is that any time she's asleep, she's most likely not asleep. She waits until my body gives in to the exhaustion before executing her planned exit.

It doesn't bother me that she's trying to leave. Strangely enough, I was prepared for her to try. What hurts the most is knowing where she is trying to go—who specifically she's trying to see to get her fix.

I know that makes me a fucking asshole for even thinking about getting jealous, but it makes me sick to my stomach. There is more to it, even if I can't pinpoint what it is exactly.

There is something about him. And this so-called arrangement of theirs doesn't feel right.

With how our reunion has progressed since I first saw her, now I am more than desperate to make a connection. I'm not asking for some groundbreaking change, but maybe if I can get her to start talking to me, she won't feel the need to run.

I've clarified that she isn't locked in the house. Jo recommended hiding car keys, which I was reluctant to do at first, but one imaginative flash of her possibly driving under the influence in my mind had me hiding every pair. I don't believe she would drive while high or drunk, but in a desperate state, I would rather be safe rather than sorry.

Andrea wasn't happy about it, but Nate is basically her personal chauffeur now. He happily agreed, and her resentment settled when she realized Nate driving her somewhere was better than nothing. I offered to be the one to drive her wherever necessary.

She shot that idea down, as expected.

Nate says she doesn't talk to him that much either, but at least she can spend more than five minutes in a small space with him.

It's been a week. She's somewhat settled in—as much as she's allowed herself to. Now, I want to try to reconnect—platonically, not romantically.

Believe me, my feelings for her are still as present and prominent as they have ever been, but she doesn't need that from me right now. She needs to feel that there's someone here for her. She knows we're all here for her, but I don't think she's opened herself enough to feel supported or loved in any capacity lately. Part of me wonders if that's why she hasn't wanted to get clean and sober again. I would assume that it isn't a simple choice to make; there are amends she will have to make, and it will be far from easy. She has to suffer through a painful and agonizing detox to reach the other side. Being faced with that choice when you feel alone must be terrifying, and I don't want her to feel that way.

I quietly walk across the hallway from the master bedroom to the guest room she has deemed hers. My heart drops at the sight of her door being cracked open, but my anxiety settles when I see her sound asleep in bed.