Life on the Run (Harry Styles)

Chapter 6

Becca

I keep a pair of dark sunglasses on. I thought it would look too suspicious, but Harry disagreed, promising others would be wearing shades too. Of course when we reach the busy New York streets, he's proven right, only to inflate his ego.

My fingers trail across the delicate clothing hanging on display. I pull myself away from the expensive clothing and over to the clearance racks.

"American tourist, remember?" Harry growls in my ear. By the time I turn around, he's gone. I turn back to the rack, pulling a hanger across the metal pole, making a godawful noise. I cringe, but keep shifting the clothes.

...

"Are you quite done, dear?" Harry places his hand on my shoulder, chuckling at the massive pile of clothes in my arms.

"Yes, dear."

He guides me to the cashier, clothes rumpled in both our arms.

You finally get to be that cute little well-dressed high school girl you never got to be, my subconscious positively tells me.

When did you ever want to be that girl?

He hands the small, teenage girl a credit card and she swipes it after putting our clothes and accessories into many bags. The girl looks up at me with wide doe eyes. I push my sunglasses up my nose, basically jamming them into my eyes.

Please don't recognize me, I silently beg. Act normal.

Harry notices my unease and snakes his arm around my waist, pushing me towards the exit.

"Why don't you wait in the car, Annabelle?" I breathe out in relief as I walk out the doors, the crisp wind whipping my ponytail around. I take a seat on the bench as I anxiously wait for Harry. The door swings open and I eagerly look up, only to find a woman with a toddler walking out.

Breathe, I remind myself. Everything's okay.

Harry walks out, a toothy, dimpled grin spread across his face. His unruly curls blow with the breeze as he saunters over to my bench. An undetectable emotion flashes across his face as he nears and soon an emotionless mask is plastered on. He roughly hands me my shopping bags and strides down the street we came from.

"It's nearly 11, hurry up," he calls back to me. I jog to catch up to him, only to have him walk faster as I slow. I frown. Why is he acting so difficult?

He slides the key into our motel room and drops his bags on the bed we slept on. I place mine on the opposite bed as I sift through them, already knowing the outfit I want to wear.

"Are you done yet?" Harry calls from inside the bathroom. I nod, only to realize he can't see me.

"Yes!" I quickly shout.

"Took you long enough," he huffs. He walks out, carrying all his bags, wearing dark-washed jeans, a plain white T-shirt with an unbuttoned light denim shirt over top, and a ridiculous fedora placed atop his brown curls. I brush my hands against my new white cotton skirt, smoothing the wrinkles. I tug the cropped floral top down, it seems to have shrunk impossibly from the time I bought it. I fold my pants and shirt, sloppily shoving them in my backpack. I gather my bags in my hand before walking down to the lobby.

Harry leans against the car, looking impatient as ever. His chest inflates and he strides briskly to me.

"Christ," he breathes, grabbing my bags from me and dropping them in the trunk. I take my sunglasses from my hands and slide them on, just as I slid an emotionless mask on to match his.