Something Great

Chapter 3

"Baby don't worry, about a thing...'cause every little thing gonna be alright..." - Three Little Birds, Bob Marley

Harry's P.O.V

The minutes tick by.  Agonisingly slowly. Glancing at my phone, I realize that we've been here for 15 minutes.  My legs are starting to get stiff from leaning against the wall, so I slump to the floor, tucking my knees up against my chest.  Natalie is busy trying to get signal on her phone, wandering to different places in the small car and holding her phone in the air.

"That's not going to work," I mutter. I hear her sigh, and I glance up to see that she looks completely defeated.  She shuffles a few steps over to the opposite wall, shrugs out of her jacket, and joins me on the floor.  She mimics me by tucking her legs up, but wraps her arms around her knees, resting her chin on top. 

Fuck. I don't really care, but making conversation seems like the "polite" thing to do.  Last thing I need is her running off to the tabloids to tell them what a stuck-up arse I am. That, and she looks like she's about to cry.

"Are you okay?" I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth.  Those three simple words can often, unwittingly, unleash a complete stranger's life story.  Please say you're fine. Please.  She honestly seems surprised that I'm even addressing her. I want to ask her who the fuck else I would be talking to, but assume that might be rude.  But, I wasn't prepared for her answer.

"Do you actually want to know, or are you just bored and trying to appear polite?" she asks me, unflinching.  But there's no anger or malice behind her words. She actually seems curious about my answer.  Well shit.  I feel a flush creep up my neck, embarrassed that I've been called out, but also a bit irritated.  This is the second time she's been a right cunt to me in less than 30 minutes, and I haven't done shit to deserve it.

"That depends, are you always such a defensive bitch?" I bite back, raising my eyebrow.  I throw in my patented smirk to soften the blow and show her I'm really just taking the piss...and because it usually allows me to get away with anything.

"I don't know. Do you always wield your sex appeal like a weapon?" Now SHE'S smirking.

"Is this your way of saying I'm sexy?"

"I think YOU think you're sexy."  Her deadpan rebuttal pulls me up short and I'm left gaping at her.  I briefly wonder if I've stumbled into an alternate universe. I have no fucking clue how to respond to her. That never happens. Ever. I usually turn on the Styles charm and that's it.  I should just tell her to fuck off and be done with her, but instead I'm staring at her, my palms sweating like an awkward fucking teenager, and my heart pounding.  My thoughts are scattered all to hell.  I really need out of this elevator.

Natalie's P.O.V.

I'm on a fucking roll tonight.  It's one thing to not allow someone to walk all over you. It's another to be nasty to them, without cause.  Harry hasn't given me cause. It's my own fears and insecurities, rearing their ugly heads, making me lash out.  He may be a bit of a cocky pop star, well-aware of his good looks, but I've been unfair to him.  At least in the now 20 minutes we've been in this elevator.

I roll my eyes skyward, as if I'm looking for answers on the roof of the elevator.  "I'm sorry. Again. No, I'm not really okay. My daughter is in the care of my roommate right now, and I was supposed to be home by now.  I just want them to know that I'm alive.  Emily must be so scared." The significance of the statement hits me, and I can't prevent my voice from shaking slightly on the last few words.  I can see Emily's face in my mind. She's probably refusing to go to sleep and asking Patrick where I am.  I can feel the lump growing in my throat, but as I focus on not crying, I'm taken by surprise in the worst possible way.

The familiar tingling starts in my fingertips and toes, and races through my extremities, like my veins are filled with ice water. Please no.  Not here.  Not now.  The panic attack is coming on fast. My heart starts to race. My chest feels heavy, weighed down.  I can't get air.  My head feels disconnected from the rest of my body.  I blink rapidly to clear my vision of the black spots that are creeping in from the periphery.  I'm screaming a silent plea in my head for the attack to stop, but it doesn't.  I think the walls of the elevator are moving. I reflexively put my hands up to stop them.  I think I hear someone calling my name.  Is that Harry? Why does he sound so far away?

I need out. I need to get out. I just want to lie down. I just want to sleep...but the person calling my name seems to be getting closer.  I feel gentle pressure on my arms, on my cheeks. The voice gets louder. I hear more than just my name. I hear gentle words of comfort.  Something is brushing against both of my cheeks softly.  The voice continues to get louder. I recognize it. It is Harry.  He's calling my name. He's telling me it's going to be alright.  Doesn't he know? Doesn't he know that it can't?  I feel wetness on my face. Am I crying?  My chest still feels tight, but I'm breathing.  My heart feels like a caged animal. Can he hear it?

Harry's voice gets louder.  Maybe he's trying to talk over the sound of my heart hammering away in my chest. "You're alright Natalie, you're safe. Focus on my voice. I'm right here." I want to thank him, to reach out, but I feel trapped in my head, my vision constricted to narrow points of light.  He continues to whisper soothingly to me, and I start to realize that the soft pressure on my arms and cheeks is coming from his fingertips.  Suddenly, the tight band around my chest starts to loosen, and the black spots begin to dissipate.  The relief is overwhelming.

I come back to the present and am aware of two things, that distract me from the recent terror: 1)Harry is gripping my upper arms and looking into my eyes, and 2) his proximity is such that I can feel his warm breath on my cheek. I breath in and get a whiff of wintergreen, as well as a musky sweet cologne that makes me reflexively want to lean in. His lips are literally the color of ripe cherries.  I start to focus on the small mole located near his jaw, on the left side of his face. I also notice the bit of stubble that he's sporting. I wonder what kind of razor he uses.

Admittedly, I'm taking my time with my inspection, as I can feel the hot sting of embarrassment bubbling to the surface, tears threatening, and I'm hoping to avoid the inevitable. Only the people in my inner circle have seen these attacks. Through sheer will I have kept them a virtual secret. Until now. I suddenly feel naked, on display.  An angry, humilitated tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it, and I wrench myself from Harry's grasp to wipe it away.

"I'm sorry," I mutter, squaring my shoulders. Deciding the best approach is self-deprecation, I continue, "You can probably see now why I don't really date. I should come with a warning label, yeah? Forget baggage, I come with an entire set of luggage!" I know I'm rambling at this point, and possibly digging my hole deeper, but really - what does it matter? I've certainly given him a story to tell.  As I turn around, expecting my suspicions to be confirmed, I'm caught off-guard by the look in his eyes.  In place of incredulity is...understanding? He's smiling wryly at my thinly veiled attempt at moving the conversation out of dangerous waters. Clearing his throat he asks, his eyes darting away briefly, "how long have you been having those panic attacks?"

Deflecting his question, I ask one of my own,"How did you know that's what that was?" To this, his lips tighten into a thin line and his posture changes, albeit almost imperceptibly.  Looking away he simply mutters, "I've seen them before." While I'm dying to press him further, he backs away to the wall of the elevator again, and the defensive set of his shoulders tells me I'm not getting anything more out of him. So, rather than attempt to interrogate him, I do the only thing I can think of and change the subject.

"So...are you guys enjoying the break so far? What brings you to Vegas?" Smooth, Natalie.  Way to be the picture of sophistication. In any case, the focus is no longer on me. Crisis averted. But I start to focus more on his words. He told me I was going to be alright. He's known me less than an hour, so he couldn't possibly know that. Yet, for some reason, I find myself believing him, desperately wanting to have faith that he's right.