What Are The Odds?

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"Beige lampshades and black lamps." Gregg says, as we walk down the aisle of lamps, lights, lampshades and other items that fill our houses with light.
"Gregg, you're too picky. IKEA does not make their items according to your preferences." I say, rolling my eyes. Gregg chuckles, punching my shoulder lightly.
"I'm sorry for being so picky, I just want everything to be perfect for this party."
"I understand, after all so many hot shots will be attending." My eyes gaze around the shelves, trying to find a perfect lamp for Gregg's party. Tonight he's hosting a party for almost all of the big names in Hollywood. One movie is all it took for Gregg to become famous, and one song is all it took for him to get a record deal. Now, producers, and record label owners are lining the streets to get him to work for them.
"That's exactly why you should come, Mus. I don't know why you're not willing to join us," Gregg says. "I won't fit in, Gregg. That's why." I insist for the hundredth time. "I'm a college going girl and everyone who will attend your party have not gone to college, or graduated and made it big in Hollywood. Including you."
"Mus, come on!" Gregg whines, tugging at my arm like a child. He's so annoying, yet I love his silly habits. "I even got you a dress and I don't just go around buying women dresses."
"Gregg, I've thanked you for that dress a million times and I'll say it again, thank you. It's expensive and I don't think I'll be able to wear it often. However, since you're not returning it, I'll find an occasion to use it for." He sighs and shakes his head.
"Fine, I give up!" Gregg raises his arms in the air and then drops them against his thighs with a thud. "Let's just find suitable lamps for the party and leave." I laugh, nodding my head.
********
As I'm about to sit down on the couch with my bowl filled high with fresh popcorn, the doorbell rings. Groaning, I place the popcorn on the coffee table and head over to the front door. I unlock the door just a bit, peering over the side to see who's there. Gregg is standing outside in a tux, hair gelled back.
"What're you doing here?" I ask him, fully opening the door. Without waiting for me to welcome him in, Gregg walks past me and enters my house, as if it were his.
"Well, since you're not coming to my party, I'm not going either." Gregg says, heading toward the lounge where my bowl of popcorn awaits me.
"It's your party. You have to attend." I say, matter-of-factly. He shakes his head.
"No, I don't because you aren't." Gregg throws himself on my couch and grabs a handful of popcorn from the bowl.
"That's mine!" I exclaim, grabbing the bowl and hugging it close to my chest. Gregg grins, grabbing the television remote. I narrow my eyes and glare at him, as he changes the channels.
"You need to get out of my house." I say, as sternly as I can.
"No, I don't." Gregg says, a smug grin plastered across his face.
"So you won't attend your own party?"
"No."
"Why?"
"I've said it before and I'll say it again, because you're not coming."
"So if I do, you'll go?" He nods his head and I can tell that he knows this is a battle that he's going to win. Huffing, I slam the popcorn bowl on the table and march toward my room.
"I'll be ready in ten!" I yell, slamming my room door behind me.
********
Gregg leads me up the front stairs that lead to his huge house. House doesn't define this amazing piece of architecture. It has marble columns standing near the entrance, as if they're guarding the house. The long, and circular driveway is illuminated by rustic lampposts. I love the old, antique effect that they give to this modern piece of art. It's amazing just how well the old, and new effect blend in together. Gregg and I enter his house and walk down the hallway that leads to the ballroom.
"Good evening, Steve." Gregg greets a man, stopping in his tracks. He turns to face me. "Mus, go on ahead. I'll catch up in a few minutes." Jerk! I told him not to leave me alone, even for a minute. However, instead of arguing, I nod my head and continue down the hallway. Gregg chose a beautiful, white gown for me. It falls down my waist in a very elegant and princess-like manner. The first day that I tried it on, I kept swirling because I loved the way it moved around my legs. It has criss-crossed straps running along my back. Therefore, the parts of my back that are not covered with cloth have thousands of tiny goosebumps. A man wearing a white and black tux, opens the door of the ballroom.
"Thank you." I say, smiling. He nods his head at me and smiles back, a warm and genuine smile. I wonder just how many people have thanked him for standing out here, opening doors for us, when we are perfectly capable of doing so ourselves. The ballroom is filled with guests. All of the men are in suits, some gray, some white and most of them black. If I'm not mistaken, I see Debbie Ryan standing in one corner, wearing a red dress that reaches till her knees. I am nothing compared to these beauties. A man who's wearing a blue tux is standing in front of her, both of them talking animatedly. What am I doing here? I question myself for the hundredth time since I lay foot in Gregg's house. I make my way toward the bar, deciding to get a glass of Coke. Maybe a drink will help calm my nerves.
"Corona." A man says, taking a seat on a sliver and black bar stool. I sit down beside him, passing my hand over my dress to smooth out imaginary creases. Seeing all those women out there, with their hair and makeup done to perfection, is getting to me. I feel so insecure and inferior among all of these people. I didn't even make my hair, or apply anything other than lip-gloss. I've been a tomboy till I was sixteen and I don't have any desire to look like a clown, because when I apply makeup I do look like a clown. I'm in first year of college and most of the girls wear makeup, even my best friend, Kate, wears makeup and makes her hair everyday. However, I'm not like them and I don't think I can ever be. I remember being thirteen and trying to apply mascara; it didn't work out. I grab the glass of Coke that the bartender just placed in front of me and get off the stool. I'm staring ahead at a couple who has just entered the ballroom when someone bumps into me.
"Sorry." A husky, deep voice says. I've heard that voice a million times on television. I usually smile when I hear that voice. I turn to face the one and only, Harry Styles.
"I-It's okay," I stutter. "It w-was my fault." Harry smiles down at me, his dimples turning me into putty.
"It was mine, actually. While texting one shouldn't walk." Harry says, holding up his phone. I chuckle and his smile grows.
"Harry!" Gregg's exclaims. We both turn our heads to the right. Gregg is doing a fast paced walk toward us. He stops right beside us and embraces Harry, as if they're old friends.
"Gregg!" Harry exclaims, equally loudly. "I was wondering where the party's host is?"
"Sorry, got caught up with another producer." Gregg roles his eyes. His eyes land on me and he places his hand on my back.
"Judging by the way you two are standing, I'm guessing you already met. But just in case, Harry this is Mus, my dear friend. Mus this is Harry, as I'm sure you already know." Gregg introduces us.
"So, you're a fan of One Direction?" Harry asks, his face alight with a grin, and a twinkle in his eyes.
"Yeah," I sigh. "I was a big fan - a Directioner - but with time my insanity died down."
"Insanity?" Harry pouts, furrowing his brow. "Liking, or loving a band doesn't mean that you're insane. If that band is One Direction, it means that you have good taste in music." I laugh.
"You're right. Let's call my insanity...fascination, okay? That sounds better," I propose.
"Listen, you both can chat about this all you want, but I have to go and tend to other guests. See you in a while, Harry." Gregg says, heading off toward a table occupied fully.
"Have you ever been to one of our concerts?" Harry says, as I turn around to place my glass on the bar. I shake my head.
"I wanted to in 2016, but then you took a two year long hiatus." I explain. "So my plans to attend your concert got put off and now I have college."
"College. How old are you?"
"Never ask a woman's age." Harry smiles at me sheepishly.
"I'm sorry if you got offended." He apologizes earnestly.
"I didn't. I'm eighteen, by the way."
"Wait, how do you know Gregg? He's twenty, if I'm not mistaken."
"Harry! There you are." A woman says. She loops her arm through Harry's and tugs him behind her. I stare at them, hoping Harry will look back, or show some sign indicating that he enjoyed my company. However, he busies himself with a crowd of singers - most of their faces are frequent visitors of the tabloids and magazines - and I shake my head at my foolish thoughts. What am I thinking? Why would Harry Styles enjoy my company of all the people in the world?

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