Eyes Bright, Uptight {EDITING}

// don't you know that people write songs about girls like you //

This was the Park Hyatt Hotel. The one that I had paid an ungodly amount of money for. The name George had given me when I casually asked where he was staying last week.

I leaned in a little, shifting my hobo bag on my arm. "Oh, no, he's here. Maybe check the computer again?"

She simply blinked at me silenty.

"He's in a band, The 1975. I know them," I explained.

Oh. She didn't believe me.

Jesus.

I wondered how many insane girls did this: hotel-stalked the boys and tried to get the employees to give them their room cards. Then an idea struck me. Naturally, he wouldn't go by his real name. Celebrities used fake names all the time.

"Danes," I said excitedly, the woman flinching a little. "Bedford Danes."

Though that wouldn't be too hard to figure out, as it was his Twitter alias. The woman behind the counter pressed some more keys at a rapid pace, and the look on her face confrmed that Bedford Danes was indeed the pseudonym Georgie had chosen.

"Sweetie," she sighed.

She sweetied me. This woman just sweetied me.

I rolled my eyes and pulled out my phone to show her a picture of George and I, taken months and months ago. We were crossing our arms together and eating each others ice cream cones. That day was still so vivid in my mind.

Her eyebrows raised, and she apologetically cleared her throat. "Well, then. I'll let him know to be expecting you."

"Thanks," I mumbled awkwardly, embarrassed that this woman had gathered I'd traveled halfway across the country to sleep with a famous drummer.

=

The hotel room was gorgeous, everything was ivory and beige, creamy and soft. The Chicago skyline was a happy medium of industrial and old-archietectured buildings overlapping a pretty blue-grey sky. I was sitting at the desk that faced the window, writing frantically on my laptop. Writing about Matty, writing about George. Writing about myself.

The hours passed and my back was starting to ache, my shoulder stiffening, my stomach grumbling and my eyes hurting from straining at the screen. The sun was setting, the lights of the buildings just starting to be brighter than the sun. I paused from my writing and smoked a cigarette quickly on the balcony. I bought my own cigarettes now, which was odd considering I almost always bummed them from Matty.

The smoke, the smell of the airplane, the anxiety in my head was washed away as I showered, shaved, and prettied up. Thick body butter was applied, deodorant of course, hair saturated in products before it was dried and done in loose waves. I even did my make-up, a simple shimmery pearlescent coat of eyeshadow on my lids, a thick cat-eye liner, and bold, cherry-red lips.

George's birthday gift was actually given to me by Chelsea G, thought not specifically for this purpose. The boutique she worked at specialized in lingerie, and I blushed at myself when I examined it on my body in the full-length bathroom mirror. The black bustier was almost corset-like, intricate buttons adorning the back, the lace material see through and exposing my skin underneath just enough to leave little to be imagined. The thigh-highs that attached with adorable bows at the back of my legs were both adorable and sexy, and I secretly applauded Chelsea G for her taste. George was going to love it.

He would be here soon, I hoped. The worry began to set in an hour later, when I was scrolling though Pinterest and thinking that perhaps George had strung away from his typical going out routine. George always showered and perfected his good looks before he went out.