Art | Harry Styles

11

"What is Thanksgiving anyway?"

Harry leans back into his chair, having whispered the question to Sophie as Michael drawls on about homework over 'thanksgiving break'. Harry can feel Layla's eyes on the back of his head as he turns to Sophie, but he's too fixated on the girl to whom he'd directed his question.

"What?" Sophie whispers back in disbelief, "you're kidding."

Harry shakes his head. "Should I know what it is? It's a holiday, yeah? Like Christmas?"

Sophie shoots him a disapproving, yet playful glare as the bell echoes throughout the classroom, and everybody stands up. "Do you not have Thanksgiving back home?"

Harry shakes his head again, pressing his lips into a fine line. "Is everyone going back home for the week?"

Sophie nods, and Harry sighs.

"I didn't know it existed," he chews on his lip, "or at least I didn't know much about it. I never booked a flight home."

The two of them file out of the room, Harry with his camera hanging in its typical position, and Sophie with her sketchbook clutched to her chest.

"The whole concept is in the name, basically," she tells him, smiling at somebody who greets her briefly as they walk past. Harry has noticed this - she seems to attract attention. Everybody is desperate to catch a smile, or a 'hello' from her - and Harry's smile grows and cheeks redden at the fact she has picked him to talk to, of all people. "It's a chance to eat a shit-ton of food, really. So, kind of like Christmas."

He nods slowly, "What are you doing? For Thanksgiving?"

"Nothing too special," she shrugs, as the two of them slowly make their way down the street. Even after a month or two, he still feels nervous beside somebody as prestigious as her. He hopes she doesn't notice how often he's staring at her, and how his bottom lip lands between his teeth as he tries to scan each feature on her face before she catches him.

"My mom usually makes a big dinner," Sophie continues, "just her, my brother, and I. We don't really have any other family." She runs her fingers over the outskirts of her sketchbook in thought, as Harry nods.

"Do you have like a party, too? Get drunk and stuff?"

"Drunk and stuff?" she grins, raising an eyebrow, "nah, Camera boy, we're not all as crazy as you."

"Shut up," he mumbles, reaching over to poke her side in mock irritation. He still doesn't remember everything from that night, but he remembers most of it - the confidence which he now finds embarrassing, mostly. "Will you ever let me live that night down?"

"I don't see why you're so embarrassed by it," she says honestly, shrugging, "it was fun."

"I was piss drunk," he points out, and she giggles.

"Yeah, exactly. Like a whole new person," she says, as they turn onto her street, "oddly endearing."

His face flushes, and he looks down at the floor, fumbling with his camera as they continue to walk.

"What are you going to do for Thanksgiving, then?" she asks, and he shakes his head.

"Nothing, most likely. I wish I'd booked a flight home," he pushes his tongue into the hollow of his cheek in thought.

They stop as Sophie signals towards a house with a red brick exterior, and she purses her lips in thought.

She's silent for a moment, before she speaks again, "Have dinner here."

Harry's eyes widen, "Are you serious?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" she frowns a little, a smile on her face all the same, "you won't be able to book a flight now, and my mom and brother would be happy to have you, I'm sure."

"And you?" he finds himself asking her, and he presses his lip into a fine line after he's spoken. He's blurted out what's on his mind without meaning to do so - something he often does around her, but instead of taking it back, his eyes scan her in search of a response.

The front door opens, and there's a woman standing there. It's Sophie's mother, and Harry suddenly feels very panicked. When it's just Sophie - it's okay. Another person suddenly worsens the situation.

"I thought I heard you out here, Soph," her mother smiles sincerely, but Sophie hasn't looked away from Harry just yet. She's sensing the anxiety as it builds visibly in his eyes. She's looking to reassure him, but she's not quite sure how to do so.

"Who's this?" her mother presses gently, shooting them that knowing look that Harry's mum has given him more times than he can count. "English boy?"

"Oh my God," Sophie laughs, burying her face in her hands as Harry's cheeks turn bright red, and he stares down at the floor in a mixture of embarrassment and flattery.

Harry stays quiet, and Sophie steps in to save him.

"Mum, this is Harry. I was just telling him how much we'd love to have him for Thanksgiving."

Oh no. Harry begins to panic again - what if she says no? This is the perfect, perfect opportunity for Sophie's mother to laugh in his face and shut the door - to invite Sophie back inside and tell her how somebody as pathetic and stupid-looking as Harry doesn't belong at a dinner of theirs. She doesn't seem posh, or snobby, but he won't be shocked if she tells him to - quite simply - 'fuck off'.

"Oh, that'd be amazing. We'd love to have you next week, Harry." Exhale.

"T-Thanks," he stammers after a moment or two of silence, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot and cramming his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.

"I need to start dinner - you're welcome to stay if you'd like," Sophie's mother offers from the doorway, and Harry's shoulders seize up.

"Oh, I-I-" he'd love to stay, "n-no, th-thanks. I n-need to get home, and, um, r-ring my mum." He's shaking a little. This is far too much conversation for him already, and he's becoming more and more nervous by the second.

"I'll be inside in a sec, Mom," Sophie smiles over to her mother, while she simply nods and heads back inside.

Ex-hale.

"I'd really like it if you came," Sophie tells him when the door has closed, and he raises his eyebrows.

"Actually?"

"Actually."

"Genuinely?" he asks again, and she grins.

"Genuinely, Harry," she giggles at his uncertainty, "I'd love it, actually. It'll be fun."

"It'll be fun.." he trails off, almost as if he's testing the words on his tongue as a smile he can't hide begins to break out on his lips. She wants him there. "Okay."

"Okay," she laughs. She wants to tell him not to be so nervous, but drawing attention to his anxiety would surely only make him more self-conscious of it; and so she brushes it off, "I'll call you later this week, and we'll figure it out."

"Okay," he repeats with a short chuckle of his own. His cheeks are surely crimson by now, but he doesn't care.

"I'll see you soon," she tells him, slowly heading backwards towards the front door.

He waves awkwardly, beginning to walk away only once the front door has closed and she's flashed him a final, bright smile. His hands are freezing cold, still, wedged into his pockets - but he doesn't care. His grin is far too wide to even remotely falter, as he heads down the street, adorably pleased with himself for somehow bagging himself an invite to the Ashfords' Thanksgiving dinner.