The Story of us

Chapter 19: It's best not to drive when operating on three hours of sleep

Gettysburg, Pennsylvania - 414 miles 

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of Harry singing The Cure.

It was almost like he wanted me to fall in love with him, for Christ's sake.

Also, for the record, I was nowhere even close to falling in love with him, because, after Alec, I had promised myself that I would stay away from love for a very, very long time. This was just a stupid crush, and the minute that we parted ways, I wouldn't think about him anymore. Out of sight, out of mind. (Or, at least that's what I told myself. But, once again, I'm getting ahead of myself here.)

I groaned loudly and lifted my head up from my pillow, only to be faced with the sight of Harry shirtless. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Also, fuck. Before he could notice me ogling at him, though, which I was sure he would never let me forget if he did, I quickly redirected my gaze back to the floor–which, I noted, was probably infested with ants or something equally as disgusting–and snapped at him, "Sing any louder, would you?"

After the events of last night, I had come to the conclusion that I couldn't allow myself to open up to him anymore since he clearly didn't feel the same way as I did. Sarcasm and cynicism would, once again, become my most utilized mechanism. It was almost all that I knew how to use, anyways.

Harry glanced up from the screen of his phone and although he had stopped singing, I could still hear him humming under his breath. I bet that he was doing that just to piss me off now. "Lex, hey. I didn't notice that you had woken up."

"Maybe because I just did a couple of minutes ago," I informed him dryly. "More importantly, how the hell are you not hungover?"

He shrugged. "I was a little bit before, but I don't usually get that bad of headaches the next morning."

How was it that some people just got everything? Looks, no hangovers, personality... "That's...that's great for you," I finished awkwardly, unsure of what else to say. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence between the two of us for a moment before I finally broke it and asked him, "So, you listen to The Cure?"

Harry glanced at me with interest and then, to my surprise, he came over and sat down on the bed, even though I was still lying down. My cheeks burning, I quickly propped my body up, but he didn't seem to notice–or care, for that matter–as he nodded his head and said, "Yeah. They're my favorite band." He stared at me for a couple of seconds and then added, "Do you like them?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I don't really listen to them. To be honest, I only know a couple of their songs."

He groaned loudly. "Oh my God. Let me guess–Friday I'm In Love?"

I ducked my head sheepishly and then admitted, "Well, yeah. Everyone knows that song. And hey, at least I don't pretend to be a fake fan or something equally ridiculous like that."

"The Cure is the most iconic band in the history of rock music," he informed me seriously as if we were discussing an important crisis. "How can you not be a fan?"

I rolled my eyes at him. "I don't know why I never pegged you to be pretentious, 'I'm better than you' music type before this, but now I'm wondering why I never did. What's next, you listen to Bruce Springsteen while you reminisce for the good old days?"

Harry stuck his tongue out at me, but a minute later, he nodded his head and gave in. "I do, actually, from time to time. What's wrong with that?"

Everything, you dumbass. "Nothing," I sang sweetly. "Nothing at all."

He raised an eyebrow at me and muttered under his breath in a way that I knew was meant for me to hear, "To be honest, I'm surprised that you even know who he is."