The Story of us

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

"Of course I do!" I huffed. Then: "Because my dad listens to him." I paused. "Harry, you are essentially a forty-six-year-old man. Tell me, how do you feel about that?"

"A bit of a creep, to be honest, because I'm sitting here in bed with you," he smirked at me. 

I leaned forward and shoved him in the arm, hard. "Shut up. And quit looking at me like that."

Harry's grin widened and he wiggled his eyebrows at me suggestively. "Like what?"

I rolled my eyes again, which proceeded to him poking his finger in my ribs, and I squealed loudly and jumped away from him. "I'm done with this conversation," I informed him after I had moved to the other side of the bed, far away from where he could reach me. "Ask me something else."

"That was a little bit self-contradictory, don't you think?" he teased me.

"And you're a little bit of a douche bag, don't you think?"

"More than a little bit," he told me. "But fine. What music do you listen to, then? Wait, no, let me guess. Justin Bieber? Katy Perry?" When he noticed my unamused expression, he tried one last time. "I've got it–Hannah Montana."

"Fuck you," I said. "And no, I don't like any of those people, although there's nothing wrong with that. As I said, you're pretentious."

"And you're a closet Justin Bieber fan. I bet you have posters of him in your room, and you touch them every night before you go to bed as some good luck charm. You're weird like that."

Why did I like him again? "Once again, fuck you," I told him. "I like Taylor Swift, and Daughter, and Adele, because everyone and their dads like Adele, but Amy Winehouse is my favorite singer of all time. And Coldplay–they're my favorite band."

Harry's eyes widened in disbelief as he registered everything that I had just revealed to him. "You're kidding."

"I'm sorry, what did you want me to say?" I snarled at him. "Indie bands that no one has ever heard of with weird ass names, like Elephant Support Group or The Electric Blue Pumpkins?"

He stared at me strangely. "Okay, first of all, what the fuck? It's The Smashing Pumpkins. Why would pumpkins be electric blue?"

"Why would you name your band 'The Smashing Pumpkins' in the first place?" I cried. And, oh my God, were we seriously arguing about this right now?

"Don't talk to me about weird bands, when you like Coldplay."

This time it was my turn to look at him like he was crazy. "What the hell is wrong with Coldplay, huh?" I snapped. "Oh, right–nothing." I was in shock over how anyone could ever find anything wrong with Coldplay. They were just about the greatest band in the world, far better than The Cure–suck it, Harold.

"You must be really confident with yourself if you can admit that you like Coldplay out loud," he sighed. He turned to look at me and then finished, "Coldplay is shit now, Alexa. No one likes them."

My mouth dropped open. "What? Everyone likes them."

Harry shook his head slowly. "You are literally the first person who's told me that they like Coldplay ever since, like, 2007."

I refused to believe that this is true. "You're full of shit. Coldplay is the best band in the world, and then The Beatles are a close second." 

He squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. "Lexi, you cannot possibly rank fucking Coldplay higher than The Beatles. You just can't."

I shrugged. "Well, I just did. They're both amazing, but Chris Martin does things to me, Harry."

He rolled his eyes at me. "You're ridiculous." Before I could shoot something back at him, he asked me, "Who's your favorite?"