About (Harry Styles)

22.

The house is silent as I wake. The first thing I do before I roll out of bed is check my phone. On the screen is a text from my best friend, not unusual, something I very much like waking up to.

He wants to meet up, stating that he has a 'surprise' for me. He puts it in quotation marks, knowing very well how much I detest surprises. It must be something important because hypothetically, if he had called and mentioned something about that certain surprise, I would have hung up instantly. Then he would recall me, and I would pick up as if nothing ever happened.

It's like our inside joke.

I write him back a simple text,

"Good or bad?"

I've never really been fond of surprises. Not even good ones like surprise birthdays for example. People who know me know that a surprise birthday is the last thing I want.

Sure, the thrill of surprises are like a rush of adrenaline and sure they seem like fun. But the idea of not knowing whether the surprise willl have dentrimental consequences, that's where it gets me.

My biological dad used to say there are three types of surprises in this world.

The good ones that make you smile. The bad ones that make you cry. And the ugly ones that make you want to forget everything you ever knew and felt.

When I return from the bathroom, my phone vibrates on my desk and written underneath Marco's name is:

"Both."

That's not a good sign.

...

Marco is sitting right in my view of our favorite Italian restaurant as I walk through the entrance. He offered to pick me up but I insisted on taking the bus. I needed to prepare myself, mentally, for the 'surprise' he needed to tell me.

His lips turn into a small, weak smile, an indication that he's nervous, something I've grown used to. He may be good at almost everything, but if there's one thing he's absolutely dreadful at, it's hiding his feelings.

"Well you look nice today," Marco remarks, lazily pointing to my red lips. I wear heavy makeup all the time, I don't understand why he's complimenting it only now.

"Thank you," I warily reply as I set aside my bag onto the floor and cross my arms onto the unsteady table.

"How's your mom?" He asks, adding onto my suspicion.

He's beating around the bush by diverging into another subject. Marco knows that I like knowing things bluntly. Well, at least I think I did like knowing things in a straightforward fashion...

My mind flashes back to last night when the unusually frank Harry Styles uprightly tells me that he doesn't like me ... in that way. "You've got the wrong idea...I don't like you."

"You're asking me about my mother, Marco?" I say sluggishly, knowing something is definitely off. "What's going on?"

Dragging a long breath, he breaks eye contact, his eyes oscillating between his fingers and the square table between us.

"I received a call yesterday," he starts. "It was from the PGA."

"PGA?"

"Professional Golfer's Association," he quickly ousts my confusion. "I was recommended by Rory, the golfer Niall introduced me to. Rory and I kept in touch ever since and for the record, I'm sorry for keeping this from you. I didn't want to tell you unless it was actually happening and now that it is one hundred percent official, I thought you should be the first to know considering you're my best friend."