The Guest [harry styles]

3

Oh, that bestie of mine just keeps getting better.

I'm about to tell him that Tom is an arsehole, but my mobile phone chooses the same exact moment to start vibrating out in the hallway. I don't need to read the caller ID to know who's ringing this early, but Harry's eyes flit in the direction of the intrusion as if questioning why I haven't gotten up yet.

"I'm not shy." I say quickly, and his eyes snap back to my face—the interruption forgotten. "I just enjoy my own company and don't have a great deal to say."

He lifts his coffee mug to his lips. "I don't believe anyone who says that."

He says it with such conviction that I can't help but balk at his response. I also can't help but feel offended. This guy might not be unknown to Earth's—and probably beyond's—population, but I am a stranger to him. He knows nothing about me other than who my best friend is and the layout of my house. How can he possibly suggest otherwise? Is that just what comes with being a celebrity—omniscience?

Harry, clearly sensing my shift in mood, suddenly looks appalled, and brings his mug down onto the table with such force that the contents sloshes over and onto the tablecloth. I wince. "Was that rude? Oh my God, that was rude, wasn't it? I am so sorry. That definitely sounded more sincere in my head." My eyes widen involuntarily at the verbal diarrhoea. "My Mum would be mortified to know I said that."

My frustration and disbelief at his words seems to dissolve as quickly as it had appeared in the first place. "It's...okay?"

He laughs. All dimples and crows feet, and it's almost as if the last few minutes didn't actually happen. I can almost feel my body trying to get me to join in, and my lips start to twitch, but the familiar sound of my phone vibrating cuts me off. Correspondingly, Harry's mouth falls into a hard, flat line. "Someone is really trying to get hold of you."

I almost tell him that someone's been really trying to get hold of me for the past six months, but I don't.

"I'm sure they can wait for me to finish my breakfast." I mumble, not naive to how Harry's eyes lower to the toast massacre on the plate in front of me.

He shrugs. "Don't ignore it on my account."

I almost really do laugh then. Mostly because I wish that were the reason for avoiding my phone on a daily basis. It would certainly make the situation a hell of a lot simpler. "It's probably just one of those scam accident claim calls. I get them a lot." 

Harry's eyebrows mash together in genuine concern, and a deep groove forms in the skin between them. "You should get them blocked."

"Mmm." I murmur in agreement, and stand from the table with my plate in my hands. He watches me as I exit the room—en route to the kitchen and completely lost in thought.

I thought I had blocked Isaac from my life. Or at least, that's what I thought I was doing by ignoring him every day. My brother is persistent, much like our mother was, but that generally means he wants something. And that's the bit that bothers me most. I should feel some sort of sibling pull or affection to know my only brother, my only sibling, wants my attention. But just the mere thought of Isaac takes me back to that day in the crematorium. The judging eyes and gobsmacked faces—the black chiffon scratching against my skin. Kiddo. A tenner.

"Are you alright?"

I jump at the sudden appearance of Harry's voice from behind me. I hadn't heard him follow me into the kitchen, nor had I noticed that I've been stood at the sink, plate still in hand and gormlessly staring at the plug hole. My cheeks heat instantly when I remember that he's still just in his pants.

"Fine." I assure him quickly and ditch the china in the basin. I'll deal with that later. Harry does the same with his bowl and mug—but instead of leaving it, he puts the plug in and turns on the taps. "You don't need to do that, Harry, I'll sort it."

He holds one finger up before adding the washing up liquid—filling the room with a pleasant orange zest aroma. "Let's get one thing straight," he tells me. "I am not here to sponge off of you. You've done me a solid by letting me stay here, so I'm going to pull my weight."

It's certainly more than Tom's ever done when he's stayed over. He barely even remembers to remove his shoes.

"Alright!" I raise my hands in defeat and back away from the sink. "The washing up is all yours."

I should go and carry out all the tasks that I should have done instead of watching Harry's bedroom door in the early hours—but my feet are reluctant to leave the kitchen. Instead I lean up against the doorframe and watch the absurdity that is Harry Styles doing my dishes. I'm half tempted to WhatsApp Tom a photo.

"So is it really just you here, all by yourself?" Harry asks, not tearing his eyes away from rinsing the mug out. Immediately I begin to fiddle with one of the buttons on my nightie.

"Yep, just me." I already know we're entering dangerous territory and am definitely regretting not leaving the room when I had the chance.

"Just you in this big old house." He muses, placing my plate in the rack on the draining board. "I'm impressed. Most people our age can barely afford a flat let alone somewhere like this. Tom told me it used to be a B&B?"

I know he's just making conversation—I know he's just being friendly. But I really don't think I can do this. Not right now, not with him.

"It did, yes."

Harry, completely oblivious to my disinterest in the subject, continues. "You should seriously think about getting it back up and running. This place has got serious potential."

My stomach turns.

I'm not sure if it's generally just the reference to what my home used to be, or the fact that has got essentially insinuates that in the space of six months—I've managed to undo all of my mother's hard work. But regardless, whatever it is, has me running up the stairs and locked in my bedroom before Harry's even turned around.