Cliché || H.S.

Chapter 9

Monday morning crept up on me, and when my 4am alarm went off it took a serious amount of life contemplation to get up and go to the gym. Shaun thoroughly kicked my ass. It was straight conditioning, and my lungs feel like they're lit on fire, my legs barely able to carry me to my car. I should have stayed in bed. At least the sun is up now. I notice a new email from Nina and open it before I pull out of the parking lot. Well this is a first. Whatever problem from Friday still hasn't been resolved, so they're suspending production for a week.

Harry must have just woken up to the email because my phone is now ringing, his name across my screen. "Hey, did you see Nina's email?" I answer.

"Yeah I just read it. Do you have any plans for the day?" he asks me. His voice is raspy, like he just woke up. I think I hear him yawn on the other end.

"I just finished up at the gym and I'm on my way home now. I was planning on doing absolutely nothing. Want to join?" Harry agrees and says he'll be there in an hour. I practically race home, needing to eat and shower before he gets there.

I'm sitting at the kitchen island eating a spoonful of peanut butter when he lets himself in. I'm not sure what it is with people thinking they can just walk into my house unannounced. He spots me in the kitchen right away and wanders in. "Are you eating straight peanut butter right now?" he asks, a disgusted look on his face.

"Yeah, you want some?" I slide the jar towards him and he immediately pushes it away. "That's disgraceful," he settles into the seat next to me and clasps his hands in front of him on the counter and looks straight at me. He looks like he just woke up, his hair a mess, "So, Lilian O'Brien, what does one do when they do absolutely nothing?"

"Ah yes, my favorite pastime. Usually watching reruns of That 70s Show, but it's supposed to be nice out today and I happen to have a heated pool. Did you bring a swimsuit?"

I'm now laying on a raft with my eyes closed, letting the heat of the sun cover my body. I usually find this relaxing, but I can feel Harry becoming restless. "How do you do this? You're not even swimming or anything you're just laying." He's face down on his raft, his hand gliding around the water. First he was complaining about being hot, now this.

"That's the point. We're doing nothing," I tell him, still not bothering to open my eyes. Under normal circumstances I would practically be asleep right now, but Harry makes it nearly impossible. He's back at it with another question, "If you were a superhero what would be your power?" I can tell from the volume that he's floated closer to me.

"I guess mind control?" Harry is quiet for an unusually long time. I feel my raft begin to shift so I shoot my eyes open and I get a flash of Harry's face before I'm completely submerged under the water.

"What the fuck was that for?" I wipe the water out of my eyes before looking up at him. He shrugs while telling me, "you said the wrong answer."

"What is that supposed to mean? How is there a right answer to that?" Harry backs away defensively with his hands in the air, but he has a goofy grin plastered to his face. "You were supposed to say flying." Oh you have got to be kidding me.

"I have it out for you now Styles," I launch myself towards him and grip his shoulders, trying to force him under the water. He stays solid underneath me, completely unmoving. He lets out a laugh and grabs my waist before throwing me off of him like I weigh nothing. Once again, I'm the one with my head underwater...

The rest of the week continues in the same pattern. Harry comes over after I get home from the gym and we do nothing together. I enjoy the company. Celeste is gone all day in class and Safia is busy working on another movie. We haven't swam again, but we've found other ways to fill our time. Neither of us have so much as entertained the idea of going out somewhere. I think we both know that the second we leave the confines of this house we won't be hanging out because we want to, it'll be because we have to.

On Wednesday we spent our entire afternoon downstairs, him messing around on the piano playing melodies I've never heard while I curled up in the bay window reading. It's hard to focus on the book, I'm too busy trying to piece together what he's playing. Sometimes he'll take breaks to sing songs from other artists, but then he immediately gets back to work.

"What are you playing? I like it," I prompt him, hoping that he'll sing me something new. He removes his fingers from the keys and runs them through his hair, messing it up even more than it already is. "Oh it's nothing, just playing around with some stuff," he tells me, but I know that there are gears turning in his head.

"Oh come on I know there have to be lyrics. Play it for me," I practically beg the last bit of it. I even throw in some puppy dog eyes and a pout for effect. Apparently he's immune. He actually looks shy for a moment before he responds, "it's not ready to be heard by anyone yet. Maybe another time," he turns back to the piano, but doesn't start playing yet. It's almost like he's nervous now that he knows I'm listening.

"Why are you so worried about anyone hearing it?" I ask him, focusing on making my voice gentle and not accusing. I'm genuinely curious. He toys with the ring on his middle finger, which is how I know I was right about him being nervous. He chooses his words carefully, "I didn't know how to transition to being solo after One Direction, and I didn't know who I was. And the past two albums have been so different from each other that I don't know how people will react to whatever I write. I think half of the people expect something different again, but Fine Line is when I finally started reaching different audiences. So do I write something that those people will like?"

He looks totally distraught, and I know this must be something he's been thinking about for awhile. I know nothing about writing music, all I know is what I like to listen to. So I give him the best advice I can come up with, "I think that you need to write something honest and for yourself rather than other people. If you like what you make, then who cares? Also, not that it's any of my business, but I'm pretty sure the people who have been with you since day one are way more important than the audiences you haven't reached yet. And I know for a fact that your true fans will like anything you put out."

Harry absorbs my words and nods his head in agreement. "See this is why I bother you all day. You keep me sane," he reaches over me and smothers me in an obnoxious hug. I know that this is just him deflecting. There's still no way he'll play me the song.

Our week of nothing is coming to an end tomorrow morning, and we're spending our last night of freedom lying on the floor with our feet propped up on the coffee table. A bowl of popcorn is sitting in between us and we're both tossing pieces in the air, trying to catch them in our mouths. "Hey Lilian," Harry says before tossing a piece of popcorn into his mouth.

"Hey Harry," I throw a piece up but when it comes back down it misses my mouth miserably. Harry doesn't acknowledge it, "would you rather look like a potato or feel like a potato?" I actually think about his question for a minute before responding. This has been another part of our daily routine. We haven't had a serious conversation for two days since the piano, and we've resorted to asking stupid questions all day.

"Well if I looked like a potato, how would I feel? Like a human? Actually don't answer that. I would feel like a potato. Firm and I would just shave the fuzz off." Harry nods his head in agreement before going back to tossing popcorn around. My carpet is going to be in desperate need of cleaning after this but I don't even mind.

"Hey Lilian," he says once more. I can't help but laugh lightly. I try to predict what question he's going to ask, but instead I'm surprised when it's an actual confession, "I'm glad we became friends."

"I'm glad we became friends too. You aren't half as horrible as I thought you would be," I joke with him before this can be any mushier than it is. But I do mean what I say. I still don't know how I feel about him, and I have no idea what our future could hold, but I at least am sure that I can rely on him. I know that he is my friend, and that's all I need for now.