Fine Line // H.S.

80

I remember how ironic I found it that a girl as cold and dare I say it... bitchy, as Belle would smell like something so sweet that represents all that is good in the world. Granted, those were the thoughts of an immature seventeen year old boy who just got his ass handed to him by some American who upon first sight, he thought he'd be able to sweep her off her feet and get a nice shag out of it, but she proved him otherwise.

Thank God she did, because then I wouldn't be half the man I am today.

My mother being the kind, compassionate, and philosophical woman she is has always loved gardenias. Growing up, that's all she ever grew in our back garden, the smell of the lush white flowers permanently ingrained in my nose. Anne would always tell me that the reason she loved gardenias so much went beyond their eye-catching green leaves, milky white petals, and fresh scents.

She loves them because they represent everything she aimed to be and instill in Gemma and me: pure, kind beyond compare, courageous, and sickeningly sweet.

I remember that first summer like it was yesterday. The London air was cool the night we met Belle Granger on our way to some club to get exposure and stir up headlines like we did almost every night. It was the very end of June, and when I saw her, I wondered if I was looking at a physical representation of Summer herself.

All five of us: Louis, Zayn, Liam, Niall, and I were piled in a dark van with windows so dark we almost couldn't see through them, however she was shining so bright in her tiny white dress that it was almost impossible to miss her. Management made sure to dress us all in our signature clothes from varsity jackets and stripes to bow ties and flannels.

Louis practically jumped over me to look out the window thinking he was the first to notice her, but I know for a fact it was me. I saw her from down the street and couldn't stop staring even when we passed her. She was holding a book to her chest, dress nearly flying up from the gust of wind at the passing of our van, white Converse covered feet lifting from the ground when she jumped.

I can still feel how red my cheeks got with jealousy at the way the lads talked about her, five pairs of eyes taking her in hungrily up until the very moment we all poured from the car. How easily that changed when we all expected her to come running up to us with tears in her eyes, begging to take a picture or give her an autograph, shaking hands frantic to reach out and touch us with expectations that we'd fall in love with her.

Without the dark windows to block our view, we all took in her appearance through suspicious eyes at how she strangely ignored us, her dark eyes practically glaring a hole through the five of us. The white dress she wore along with the sneakers on her feet were already enough to labor my breathing, but it was her perfectly tanned skin and long legs, thick hair blowing in the wind, and light accent that spilled from her tongue like acid when she glowered with disgust an aggravated, "What?"

I don't know what came over me when I whipped around and asked her if she wanted an autograph or something- she obviously didn't. Maybe it was just an excuse to be able to talk to the beautiful girl who I'm positive I mostly found endearing because she acted like I didn't exist, or maybe I simply wanted to shut the lads up who kept loudly ogling her. To this day I'm still shocked she couldn't hear them, or maybe she did but chose to ignore it thanks to truly getting to know them.

Thinking back, I don't know what I expected. Did I truly expect the girl with the golden eyes that seemed to lighten with each step she took toward us to seem happy about having her night disrupted by a bunch of arrogant wankers like ourselves? No. Did I really expect her to joyfully explain that she didn't know who we were and then proceed to ask us about ourselves after how rudely presumptuous we, I, had been? Well, sort of.