Temporary Beach

Chapter Seven

However, if you would like to hear me go on and on about how I think you're quite possibly the most beautiful girl in Australia, the UK, and America combined, then, like I said, meet me by the pier at 3:00 PM. I guess I could've just put it in this note, but it was originally supposed to only be eight words anyway. 

I'll be waiting until 4:15 PM, and if you're not there by that time, then I've gotten the hint. No harsh feelings if you do, in fact, disregard this note. But, I'd really like to see you. 

Always,

– Harry."

I would've said it's too early to already be blushing, if it wasn't already past 1:00 PM. I put the note down on the coffee table and immediately ran to make myself look presentable. Although I still had about two hours until I'd leave, this was slightly different than any other time I've seen Harry.

Obviously he was the same person, it's not like he randomly morphed into Ursula from The Little Mermaid or something. But, he did just admit that he was crushing? If that's still a thing? I feel like the word "crush," in that sense, is just very reminiscent of middle school, which, makes me cringe in general.

After a pretty thorough shower, I wrapped a towel around my body and stood in front of my mirror to begin doing my makeup. I nearly jumped out of my skin when Emily swiftly popped in the room and loudly screamed "dude," as if she were an 18 year old frat boy. "Emily, I'm literally in a towel," I exclaimed. 

"Right, because I'm clearly a virgin male who has no clue what the female body looks like. If I were to audition for the role of Damon Salvatore right now, I'd use the line 'if I see something I haven't seen before, I'll throw a dollar at it,'" she remarked sarcastically. 

"You're also covered by a," she paused before lightly laughing. "Is that a Rapunzel towel?" I laughed as I gripped the fabric between my hands. "Shut up, she's my favorite princess."

"What did you come in here for?" I asked. "Oh, right. What'd the love letter say?"

"It's not a love letter. It's on the coffee table if you wanna read it," I said, but, I wasn't able to completely finish my sentence before she ran into the living room to retrieve the note. She swiftly ran back into my bedroom with the note in her hand. 

Since I had the master bedroom with the connected bathroom, I was able to hear her as she flopped down onto my bed with the note. She began reading his handwritten words in the best Shakespearean accent she could muster. 

She finished the note and immediately exclaimed "hey, that's how I end all my letters. He should've used 'love,' though, since he's obviously already whipped."

"Emily, for the love of God, stop talking like a frat boy."

"Excuse me, I'm trying to compensate for the lack of men in my household since my dad abandoned me," we both began a mixture of wheezing and cackling at her, probably unhealthy, coping mechanism of making jokes out of her own personal experiences that are really more serious. 

For as long as I've known her, she's made jokes about any and every traumatic experience in her own life. I will say though, she's not one of those people that makes really offensive jokes and then blames it on "it's literally just dark humor, stop being sensitive," considering I've seen her get into multiple arguments against people who do that exact thing. 

"Honestly though," she continued. "Can I be the flower girl at yours and Harry's wedding? Wait, no," she exclaimed. "When you throw the bouquet, just like, aim it at me, y'know? It's getting kinda lonely when you and Harry are practically already married."