wildflowers grow in the sun

chapter one.

The hands on the clock above my desk danced toward each other; closer and closer to 5:00. Those numbers were pretty arrogant to think they meant something to me. I'd been staring at an empty page in front of my face for hours now and I'd already done my work of writing an article or two for The Briar Creek Harold. They were nothing too deep- stories like cats getting stuck in trees and the star at the local high school talent show. That's what they pay me for.

Harry Styles, on the other hand, gets the more interesting stories. The crimes, scandals and stories people really wanted to know about. And he cared about them. There was a curious glimmer in his eyes when he got a new assignment. It wasn't the drama of the cases that attracted him; it was the fact that he got to help bring closure to someone. He sat at the cubicle across from mine, typing quickly on his desktop computer. He somehow found a way to make office work from that cubicle interesting. He leaned back in his chair to examine what he'd written, a strand of messy dark hair falling into his face. Squinting at the page, he folded his arms across his chest and the tattoo of a thorny rose curled around his forearm, displaying grey and black petals. Everything about him created some sort of question in my mind. Since the day I met him, I wanted to know everything about him. Harry and I had just started working at The Briar Creek Harold around a year ago, but our story really began way before that.

- - - - - - -

I first met Harry in our eleventh grade English class. I'd written him off as a trouble maker who didn't care about school- or anything really- but I was extremely mistaken. He sauntered into the classroom, his pale, nail bitten fingers trailing the desk tops until it came to the one in front of my own. He looked at me through apathetic eyes to ask if this spot was taken, but made sure to seem like he didn't care enough either way. I didn't have many other friends; I usually kept to myself and stayed in my own world. It wasn't the whole not-like-other-girls loner trope, I just liked it that way. No pressure to be anyone but myself or to please anyone else. I forced a smile to let him know it was okay to sit there. He slung his leather cross body backpack to the floor with a thud and slumped into the chair a few feet from my own. The subtle scent of cigarettes and vanilla instantly hit my nose, as if he'd tried to cover up the original smell of tobacco by rubbing a car freshener on his clothes. The teacher chatted on about expectations for the class and I wrote down every word as Harry sat still in front of me. At the end of class the teacher asked us to discuss what we wanted to learn this semester so I began to look around the room for a more approachable classmate.

"I want to be a story teller," the voice in front of me stated. I shifted my attention to Harry. He hesitated and looked down at his hands, his dark curls falling in front of his eyes. "I want to write stories- my own stories, other people's stories, everything. Stories for people

that aren't given as big of a voice. I want to show a different perspective." When he looked back at me I noticed a fragment of excitement behind his eyes that peaked through the wall of intimidation he had built and suddenly I felt bad for writing him off as someone who didn't care.

"That's amazing," I leaned closer to him, folding my arms on my desk.

"Really? Not too many people think that," Harry muttered, his lips curling into a smile.

"I get it. I want to write poetry, but nothing I've ever written is good enough and everyone I've told that to thinks it's just some mindless dream."

"Let me read one," he replied.

"I just said they're bad," I laughed nervously, pulling at a strand of my light brown hair.

"Well, I'd like to decide for myself."

"No."

"Please," he stuck out his bottom lip jokingly. I watched him carefully, trying to tell if he was making fun of me or being genuine. "I actually really want to read them. I don't know anyone else that's into writing."