A/N: Hi. Please don't kill me. I love you all.
"Hi, so, uh, this wasn't supposed to go down this way, but I know you're Harry. As in, Harry Styles."
I adjust my weight awkwardly as I carefully consider my next words.
"We've kind of… already… met? Tonight? At Kendall's yacht? Well, 'met' is a strong word since it's more like you kept stalking me the entire night, while I temporarily forgot how to spell out my name."
The voice coming out of my mouth sounds strangely unlike my own. It's almost hysteric, in a way. If anyone could see me now, they'd surely think me unhinged. And I wouldn't blame them.
"Anyways, I know this is bloody awkward, so how about we just pretend like tonight never happened? Yeah, that's right, this is probably for the best."
I press my head against the cool metal of some random Toyota on the street. The reflection staring back at me, right here from the side window of this car, is miserable. It's what I imagine a painted picture of fear to look like: one very frazzled, annoyed, and admittedly, slightly excited woman.
"What the hell am I doing?" I mutter as I continue my slow descent down the Malibu street. There's a lot of mumbling and wild gesticulation involved, not to mention the finger pointing aimed at my only partner in conversation: the imaginary version of H. "And just to make it absolutely clear—I was so not flirting with you tonight!"
Thank goodness it's four in the morning which means no unfortunate witnesses to my mental spiral.
"This was all a misunderstanding, if I knew you were… well, you, I would have kept my distance-" My excuses are pathetic at this point. "Oh, who am I kidding. You're hot, I'd bang you in a heartbeat."
There's a strong pounding headache in my skull and I rub my fingers against my forehead to ease some of the ache. The similarities to my current stance and that of my position last night are striking. Left hand trembling, right one clutching the edge of my dress in fright. Stomach in knots, constantly reminding myself that I can do this.
However, there is one major difference. Last night, we were Cherry and H. Only that. Now it's no longer just us, but rather an odd foursome with 'Harry Styles: The Popstar' and 'The Former Actress Recently Turned Nude Model'... Yikes.
Needless to say, H has never given me a reason to think that he would treat me differently after learning my true identity. He's shown me nothing but kindness, showering me with genuine affection and promises of friendship despite our unconditional circumstances.
But, being the stubborn woman that I am, it's impossible for me to stop questioning myself. Some people give this condition fancy names, like social anxiety disorder or scopophobia… I just call it the fear of judgement.
Thing is, I'm not afraid of interacting with people, as I consider myself a relatively outgoing and confident person. What scares me the most is everything they have to say about me behind my back. Sadly, in the words of my therapist, this is all due to my messed-up upbringing. There's not been a single media-free day throughout my early teens—a fact that I have my parents to thank for. It was their genius idea to throw me into the spotlight at the age of seven, and even though I have managed to temporarily remove myself from this toxic situation, it's not like all my issues were magically solved with it.
I'm still the same little girl buried under my own insecurities, and it shows.
As I near the corner where the street intersects with a thin passage leading towards the beach, I slip off my sandals and continue walking down the grassy path. H and I had forgotten to set a meeting point the night before, so I assumed it's our usual spot rather than the front gate of his house.
"This is so damn stupid. You're being stupid," I chastise myself when my anxiety keeps stubbornly building up.
I just need to forget who we are, and focus on what we are to each other: H and Cherry. Nothing more, nothing less.
For the first time since leaving Kendall's yacht, a smile slides onto my face. Looks like I got over my mini breakdown just at the right moment too, because the infamous fence appears from behind the nearby trees, my destination already in sight.
I'm not surprised when I hear the sounds of a guitar coming from the other side. H had left the party before me, so he must have been waiting in his backyard for a while now. What does surprise me though, is the lack of the usual note and flower stuck to the fence.
"H?" I make my presence known, my right foot digging nervously into the ground.
"Cherry, you made it!" The guitar makes an abrupt distorted sound, forcing us both to hiss painfully, my hands flying to cover my ears. "Oops, sorry. My bad."
A smile curls onto my mouth slowly as I imagine him throwing the instrument down in his haste to talk to me. "What have you been playing?" I ask.
"Just messin' around with the song from last night," he answers. "Was hoping to finish the chorus tonight, but it needs more work."
"I like the melody," I admit, hoping he won't mention the lyrics. Best to stay away from that topic.
As expected, H has other plans. "I titled it 'She'. It's meant to be about having this intense longing for someone who's essentially a stranger to you," his voice is dripping with a double innuendo. "Do you know that most people are naturally drawn to mystery?"
I hum in agreement. "That's because us humans are curious creatures. Things that are hidden attract us the most, and that applies to feelings, too. When someone seems unreachable…it makes us want to uncover their secrets so much more."
"That's what you are to me," he interjects. "A beautiful mystery. It's like you appeared out of nowhere, and now I can't seem to stop thinking about you. So, I wrote a song about it. I hope it's okay…" he pauses, this time sounding unsure. "Writing is how I process things: both the good and the bad."
I suck in a sharp breath of air, my face heating up in the darkness. "I'm hardly a mystery, H. You may not call me by my real name, but you know what floats my boat. That's got to count for something, right?"
He pauses and I get the sense that he's nervous when he says, "Well, I know little things, like your favourite poem or how you love to stress-bake. I know you both loathe and adore your neighbour's cats, even if you'd deny it if anyone asked. You hate your family, but you'd do anything for your friends. There's a soft heart hidden in there."
"See? That's a lot of knowledge," I interrupt his passionate speech.
"But you don't understand—I need to know every bit of you," he continues in an unwavering voice. "I want to learn what makes you tick, or why you choose to hide away from reality with me every night. I can't shake the feeling that you're really sad, and it's killing me that I can't help with whatever's bugging you. There's only so much I can uncover without actually hanging out with you, and I feel like I've reached my end. Now I need more than…this." He's clearly referring to our 'over-the-fence' meetings.
"You're not exactly an open book either," I retort playfully in an attempt to divert his attention from me.
"You're here tonight," he repeats stubbornly, "which means you've come to a decision on whether you'll see me or not. I am really hoping you will, hence why there's food and flowers waiting for you in my living room. Not that I'm trying to bribe you, but y'know… free food. There may or may not be nutella crepes as well. Just sayin'."
"Oh, shut it!" I chuckle. Trust this guy to try and persuade me with the promise of my favourite treat. "When did you have time to prepare this anyway? I thought you went out."
Or rather, I know first-hand that you went out.
"I pre-made it this morning, hopefully you don't mind microwaved food. And yes, I did go out. It was…interesting."
"Oh, really?" I smirk.
I probably shouldn't allow him to spill details of our encounter tonight. It seems wrong on some level, like I'm taking advantage of having the upper hand for a change. Still, selfishly, I want to know what he thinks about me…the 'real' me he had met tonight.
Besides, it would give me some pretty nice content to tease him with later.
"Mhm. Saw a stunnin' redhead there. She was driving me absolutely mental all evening; started off being a total tease, only to completely blow me off later. And all I wanted was to talk to her."
"Right, I think you mentioned her in our messages," I remark casually.
So far, it would appear that he's truly oblivious to the fact that the redhead from the party is indeed me. I suppose I can't blame him for that—it's not like I'm the only girl with ginger hair out there, and it was a huge stroke of luck that both of us were even there at the same time. Not to mention that I hadn't spoken a word to him all night, and without hearing my voice, he had no way of putting the missing puzzle pieces together.
"She was sitting there at the bar, and the first thing I spotted was the damned red hair. I swear you've ruined gingers for me," he continues.
"Sorry!" I cackle joyously. The whole situation is just too comical and ludicrous not to laugh at.
"You better be," he says threateningly. There's a witty remark on the tip of my tongue, but he cuts me off by exclaiming loudly, "Imagine my surprise when I saw her face… Pixie, right there, in the flesh!"
My reaction is immediate—a pout forms on my lips, my fingers tugging nervously on the edge of my sundress. All it takes is that single word falling from his mouth, and my patience is already wearing thin. My name's not Pixie.
"Who?" I act oblivious.
"Pixie from 'The Saints'," he repeats loudly as if the idea of someone possibly not knowing who she, or rather I am, is outrageous. "She's also the ginger twin from that film—"
"Yeah, yeah, sorry you lost me for a minute there. Of course I know who she is," I choose to play along despite the uncomfortable chill washing over my skin.
Rightfully so, since his next words hit home even harder. "She's changed a lot since her last role, I wouldn't have recognised her if not for those pictures circulating the web. Let's just say that she's all grown up now… and showing it proudly to the world," he ends his statement with a short chuckle that literally rips through my skin and straight into my heart.
"Oh, what pictures?" I keep my tone light and airy.
I admit I'm not the type of person to be majorly concerned with my looks and appearance. For some reason, I've always been fortunate enough to feel comfortable in my own skin. Still, something about knowing that H has seen those damned photographs rubs me the wrong way.
"Yeah, they caused quite an uproar last week. You haven't seen them?" he asks, oblivious to my rapidly decreasing mood.
"Not a big fan of social media," I answer evenly.
"Me neither, but my mate Mitch used to have a big thing for Pixie back in the day… I don't think he's ever gotten over it, to be honest. He's the one who showed them to me."
"So, her name's Pixie?"
By this point, I'm on the verge of pulling my hair. His words don't seem intentionally condescending, but it's hard to keep a level head when he speaks of me just like… like everyone else does. Especially when I think of how different it feels from the H I've grown to know and adore. The one who comforted me when I broke down, or kept reminding me that I was, in his own words, 'absolutely brilliant'.
Right here in this moment, I feel the furthest from brilliant I could possibly be.
"No, it's Anna, I think? Abigail? Wait, no… Ariana?" He throws one name after the other. "Uh, it slipped my mind. I do know who her parents are, though."
"Right, it doesn't matter anyway," I quip sarcastically, but my less than pleasant tone is lost on him.
"Imagine actually taking Pixie out. Why do I get a feeling that it would be a tale to tell?" he adds smoothly. There's a tantalising edge to his tone, like he finds the idea of pursuing her—or rather me—very amusing. It's not necessarily rude, but…I can easily spot a hint of smugness in there, as though it would be something he could boast about.
Arrogant son of a bitch.
The anger, now at the level when I'm no longer able to deny it, threatens to cut loose. My self-restraint is reaching its end; consequences be damned.
But, before the dam can be unleashed, he speaks again and it's enough to squelch the fire, "How was your party anyway? You were supposed to go out too, right?"
"I ended up staying in," I lie through gritted teeth, fighting to keep my temper in check. "I may be coming down with something… Still feeling a bit woozy, in fact. I think I'm just gonna call it a night. I'll see you later."
I'm already up and ready to run when he calls out, "Wait… you're leaving? But I thought we were hanging out tonight. I- I've got everything ready for you."
He sounds almost vulnerable, and I hate how easily I allow it to get to my head. His words tug on my heartstrings, in more ways than one, especially now that I know what his face would have looked like in this moment. The mental images of Harry Styles donning a sad puppy face, mouth downturned in a frown, are unavoidable.
"Sorry," I add for good measure. The realisation that I hate upsetting this man annoys me. Maybe because he's unknowingly made me miserable tonight, and I still can't find it in me to reciprocate with the same.
"But- you can still come in? You can lay down in the guest room, it's no trouble," he's grasping at straws at this point. "I'm sure I have some medicine, and even if I don't, I'll go pick some up for you right away. C'mon, Cherry. Don't leave me hanging like that."
"It's okay. No need, really," I say curtly, though not unkindly. I don't want him to realise that it was his speech about Pixie that's causing my hasty retreat, which could in turn make him realise that 'Pixie' and 'Cherry' are in fact the same person.
Truth is, I no longer want to meet him. The giddiness I've been feeling, in anticipation of the moment our eyes would meet for the first time, is long gone. All I wish for now is to get the hell away from here, and hide in the safety of my bedroom where I can wallow in my misery and forget everything he had just said about me.
The silence has befallen us now, and the minutes seem to drag on forever until I eventually drag myself to my feet. The calm and logical part of me screams that this is the part when I have to show I'm the bigger person and leave; we both clearly have nothing left to say. But, the irrational, salty little girl in me has other plans.
"You know what? I lied. It's not okay. Nothing about what you just said is okay," the words roll out so fast that they're literally tripping over my tongue. "This 'Pixie'—as you cleverly call her because it's too difficult to remember her actual name—is a person. A real person with feelings, and yet you talk about her like she's some exhibit in a glass cage. You think hanging out with me would make for a nice joke to tell your friends? Well let me tell you something, I think the same about you, you- you stupid, infuriating ex-boybander…" God, I can't even think of a decent insult for him. "You're a shit dancer, by the way," is what I finish my pitiful performance with.
My rant is echoed with nothing but silence, which only aggravates me further. "No charming story to spin now, huh?" I say bitterly, but he again remains quiet. "H?"
I don't know whether it's my outburst, or the fact that I basically spilled my identity to him just now, but it looks like I managed to stun him into silence for once.
"Harry…?" Still nothing. "I'm- I'm sorry…" I mumble, more to myself than him. I didn't mean any of it, it's just that you really fucking hurt my feelings and I'm way more sensitive than I let on.
It's when I hear the rustling of the leaves somewhere far off to my right when it dawns on me that he didn't hear anything I'd just said. Apparently, he was way too busy circling his impressively sized property in order to ambush me.
That fucker.
Before he can come any closer, I bolt down the hill at an impressive speed that even I, myself, am surprised by.
"Cherry!" he yells after me in the darkness, no doubt having heard all the commotion I've just made. "Don't run. Please!"
I should probably shout something snippy back, or at the very least tell him to back off, but my throat feels too tight to form even a single coherent word.
"I just wanted to check up on you… Cherry, for fuck's sake!" H shouts desperately, his voice sounding further and further away. Unlike me, he doesn't know this area like the back of his hand, which means not even the slightest chance of catching up to me.
Ignoring the painful ache in my chest, I run until his voice is no longer audible, not looking back even once.
___________
As soon as I get home, I reach out to the only person who has the slightest understanding of my situation with H. When Asa answers the Skype call, he looks much like a deer in highlights with his eyes wide and hair in complete disarray. Clearly, I had caught him at a bad time, judging by the state of his dress…or rather 'undress'.
"Did I wake you?" I ask regretfully, my brows furrowing in confusion as I take a quick peek at the time. It should be sometime around noon in the UK now, and it's unusual for Asa to be asleep so late.
"Yeah, no worries," he mumbles sleepily, angling his camera in a way that I can't look into his bedroom. As I put the pieces together, my concerned expression quickly turns into a sly smirk.
"Asa, love… What, or rather who, are you hiding over there?"
He rolls his eyes, throwing some random hoodie over his bare torso. "Why don't you tell me why you called me?"
My own troubles are temporarily pushed aside in favour of the happiness I feel for him. "Is it the girl?"
In the back of my mind, I vaguely recall Asa mentioning a burgeoning relationship with someone the last time he had visited LA. Hence why I assume that the person with him is that girl, but apparently, it's not the case.
"No," a hint of annoyance crosses his face as he adds, "Just someone I met at a pub last night. Now, what is the emergency? You rarely ever video call unannounced."
"Okay…" I say slowly, my lips parting as I consider whether or not to fish for more details. In the end, I decide not to—he will tell me when he's ready. "You're the only one I can talk to about Harry Styles."
His mouth immediately curls up into a wolfish smile. "You figured out who he is then? How?"
"You would not believe it."
I then proceed to recount the events of the party to him: the shock I had felt after Harry Styles opened that infuriating mouth of his, or how we basically flirted the entire night which culminated in our very odd, uncoordinated dance. By the time I'm done, Asa is cackling so hard that I even spot a couple of stray tears falling down his cheeks.
"Why did I get the feeling that something like this was going to happen?" he chokes out through his laughing fit. "Your relationship is so out-there that it's only fitting the first meeting would be equally bizarre."
He stops to look behind himself warily, no doubt realising that the loud volume of his voice may disturb whoever's in his bedroom.
"You could have warned me," I accuse him in a playful tone, though there is a slight burn beneath my words. Which, of course, Asa chooses to ignore.
"Of what? Maybe somewhere in the back of my mind I had an inkling that you two may possibly have some mutual friends, but the chances of you running into each other were still basically slim to none."
"Apparently not as slim."
He remains unphased by my bitter remark. "You know what this means, right? It's fate," he says teasingly.
"Oh please, don't."
He shakes his head with an astonished chuckle, "No, I mean it. What are the odds?"
"Coincidence. That's what it's called, Asa," I insist, my expression soon turning sour. "Good thing it happened, too, because I was about to make the mistake of revealing myself to the asshole."
"Wait…'asshole'?" he asks, making quotation marks in the air. "I'm confused. What did the poor lad do?"
"Apparently, he finds the idea of hanging out with me—the real me—very amusing," I say dryly. "In other words, he thinks I'm a joke. Surprise, surprise." Story of my life.
A very prominent frown overtakes Asa's face. With his eyes locked on me through the screen, he looks conflicted as he asks, "Are you certain that's what he meant?"
"Of course that's what he said, I'm not bloody deaf," I snap back, immediately frowning at myself because it's not my friend's fault that H turned out to be a complete twat.
"I didn't ask whether that's what he said, I asked if it's what he meant," he emphasises the last word. "You know that your family and status can be a bit of a…sensitive matter."
"I heard what I heard," I repeat stubbornly.
"If you say so… Though I must admit that he doesn't strike me as the condescending type. The way you described him before—it just seems very unlike him to behave this way."
"I guess we're both different when it's just us," I shrug my shoulders pitifully, my anger now dulling into the feeling of utter defeat. "Looks like his kindness was just an act."
"See, right here is where I don't agree with you," Asa retorts immediately.
"And that's because…?"
"Why is it that the two of you keep coming back to each other?" he answers my question with his own. "Has it ever crossed your mind that it's because that fence has become your safe place; a no-judgment zone of sorts? It seems to me that you're both more genuine with each other than out here in the real world. I doubt it was a game to him, love."
The words weigh heavy as I consider them. "You always want to see the best in people. It's your worst affliction."
"And you, on the other hand, automatically assume the worst about them," he fires back in a blink of an eye. "Answer this then: why did you keep doing it? Why would you spend so much of your time hanging out with someone in such an…odd way? You have friends. Clearly, he has them as well. Why do this?"
A flare of annoyance sparks through me at his words, mostly because—as usual—Asa has a point. And it's infuriating how right this guy is, for the majority of the time at least.
"Free entertainment," I say just to make a point of defying his opinion.
He shrugs his shoulder nonchalantly, "Maybe at first, but it's been weeks."
"Boredom?" I try next.
"You have your ways of dealing with it, you don't need him."
There's a ghost of a smile on his face now, almost like he's seeing something that I can't fully grasp just yet.
"Can you just get to your point now?" I huff, my patience running thin.
"You both kept this relationship alive because it gave you an opportunity to talk to someone freely, with no inhibitions," Asa explains patiently. "Remember that you're hardly the only one struggling to survive in the spotlight. Just stop for a minute. Think about it: he's an artist originating from a boyband who is now trying to kickstart a solo career. Do you think he's never faced judgement? You two are very, very alike. Honestly, I'm not surprised you both jumped on an opportunity to connect with an oblivious stranger—someone who couldn't give a rat's arse whether you're famous. I'd do the same if I were you."
Well, it's safe to say Asa has a back-up profession to fall into should he ever get tired of acting; he truly makes for a damn good therapist.
"It doesn't change what he said," I remind him gruffly.
"Don't get me wrong, I'm not looking to excuse his behaviour. What he said was complete bollocks. Maybe he was serious, or maybe his wording had been unfortunate, but you won't know unless you confront him. Just remember that he's only a man; he's not perfect. Sometimes we say shit without thinking it through first… You know you've done it more times than I could count," he looks at me pointedly before something else captures his attention, and he sends a frantic glance behind his shoulder. "Uh, I gotta go. Keep me posted, alright?"
"Yeah, okay, I'll-" I sigh when the screen abruptly goes black, "see you."
My leg bounces rhythmically as I sit on the couch, staring mindlessly out the window. Conversing with Asa was meant to convince me that I had been in the right tonight; that running off from H had not been a mistake. Instead, it left me with more questions, self-doubt, and an endless amount of irritation.
If I ever expected to spend my Sunday in a peaceful, blissful solitude, I couldn't have been more wrong. Apparently, Harry Styles is not the kind of man to give up easily. In fact, with each text that popped up in my notifications, it was slowly becoming apparent that he never gives up.
The first message I had received came right after my awkward escape. It was not only full of desperate requests for me to go back, but also promises that his only intention had been to check up on me. After I failed to answer for an hour straight, he messaged again, this time apologising profusely for his failed attempt to 'sneak up' on me. The guilt radiating from his messages is palpable, and I'm not even going to pretend like it's not getting to my head.
In times like these, when it's so obvious that he really cares for me, I find it exceptionally hard to ignore the way my traitorous heart pulls me towards him.
It's difficult to pinpoint the exact moment when ignoring H has become impossible, but after a couple of long hours and several increasingly whiny texts, I finally give in and send him a curt voice message explaining how I'm still unwell and will reach out once I feel better. Instead of calming him down, my words put him on even higher alert. However, when his subsequent calls and messages continue to be ignored, he finally gives up.
I can't tell whether I feel relieved, or disappointed that he's finally let it go. My indecisiveness never ceases to amaze me.
This back and forth in my mind continues well into the evening, at one point becoming unbearable to the point where I opt for some weed to calm me down. But, instead of clearing my mind, it only makes me fire up the Google search engine, where I type in the dreaded name.
Harry Styles.
I have no intention whatsoever of reading news about him, as I know first-hand that media outlets often tend to stray far, far from reality. Focusing on the images instead, I torture myself further by scrolling through pictures of H's annoyingly handsome face. He seems to be changing hairstyles faster than I buy new vintage cars, though I must admit the long curls he used to have in the past just hit different. Damn. Nevertheless, I imagine this guy could shave his head bald and still pull it off somehow.
I grimace at the unwanted train of thoughts and quickly close the page.
Left with nothing to occupy my time with, I toss and turn restlessly in my bed. Normally around this hour I would be getting ready to leave for my usual midnight rendezvous with H. Now, I have nothing but a blank ceiling for a companion.
With my mind running wild, I can't help but wonder whether his thoughts are pulling him to me as well. Is he staring at his phone right now, debating whether it's smart to try calling me again? Or has he already found a suitable replacement for me, a different distraction to get him through the sleepless nights?
Try as I might, I can't shake off the overwhelming fear that I would be forgotten. That he would easily dismiss me as a brief yet thrilling episode of his life, allowing me to wash away among the countless memories he's made throughout his undoubtedly exciting life.
With an exasperated groan, I grab my phone again to give my brain something else to focus on. Whenever I'm craving to punish myself, there's only one best way to achieve that, and that's by going through the DM's on one of my social profiles. With the photo scandal still in play, I can expect plenty of juicy ones.
But, nothing has prepared me for the name that sits innocently among the most recent messages in my Twitter inbox. A single word, received exactly thirteen minutes ago.
Harry_Styles: Hi
Realistically speaking, my shock is unwarranted, especially if you recall the warning H had left me with last night: 'Please don't ignore me when I slide into your DM's begging for your number tomorrow.'
I suppose I did not expect him to actually go through with it.
Foolishly, I click on the message without considering that it would let him know I've already read it.
"Crap," I curse, panicking.
My eyes widen when three little dots pop up on the screen, although they quickly vanish only to reappear again a few seconds later. For some reason, his hesitance makes me think of us in that bathroom line last night—him looking for something clever to say, and me trying not to lose my shit.
Drawing a nervous hand down my face, I look to my right where a massive mirror covers a large chunk of my bedroom wall. Clearly, my lips have chosen to disobey me yet again, curling up into a small smile.
With a defeated sigh, I grab my phone again.
A_Doherty: Hi
I throw the damned device face down onto the bed, as if that would make what I just did any less real.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why would I ignore H all day only to end up messaging Harry Styles?
Harry_Styles: And here I thought you were going to leave me on read
Harry_Styles: How are you doing, pretty?
I grab the nearest pillow, pressing it into my face so it muffles my frustrated scream.
"Lord help me. This is such a mess."
___________
Oops. Sorry. So they fought...kind of, but also not really, since Harry doesn't even understand what happened?
What do you think of Cherry's behaviour in this chapter? Did she overreact, given all the insecurities she has concerning her family/name? Do you think Harry was kind of an ass here, or was this little snide remark unintentional?
Also, don't worry. I won't keep you waiting another 15 chapters until they meet (for real this time!). Harry won't give up, and he will find her—soon! Leave your theories on how here.
Thank you so much for all the support this story has been getting. I have much in store for this book, and I hope you all will enjoy it.
Xx Cathy
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