A/N: Hi, take a look at the pic above. 👆 It's going to pop up in the chapter. There's also some very mild smut in this one so consider yourself warned.
"I hope you're kidding me," I murmur tiredly into the receiver. Ever since the disastrous meeting with H, I've been on edge. This news is probably the last thing I could possibly need right now.
"I wish I was."
"But he's okay, right? Sal, tell me he's fine," I feel myself start to panic.
"Yeah, he's all good, I promise," she reassures me. "He got admitted for one night of observation, that's all. The doctor insisted on doing a CT scan to make sure he doesn't have a concussion. He hit his head pretty badly…"
I frown, running a trembling hand down my face. Just when I thought this week couldn't get any worse, this shit happens. "Can you please tell me how it all went down again… in detail this time?"
"Okay, but please don't freak out…" she starts to which I just groan in annoyance, because this is definitely not the kind of thing you should say to someone whose mind is already in shambles. "Paps were all over the LAX when I came to pick Asa up last night. He didn't want us to be tailed, so he asked me to circle around the city a couple of times before dropping him off at the hotel. I guess he thought they'd get bored and find someone else to follow after a while."
"This is all my fault…" I whisper.
Asa is quite a well-known face himself, but the only reason paparazzi would be so aggressive in their pursuit of him is because of our association. Most of these photographers are nothing but blood-thirsty vultures hoping to snap an embarrassing picture of me, and their best bet to achieve that is by following somebody I know. And since Asa is pretty much the most prominent 'public' friend I've had for years, he's currently become the top target on their radar.
"Stop. He knows it's out of your control, okay? He doesn't blame you," Sally says gently in an effort to comfort me, before continuing the story, "Eventually, after driving around for some time, we decided to wait these bastards out in some secluded alley. Asa got out of the car just for a minute to stretch his legs, and that's when this guy approached him."
"Did he see his face? I mean, he must have glimpsed at least something," I remark hopefully.
"No. He was approached from behind, and besides, it all happened so fast… One minute he was all alone having a smoke, and the next someone was pushing him against the wall. His head hit the wall real hard, which made him way too dizzy to focus. I didn't even register anything had happened until I saw Asa laying on the ground in the rearview window. I was so fucking scared."
"What did he want anyway? Cash?" I ask.
"No… that's the worst part. But maybe we shouldn't discuss it over the phone. We'll both come over to see you once he's discharged."
"What the hell, Sally? You can't say shit like that and expect me to stay calm," I erupt. "Just tell me what the hell is going on."
I can hear her exhale loudly before she says, "It wasn't about Asa."
"What?" I ask dumbly.
"This guy, he didn't do it because of Asa. Before I spooked him off, he had left something behind. I damn near had a heart attack when I saw it. Here… let me send you a picture."
She goes quiet for a moment and I'm left waiting with a pounding heart until my phone finally lights up with an incoming message. It takes me a moment but once I finally register what I'm looking at, I nearly gasp out loud. It's a printed out note, written in one of those creepy stalker fonts you usually see in movies, not real life. As I read through the message, I finally understand why Sally is so stressed out.
"Stay away from her," I read out loud, my voice cracking slightly at the end. There's no mention of a name, but I just have a feeling… This feeling that I am the girl.
"You need to hire a bodyguard," Sally begs, apparently having come to the same conclusion I just did. "It can't be a coincidence that someone broke into your house a few weeks back, and now this…"
I frown, knowing that she's right—I should be getting some sort of protection, and fast. Preferably file a complaint at the police station while I'm at it as well. But… "I can't. If my father finds out about this, he will ship me off to Siberia, or worse."
"Who cares what your father thinks? Just hire the damn bodyguard, you're fucking loaded!" Sally has clearly lost her patience with me, but there is nothing I could possibly say to explain my complicated position to her… so I remain quiet. "Can't you see that it's serious? This psycho is clearly obsessed with you, to the unhealthy levels!"
"I've had stalkers before. It's nothing new, you know that," I try to convince her, though my voice sounds unconvincing even to my own ears. "I'll be alright."
"He attacked Asa!" Sally explodes. "It's not some silly fan following you around on the street. This guy is dangerous! What if he tries to go after Asa again? Who knows what could happen if the media printed some story about you two again…"
I know she's referring to the bogus articles that claim Asa and I have been secretly dating for years. They re-surface every once in a while, no matter how many times we both publicly deny these rumours. Whenever we're spotted out together—which is bound to happen sooner or later—people talk. It's inevitable.
"I'm sorry, Sally. I wish I could do something but I can't," I repeat sadly.
"You can't or you won't?" she retorts angrily. "I'm really fucking pissed at you right now so I better hang up before I say something I'll regret."
I wince when the line goes silent, and I'm once again left with nothing but my own thoughts. Knowing I'm responsible for my friend getting hurt, and potentially being in even more danger, is the worst feeling I could possibly experience. But, at the same time, I know I can do nothing about it. And if Sally hates me for that… Well, then I'll just have to live with it.
__________
The following day, I do something bad. Really bad.
This seems to be a recurring theme of my life lately, although I can't deny that much of my misfortune has been brought on solely through an endless string of my own bad choices. One of those foolish decisions of mine was definitely the simple two-letter word I had impulsively sent to Harry Styles three days ago.
Inevitably, as soon as I hit send and read the subsequent response from H, I panicked. This was a very bad idea—arguably one of the worst I've had this month. Texting Harry Styles as an essentially completely different person, after deciding to ghost him as 'Cherry', is just asking for trouble.
What could I even achieve by doing this? Nothing good, that's for sure.
It was this temporary panic that sent my mind into a state of frenzy, which lasted for the total of two days and intensified even more after receiving the sad news about Asa. Today, I've finally had enough.
And so, like I've mentioned above, I decide to do something very bad… Specifically, I call Emil.
Now, I know what you're all thinking: you don't fix problems by creating more problems. Truth is, I've never really learned how to properly deal with my anxiety. With my go-to methods currently unavailable, I tend to turn to something different—a fleeting high that makes me forget, even if only for a while. Sex can be addictive, for some even more so than drugs. Sadly, I've learned that first-hand.
Ever since I sort of got my shit together, Emil has become the only consistent booty call for me. He would never rat me out to the media, that I can be sure of. And because of that, I choose him. Even despite the fact that we haven't been on the best of terms lately.
Our evening together starts off relatively well. My mouth latches onto his as soon as he opens the door, which means he doesn't have time to annoy me with unnecessary questions as I lead him deeper into the house. In a move very characteristic for myself, I then push him down onto the carpet in his living room, and unceremoniously snatch his joggers and underwear down to his knees.
Yes, I never waste time. Besides, it's not like he minds it, judging by the wild look in his eyes which only intensifies when I pin his hands down above his head. One thing I've learned about Emil is that he really enjoys being dominated; it's definitely one of the reasons why we've always been so compatible in bed. Finding a man who doesn't mind relinquishing control to a woman is annoyingly hard these days.
Still, despite the fact that Emil has never left me unsatisfied before, the next fifteen minutes mark the most awkward sexual experience of my life.
No matter how much I try, I cannot focus. My stubborn mind keeps running back to H—not in a sexual manner, but rather in a way that makes my heart clench in guilt and worry. Forgetting the way he had spoken about me that one time seems impossible, and nothing, not even a decent lay can distract me from it.
To Emil's defense, it is not his fault. He's an amazing partner as usual, spurring me on with dirty talk and looking utterly fuckable under me. This man knows how to please me well, or what moves to pull to make me come. Sadly, it is me who's the problem.
Eventually, after a couple of excruciatingly long minutes, I have to accept defeat. There is simply no way I can force myself to enjoy this fully with my mind in such a chaotic disarray. And so, being the actress that I am, I then deliver an Oscar-worthy performance of an orgasm, complete with loud, nearly theatrical moaning and trembling limbs. Much to my relief, it's enough to bring the oblivious Emil over the edge… and finish this torture.
Thankfully, he is way too overwhelmed to react fast enough when I hastily gather my things and skitter out of his house right after.
Which brings me to now and myself, sulking in my favourite café with a very prominent pout on my face. A cup of steaming mocha and a triple-chocolate donut sit proudly on my table—the sugar overdose that's clearly meant to sweeten my sour mood. Since sex clearly failed, maybe chocolate would do a better job of lifting my spirits. However, my eyes remain fixated on the food, but my mind couldn't be further away.
What happened today was unacceptable. I have never allowed anyone—be it a man or a woman—to get into my head like that. Harry Styles has somehow managed to worm his way into my thoughts, rendering me a complete mess of emotions. And for that reason alone, I know I have to resolve this situation, one way or another.
With a deep sigh, I open up my thread of messages with H. His texts have remained consistent throughout the last three days. It's hard to tell whether he still believes my 'I caught a cold' story, but he sure as hell acts as if he does. He still greets me each morning and bids me goodnight before sleeping, even if I fail to answer most of the time or keep my responses curt and dry.
The guilt is eating me alive.
H is the one who has—unknowingly—caused this situation, and yet, my mind makes it seem like I'm the one at fault. Simply put, I feel like a horrible person. No matter which way you look at it, I have been a complete bitch towards him, while he has absolutely no clue that he's even done something wrong.
My grandmother used to tell me that people may not always be kind to me, but I should always show them respect if I expect them to do the same for me. And if you ever find yourself truly liking someone, she would say, Remember that they may not be perfect, but you treat them as if they are.
It doesn't take a genius to see that I like Harry. He's the first person I've connected with so easily, probably since meeting Sally and Asa all those years ago. Despite his hurtful words the other night, it hasn't changed. And that thought alone is what prompts to pick up my phone, finally mustering up enough courage to text him.
Me: Hey. This is going to be a long-ass message, so buckle up.
Me: I know I've been really distant and for that, I'm sorry. You didn't deserve being left in the dark with no explanation.
Me: That's why I'm texting to let you know that I won't be coming by anymore. And no, before you ask - it's not your fault.
Well, that's not a lie but not the truth entirely either. His words may have prompted my reaction, but it's my own insecurities that keep me from revealing my identity to him. So I guess you could say that the fault is split evenly between us both.
Me: Truth is... I absolutely despise who I am, and I don't think I can handle being judged by you. Because you're great. Really.
I cringe at my own awkwardness, but the message has already been sent so it's too late to take it back.
Me: I guess this is it.
I'm halfway through typing out a short 'Take care' when my phone lights up with an incoming call, and I almost drop it to the floor in my panic.
Oh dear. While I did not expect him to let me go so easily, I also didn't think he'd be literally blowing up my phone ten seconds after receiving my message.
The ringing stops only to start up again a second after. I stare at the device in my hand blankly, unsure how to react, or if I should even do anything at all. Soon, his insistent calls turn into messages.
H: Pick up
Me: Please don't make it difficult.
H: You're the one who's making it difficult
H: I'm the last person who would judge you
I scoff bitterly. That's rich coming from a guy who did not hesitate to make demeaning jokes about someone he hasn't even properly met yet. Reigning in my flaring temper, I opt to keep my response short and civil.
Me: I never said you would. This is my decision, so please, respect it.
H: I can't
I roll my eyes, leaning back with my arms crossed against my chest. Looks like H's true colours are finally beginning to show. Underneath the kind and funny guy, there is more than just a bit of a bratty kid… One that hates not getting his way.
H: I know you're scared to show your face because you think I'll run to the media
H: But I promise you that I won't because we're the SAME. I've already figured out some time ago that you're not just any girl
H: I am like you as well
Me: I seriously doubt that...
H: I can prove it to you
Me: Please just stop.
H: I'll tell you who I am. I don't care. I trust you
H: And once I tell you, please trust me too
Me: Stop!
H: I'm Harry Styles
I stare at the screen open-mouthed. It's not like I don't know this already, but the fact that he spilled the truth so easily is…shocking.
H: Yes, 'the boyband guy', as you've once dubbed me
H: 'Ten out of ten'
H: 'Totally hot'
My face flares red in embarrassment as I realise he's quoting the conversation we had once had about long-haired singers. Of course the narcissist in him wouldn't let this one slide.
Me: Shut up
H: You don't know how long I've been waiting for the moment I could bring it up. Even saved this emoji just for the occasion - 😏
"Ugh!" This gains me a nasty look from an elderly couple at the table next to me, and I sink deeper into my seat with a pout.
Right now I have two options: either I come clean about everything, or pretend to be oblivious… Guess which one I choose.
Me: When I said shut up, I meant 'shut up you're not Harry Styles'
Me: Also, it's so weird when you try to use emojis… it just makes you seem even more of a grandma. Are you sure you're not Clint Eastwood or something? This is a story I'd be more inclined to believe
H: But I am Harry Styles. Swear on my mum's life
H: Also… how nice to see the sassy baby back. I've missed her
Me: Sure sure
Why can't this man just give up? This is so frustrating; he is so frustrating.
H: Still don't believe it? I'll prove it to you
H: [picture attached]
H: Look who's here
It's impossible to stop the smile from appearing when I see the selfie he's just sent me. He's wearing a black shirt, top two buttons undone with a necklace hanging from his neck. Unlike the last time I had seen him, his unruly curls are slicked back, a pair of sunglasses shielding his eyes.
Damn this guy for being so bloody attractive. He makes it so hard to do what needs to be done.
Opening up the Google search engine, I quickly find and download a photo of young Pamela Anderson, sending it with a caption: 'You're Harry Styles, and I have big tits. Thank god for Google. Xx'
H: For fuck's sake woman, I did not get my picture off Google
H: I AM HARRY STYLES
H: Also, do you, really? Interesting… 😏
Me: Stop with the sleazy emoji, you're creeping me out
H: Watch this
H: [video attached]
Instinctively, I open the received file only to cringe when I hear a very loud and whiny exclamation of 'Cheeeeeeryyyyyyyy…'.
"Oh my god," I groan as my finger rapidly taps the volume button. The same couple from before is looking at me again—this time angrily—and my face burns in utter mortification as I murmur a quiet, "Sorry."
After making sure my audio is at a safe level now, I play the video again.
"Cheeeeeeeeryyyyyy… It's me, Harry Styles. Otherwise known as the weirdo from behind the fence," he drawls out slowly, moving his sunglasses up onto his head to reveal a pair of very amused, green eyes. "See? I told you I wasn't lying. Need more proof? Come see me in the flesh tonight." Then as if remembering something, he adds, "I may not have sexy long hair anymore, but I think you'll find me a decent company anyway," he then winks at the camera in a very obnoxious, theatrical way, before ending the video.
My face falls into my hands as I let out an equally dramatic groan. This is positively no good; I was supposed to end this tonight, not prompt more teasing and playful exchanges between us. If I'm not careful, I will end up tangled in his web of charm again.
This man is like a drug, and one thing I've learned about drugs is that you need to cut yourself off completely if you ever wish to fully recover. There are no half-measures; it's either all or nothing.
Needless to say, my heart feels like it's about to drop to the darkest depths of my stomach, but I know exactly what I need to do.
Me: It's nothing personal. I may have gotten to know you only as 'H', but I'm sure the real you, this Harry Styles person, is just as amazing
Me: Still… this doesn't change the fact that I can't get over my shit
Me: Don't hate me for this but I need to stop leading you on. We can't be friends. It's not happening. I'm sorry
Swiftly, I click the 'block' button before fully deleting his number so I wouldn't be tempted to text him again. Out of sight, out of mind…right?
_________
The next day, I wake up feeling even more tired than I had been when I went to bed the night before. This pattern continues relentlessly throughout the entire week, to the point of exhaustion. Some nights I manage to get some semblance of sleep in, but my dreams are still clouded with visions of my faceless stalker. Though different each time, there is one common thing linking these nightmares together—the ending. In the most shocking twist, the man's face visualises itself into an image of a certain green-eyed Brit I've been trying to forget...with no success whatsoever.
Realistically speaking, I know this is just my subconscious projecting my deepest fears and regrets into my dreams. We dream what we think about. And aside from the whole H-slash-Harry-Styles drama, there is only one other issue bothering me, and that's what could have happened to Asa had my stalker decided to be more violent.
I can't even think about it without becoming nauseous.
Around mid-week, I cave in and call my mother asking whether I should take any action in regards to that threatening note. As expected, she advises me against doing anything that could potentially attract the attention of the media, or even worse, my father. Between the lines, I meekly introduce the possibility of her hiring a bodyguard for me, but I can tell she is not thrilled by the idea of going behind Dad's back.
Eventually, after an hour-long conversation full of mutual resentment and bickering, we settle on hiring protective detail to watch over both Asa and Sally. I may be forced to live in the fear of tomorrow, but at least my friends will be guaranteed safety. At the end of the day, that's what matters to me the most.
This morning, I lay in my bed for a long time. My mind is occupied with one additional problem today, and that's the upcoming meeting with Matthew Baker and our legal representatives. Much to my displeasure, my father is planning to attend the negotiations as well, since he is hoping—in his very own words—that the photo scandal can be swiftly 'erased' from existence.
Thankfully it's Sunday, which means no scheduled plans; not that I had much going on during the weekdays anyway. Aside from my meetings with H, which are now in the past, my life is a pretty monotonous string of sleep, eat, and repeat.
But, as I spot a familiar name in my Twitter inbox, I know this day will not be ordinary at all.
Harry_Styles: Hi again. I have a question. May I?
The message is dated four hours ago, which means he was up at the crack of dawn…or he didn't sleep at all. I can't help but wonder whether it was the complete dismissal he had experienced from 'Cherry' that prompted him to try contacting the redhead he had danced with at the party again. Either way, I was surely not expecting this. Not after I failed to answer him after that single 'Hi' I had impulsively sent to him last week.
Most guys would have given up and moved on to the next girl. But also—most guys aren't Harry Styles.
My curiosity taking over, I text back despite the warning bells ringing in my head.
A_Doherty: I guess
Harry_Styles: I was wondering what's a recommended break before trying to text a girl again after she completely blew me off last week
I bite my lip, smirking. He's smooth, I have to give him that.
A_Doherty: I suppose seven days is acceptable
Harry_Styles: How about six and a half? You think that will do?
A_Doherty: You'll have to try and see
I look to my right, pointing an accusing finger at my own reflection in the mirror. "What the hell are you doing? Stop flirting with him, you fool!"
Harry_Styles: In that case… How are you?
A_Doherty: Honest or polite answer?
Harry_Styles: First one. Always
A_Doherty: Shitty and you?
Harry_Styles: Same
Harry_Styles: I wasn't expecting you to answer if I'm being honest
A_Doherty: Why did you text me then?
Harry_Styles: I'm just a sucker for pain
A_Doherty: You're in a good company then
Harry_Styles: Speaking of pain, would you like to know why I really couldn't stop staring at you that night at Kenny's?
I already have a pretty good idea why, I want to say. It involves one narcissistic asshole, a couple of shots, and the need to boast about his conquests to his friends.
But, just like H, I am also a bit of a masochist. Which means I can't resist texting back to find out just what his true intentions are.
A_Doherty: I think I have an inkling
Harry_Styles: Well, I won't lie, you looked stunning in that bikini, and I have a pair of working eyes
Harry_Styles: But mostly, you just reminded me of someone
A_Doherty: Oh really?
There's a very prolonged pause, and just when I'm about to set my phone aside, it vibrates in my hand again.
Harry_Styles: I just realised I'm giving you heaps of material to screenshot and send to TMZ
A_Doherty: Do I really strike you as someone who loves fraternising with the media?
A_Doherty: I should send you some nudes while we're at it, since my ass is plastered all over the web anyway
Harry_Styles: Fair point
Harry_Styles: And you won't see me complaining about seeing your bum, ever
A_Doherty: Thought so
I purse my lips, knowing this is all kinds of wrong… that I should really stop egging him on. But, once again, the curious devil inside me wins.
A_Doherty: So… a girl?
Harry_Styles: It's someone I really like
I have a very strong urge to tell him what I'm really thinking right now—that he would stop liking me if he knew I was the same girl he had been so eager to make fun of. But, obviously, I can't say that. Instead, I wonder what would the former me—the one who hasn't met H yet—think of this. Most probably, she'd find the whole situation amusing. She'd exercise her dry humour to no end, tease him relentlessly until finally deciding whether he is safe to hook up with or not.
With that thought in my mind, I type out my response.
A_Doherty: Oh god, not a sad fuckboy tale please
Harry_Styles: No fucking involved. Just someone I really wanted to be friends with until I got left in the dust
A_Doherty: Boohoo. Go hang out with Kendall or one of the countless friends I'm sure you have
Harry_Styles: I could
A_Doherty: Then what's the problem?
Harry_Styles: I've met many people in my life, but the genuine ones like her are hard to find
A_Doherty: Now you really sound like a fuckboy
A_Doherty: Call her special - that would be the real cherry on top
Harry_Styles: Cherry, huh? And yes, she really is special
Harry_Styles: One very special Cherry
Harry_Styles: You on the other hand are quite blunt, aren't you?
A_Doherty: I sure am. And remember, no one's forcing you to talk to me
Harry_Styles: No, I meant that I admire your honesty
A_Doherty: If you really like honesty then you won't mind me asking why I'm the person you chose to discuss this with
A_Doherty: You literally don't know me
Harry_Styles: Because I can't tell anyone how I met this girl or they'd call me reckless for risking my reputation for someone who could very easily turn out to be an overzealous fan. I'd never hear the end of it
A_Doherty: I'm confused
Harry_Styles: It's okay. I didn't expect you to understand. You don't give a shit and I like that, because you see it clearly for what it is
He's wrong. I'm very, very biased about this. But, I still try to act like I have no clue.
A_Doherty: Right now I don't see it as anything at all, unless you tell me more
The three dots appear on the screen again, and I find myself growing anxious as he continues to type out his response...for a very long time. Up until now, I have not considered the possibility of him saying something potentially upsetting about 'Cherry'. I had foolishly dived into this conversation with hopes of learning what he thinks of me…both versions of me. But now, when I'm this close, I'm once again in a panic.
Harry_Styles: Basically, I met this girl in very odd…circumstances. She didn't know who I was, and vice versa. We just clicked instantly. She infuriated me, but in the best kind of way. Our conversation flowed easily as if I'd known her for years not weeks. I couldn't get enough of her
Harry_Styles: We kept talking for a while until I realised what I really wanted was to meet her. Just as friends. She was nervous, very nervous, which made me think that she's probably someone from the industry like us
Harry_Styles: For a while, it really seemed like she was going to accept. We even set up a meeting. And then she bailed, faking sickness… a story I believed until she blocked me last night
Harry_Styles: Obviously I could try calling her from different numbers, but I know she'll just end up blocking me every time. I think I have a pretty good understanding of the kind of person she is now. Stubborn and strong-headed, for one. Once she's made her decision, there's no going back. So now it's up to me to somehow find her, but I don't know how
A_Doherty: Why did she block you?
Harry_Styles: She claims that I won't like her once I learn her real name
Harry_Styles: But I also think I've done something wrong because you don't go from being excited to ghosting someone in a day
A_Doherty: Maybe you should just accept that it's what she wants and move on
Harry_Styles: I tried but it's killing me. I got so close and literally let her slip right out of my grasp
A_Doherty: What's done is done. You can't dwell over things you can't change
Harry_Styles: Why did you try to avoid me at the party?
I pause for a moment, a bit stunned at his sudden change of topic.
A_Doherty: Why do you think?
Harry_Styles: You really love being coy, don't you?
Harry_Styles: I tell myself it's not because you realised who I am, but it's the only plausible explanation that comes to mind. And you also ignored my DM's later, which is pretty self-explanatory
Asa's words from our last conversation ring in my head. 'Do you honestly think he's never faced judgement?', he had asked then. I have never considered the possibility that Harry Styles, just like me, can get insecure sometimes.
A_Doherty: That doesn't happen to you often, does it? Is it the hurt ego speaking?
Harry_Styles: No, I'm just trying to understand your motives
Harry_Styles: Have I offended you by looking?
A_Doherty: Oh, you're not the first and you won't be the last one who gawked at my chest
Harry_Styles: Yeah, sorry about that. It doesn't happen often. Usually I try to be respectful, but I just couldn't resist being a typical man for once
Harry_Styles: They really are beautiful by the way… just saying
A_Doherty: Did you just call my tits beautiful?
Harry_Styles: Sorry, would 'perky, round and perfectly sculpted' be more appropriate?
Oh god, now I'm blushing. Great. Just great.
A_Doherty: They say thanks
Harry_Styles: Now that I've shown my endless (and honest) appreciation for your beauty, answer me this…
Harry_Styles: Did you start avoiding me because of who I am?
A_Doherty: I have nothing against THE Harry Styles
A_Doherty: I'm just trying not to do dumb shit lately
Harry_Styles: And I'm the dumb shit?
A_Doherty: No, that's not what I meant
Harry_Styles: Explain, please
I take a deep breath, trying to think of a suitable answer that would both satisfy his curiosity and not bust my cover. The only thing that could get me out of this is a very good lie. And like I always say—the best way to lie is to give some semblance of the truth. So that's exactly what I do.
A_Doherty: It all got a bit out of hand and I was worried I'd end up doing something impulsive like drag you to that bathroom stall with me
A_Doherty: I've been trying to straighten up and make something of my life. And that includes limiting the amount of hook-ups with strangers
A_Doherty: Now you're free to run to TMZ with this
Harry_Styles: First of all, I should once again tell you that I love how straightforward you are
Harry_Styles: Second, I'm not even going to pretend like I didn't consider that idea myself, and I should probably say thank you for tempering me because I'm not the best when it comes to controlling my urges. And you were right, this was not the smartest idea, for us both. I got carried away too
Harry_Styles: Third, would this be the right time to say that I quite like talking to you and would really love to meet up for coffee sometime, no hooking up involved?
Oh dear.
I should have expected that our conversation would lead up to this. I think somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew it all along. And yet I kept this game going, like the fool that I am.
Harry_Styles: If you turn me down now, you'll be the second woman to do it in a week. I just thought you should know
Harry_Styles: That would be kicking the man who's already down right in his bollocks. You're not that heartless, right, pretty?
A_Doherty: Don't try to butter me up, Mr Styles
Harry_Styles: Getting chummy now, are we? I love nicknames. I reckon pretty is a very appropriate pet name for you
Harry_Styles: And you can call me H
A_Doherty: I'm not in LA right now, but I'll think about it
And now I'm a liar. Again.
Harry_Styles: How long?
A_Doherty: A couple of weeks
This should give me enough time to mull over his words, as well as figure out how to deal with the mess I've just created.
Harry_Styles: Rain check then?
A_Doherty: It's not a no
I am barely one leg out of my bed when I hear the loud slamming of the door in the hallway, followed by the familiar clicking of heels that can only belong to one person.
"Please don't tell me you're still asleep at ten in the morning!" Georgie yells, marching into my bedroom like the tornado that she is.
"I'm not. I'm just…resting," I answer.
"Is that what you youngsters call being lazy these days?" she clicks her tongue in disappointment. "Get up, I have to go shopping, and I need you to carry my bags. I'm an old lady. My back's killing me more than the hemorrhoids."
"Georgie, you know I want to help you, but I can't leave the house. Paps are still on my case. I went out like once last week and they nearly ambushed me in The Hideout. It was way too close."
"That's because you're stupid enough to go places that they know you frequent," she rolls her eyes.
"But I love their donuts!" I protest.
"Then send me next time, okay? Don't risk yourself like that," she chastises me gently. "Fine, I guess I will go on my own. I'm out of cat food."
"I think there's some left in the cupboard above the sink," I say distractedly, taking a seat on the bar stool as she rummages through the kitchen.
"So, paparazzi these days… Do they usually walk around disguised as joggers?" she asks, seemingly nonchalant although I can easily spot a hint of worry in her voice. "I swear, so much has changed since my prime days…"
"Joggers?" I interrupt, quirking an eyebrow in question.
"Mhm, I saw one the other day… He was wearing a pair of hideous loose shorts with a colorful headband thingy on his head. No sense of fashion at all, just plain sloppy," she retorts, her nose scrunching in distaste.
"Uh, no they usually just camp outside in their cars… When did you see this guy again?" I frown.
"Two days ago… He passed by my front gate about six times in one hour, the poor soul looking utterly lost, so I asked if he was looking for anything specific," she explains. "Then he started questioning me all about the young redheads living in the area—"
"What?!" I yelled. "You didn't think to mention this to me sooner?"
"I am mentioning it to you now," she shrugs.
"You should have told me right away… fuck," I curse, pacing the room.
"Language!"
"Please tell me you didn't say anything about me," I press with a frown.
"Of course I didn't, do you think I'm an imbecile?" she huffs. "I figured he must be a fan of yours, so I told him I know of no such person. He then went further down the street towards that favourite café of yours, and I didn't see him again."
"Oh thank god," I sigh in relief, turning to look at her seriously. "Georgie, there's something you must know. My friend Asa—the one who had visited recently—was attacked last week. Whoever that person was, his only interest in Asa was due to his relationship with me. It's probably an obsessed fan…"
"You think that could have been the same person I saw?" she asks worriedly. "To be honest, he seemed quite non-threate—"
"Do you remember what his face looked like by any chance?" I cut her off.
"Uh, not really, Beyoncé was rolling around in my roses again and—"
"Okay, okay, I get it," I mutter before she can launch into the detailed story of her cat's never-ending feud with her rose bush. "Next time you see him sniffing around my house, or anyone else for that matter, you come straight to me. Got it?"
"Of course," she nods, and I can only hope she will listen to me this time.
__________
Oops, so our little Cherry is making a lot of very bad decisions right now... But it also seems like she's slowly coming to some very important realisations, don't you think?
I'm hoping to have another update up by the end of this weekend, but no promises. It will be titled: "No cherries?" and yes - it's a big one. Very big one (it is exactly what you think!). Any guesses who says that line and in what circumstances?
Xx Cathy
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