Hey my cakelets <3 It's been a while, hasn't it? Sorry... writer's block is just horrible. But thank you so much for your patience.
I hope your holidays and New Years were absolutely lovely! You certainly made mine amazing.
Dedication... @ImJustNadine because her comment (like many of yours) BLEW MY MIND LAST CHAPTER. YOU PEOPLE... YOU'RE INCREDIBLE. AND I LOVE YOU.
--------------
Chapter 31 *2m 1d*
-Hallie-
My posture is upright and rigid, my glistening grey eyes are bright and perky, and yet my mind is swamped with boredom as Professor Bergen sweeps into a tangent about the mysteries of the human thought process. It's not that Bergen is a poor instructor, nor is he one of those incredibly old professors that wheezes with every word and ought to be shipped off to a nursing home immediately. In fact, his enthusiasm for the subject makes the class almost, almost, fascinating. Unfortunately, my attention is diverted from anything the professor might be saying.
A towering stack of textbooks rest upon the ink-stained and pencil-scarred surface of my desk, angled precisely to shield me from view as I stealthily retrieve my phone from my messenger bag. After hesitantly peeking up to assure that our instructor is still rambling obliviously -- the man has this odd sort of hatred for cell phones -- I quickly tap the mail app and refresh my inbox. Again.
Aside from the muted scraping sound of feet shuffled against the tile floor, the occasional whisper of a bemused student and Professor Bergen's rumbling voice, the classroom is utterly silent. In fact, if you train your ears just right, you could probably catch the sound of my splintering heart. Again.
Within every ten-minute interval of the past three days, I've been anxiously reloading my email in a hopeless effort to receive any response from Harry. In the middle of the night, I'll jolt awake, breathless and frantic as I urgently scramble to check my email. And with each time that no mail alerts appear, I'm flooded with an overwhelming sense of desperation.
At this point, I'd prefer to get a reply consisting of 'No thanks, I hate you' than to endure this blank, endless silence. Well... no, I take that back, actually.
Somehow, though, despite all of this, I have the exhilarating premonition that Harry’s response will be a confession of his own love for me. After all, if fate guided me into falling irrevocably in love with him, if fate convinced me to share my feelings at long last, fate would certainly make him feel the same way. Wouldn't it? That's the least it could do.
My thumb jabs viciously at the screen, as though I can bully my phone into submission. Still, nothing. Briefly, I attempt to focus on my professor's ever-so enrapturing speech, in the hopes that good behavior might somehow please God and compel him to take pity on my turbulent love life. But I'm helplessly distracted.
An elbow nudges me, drawing my attention away from the stubbornly empty iPhone screen. I recognize her immediately, from its crisp blue cuff and immaculately ironed sleeve, as Isabelle, the girl who sits directly to my left. The quiet brunette seems pleasant enough, if somewhat shy. I arch my brow questioningly. In response, she cautiously dips her head and flicks her eyes at our approaching instructor.
"He's going through this ‘everyone needs to pay attention to me’ phase,” she whispers warningly. "I just thought you might want to know." With a knowing glance at my cell, Isabelle studiously returns her attention to the lecture, scrawling down precisely labeled notes of everything he's said. God, if only I had that kind of focus.
"Thanks," I whisper gratefully, hurriedly stowing the phone into my messenger bag and forcing myself to ignore the mounting need to check it.
My resolve crumbles within five minutes. The instant Professor Bergen's eyes dart past our cluster of desks and I can be assured that he's not going to pounce on me like a lion capturing its prey, I fish through my bag. Fidgeting restlessly, I whip my phone away from the cherry-red material of my bag with an uncommon grace and effortlessly glide my finger across the screen to unlock it. And there, causing a ripple of confidence to flutter across my pores, causing the anxious explosion of nerves to wrench my stomach, causing the hint of a smile to curve my lips upward, is an alert on the mail icon.
I don't hesitate to question whether it is or isn't from Harry. I'm too irrepressibly eager. I stab at my inbox, gasping softly in both delight and relief as I scan the sender line, which boldly reads Harry Styles. I hardly absorb the words as my silvery eyes hungrily skim the page, racing to read each precisely typed letter. Again and again and again. Trying urgently to comprehend it.
Hallie,
There's not really an easy way to start this letter. I would never have expected that you'd ever feel that way. And I don't really know how to respond.
I mean, you and I have been friends for a while and I obviously care about you. It's just that I love Arabella, Hallie. I love her more than anything in the entire world. I'm engaged to her and every time I look at her, there's just this feeling, this spark. And I couldn't let something come between that. Even you.
I didn't tell Ar about this, of course. It'd only upset her and I don't want to screw everything up before the wedding. I know it's a lot to ask, but could we just keep it quiet? Maybe forget about it? I think that'd be easier for all of us. And please, don't mention it to anyone. The last thing I need right now is drama.
I'm sorry, Hallie. I’m sorry if you’re hurt because that isn’t what I wanted, not at all. I just don't feel that way about you and I'm afraid I never will. You deserve a great guy, but it's not me.
-Harry
Momentarily, numbness overpowers all of my bodily functions, silencing the irregular pounding of my heart, stiffening my limbs, inviting a listless glaze to form over my eyes. And suddenly, I'm spiraling, plummeting downward and downward, firmly expecting that within seconds I'll be sprawled across the ground with a loud thump, accompanied by the tinkling noise of a shattering heart.
I'm sorry, Hallie. I just don't feel that way about you and I'm afraid I never will. The words resound powerfully in my mind and automatically I clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle a strangled wail-thing -- vaguely resembling a trumpeting elephant -- that narrowly escapes from between my tightly clenched lips. I sag backward in stunned, desolate silence and burning, fresh tears prickle in the corner of my eyes.
I've endured plenty; I repeat plenty, of unbearable heartbreak. I've watched my true love gaze at another girl with more love in his eyes than possibly imaginable. I've assisted my best friend in planning every precise detail of her 'flawless' wedding with the boy I'll never stop adoring. But now, at long last, I've been outright rejected.
And now, slumping in my rigid wooden desk during a packed philosophy lecture, my heart is honestly, officially, irreparably, completely and utterly broken.
-Arabella- *20 Minutes Earlier*
A wave of contentment washes over me and I savor the sensation: Harry's soft, supple hand gripping mine and a wispy breeze trickling past the pair of us as we stroll along Via Sant'Andrea. As we peer through one of the speckless windows that line the streets, my eyes are instantly locked upon a stunning silver Armani bracelet set with delicate diamonds. I swear, shopping in Milan is heaven.
Unfortunately, although Italy is seemingly full of endless romantic possibilities, Harry still isn't entirely at ease. Whether we're admiring the numerous haute couture labels displayed around the Quadrilatero della Moda or aiming alluring smiles at one another over the rims of our remarkably expensive glasses of wine, I can't help but detect a hint of mistrust in his gaze. Which means I've got to expend even more effort on persuading him that I never meant to cause any sort of trouble in our relationship.
"Aren't you glad I dragged you out here for a vacation?" I coo, winding an arm around him and nestling into the inviting heat of his chest.
Harry stiffens a bit, shrugging around my frame and awkwardly looping his massive bicep over my shoulder. "Er, yeah. It's been nice, taking a break from everything," he admits, fixing his distinct green gaze on the dusty walkway and, although he tries to conceal it, avoiding contact with my shimmering blue eyes.
"It's been exactly what we need," I chirp, throwing in a perky smile.
"Ar." His sight revolves everywhere, from the vague outline of the sun masked behind light clouds to a thin, willowy Italian woman lurking in the doorway of a nearby shop. "I know you thought this would be some sort of solution, but... but going to Italy isn't going to just dissolve all of our issues."
The tone of our conversation remains surprisingly airy, despite the fact that I'm gritting my teeth with meticulously hidden rage. "All right then, Harry. What is going to fix things? In case you've forgotten, our wedding is in two months and I'm about out of options."
"Darling, I'm just say--" Harry replies, offended.
"No, God damn it," I hiss indignantly, my eyes blazing. "You’re not just saying. You’re judging and accusing. Don't you understand how stressful planning an entire wedding is? All I want, all I ask, is that April seventeenth is the most memorable, breathtaking, perfect ceremony imaginable. But you don't seem to realize how much work all of this takes." For Hallie, that is. "I'm constantly reserving, or calling, or researching, or interviewing, or designing, or sampling, and it isn't effing easy. So, if you by any chance want to thank me, stop panicking over one little damn lie I told and forgive me already."
"I... I'm sorry," he stammers, gnawing on one pink lip and agitatedly rubbing his curl-cloaked forehead with the palm of his hand. "I didn't realize that it was so difficult for you, all right? But you can't blame me for everything."
I purse my lips, heaving a weary sigh that blasts through my lips with a soft whistle. "I get that. I made a mistake, a really stupid one. But you've got to get over it.”
The buoyant quality of our tone returns once again as Harry directs a tender half-smile towards me. "Why don't you go ahead and fill me in on some of these wedding details?" he requests casually, adjusting his arm so it secures my waist a bit more snugly. And that, my friends, is all it takes to manipulate your fiancé into more or less forgiving you. All you’ve got to do is shift the blame away.
My victory, however, is short-lived. "Oh, shit." I halt, my distinguished blue eyes widening in alarm. "Today's the deadline. Shit, shit, shit," I mutter, fumbling with my gorgeous, massive Louis Vuitton handbag, stitched together flawlessly and decorated with dazzling gold buckles.
"Deadline?"
"I'm supposed to affirm the reservation for our reception at the Dorchester Hotel." Or rather, I'm supposed to remind Hallie to. I search frantically through the crumpled receipts, makeup bottles, glossy catalogs, wallet, sunglasses, and endless other random items that congest my purse, but to no avail. "And my damn phone is buried somewhere under all this junk."
"Here, use mine," Harry offers accommodatingly, whisking it out of his pocket and carelessly plopping it into my outstretched hand. "And while you're at it, I want to know about our wedding ceremony."
Biting anxiously at my lush pink lip, I smoothly glide my finger over the unlock key and plug in his predictable passcode. My knowledge of the Dorchester Hotel is extremely limited; in fact, the only thing I recall from Hallie's extensive research is that it's supposedly luxurious. And something about a Crystal Room, if I'm not mistaken. What the hell should I tell Harry? "Er, well obviously it'll be very classy," I drawl, my gaze not budging away from the phone as I hesitate, my finger swiveling between the Messaging and Mail icons.
"Is that all?" he prods, his eyebrows knitting together in the most adorable fashion.
Tapping decisively upon the mail, I cock my head and lazily scan the countless unread emails that clog his inbox. It's not that I'm nosy or prying. I'm simply curious. "Oh, well, our reception is in the Crystal Room, which is supposed to be absolutely beautiful," I supply lamely, praying that I'm remembering the information correctly. Please God, if you let that be true, I'll... I won't do a single mean thing for the next half hour. I promise.
I graze my manicured finger downwards, skimming past a Calvin Klein sale announcements and cologne ad. Why the hell is he subscribed to all this? Then, as I scroll over the multitude of pointless ads, my eyes land, to my surprise, on an email labeled Hallie Carter.
My finger momentarily hovers over it before jabbing down firmly. What Hallie possibly be emailing Harry about, anyways? Their shared, sickening affection for idiotic shooting games? Well, I aim to find out, most certainly.
Dear Harry,
I...
Each letter seems to sway and swarm my eyes, which bulge with utter shock. I'm oblivious to Harry's pestering and to the gentle breeze that gingerly sweeps a golden lock of hair over my shoulder. My lungs seem to swell, my throat to throb, my muscles to stiffen, my blood to boil with a deliberately contained rage.
"Ar," Harry repeats cautiously, administering a hesitant shake to my arm. "Is something wrong?" Concerned, he angles his neck to peek at the screen of the phone. For a brief instant, I ponder whirling around and slamming the phone towards him, eager to see his reaction. But no, that won't do. The entire reason for sending this damn letter was to reveal her adoration to him. So I can hardly allow that.
"Nothing." I swivel my head to face him, delivering a reassuring, insincere smile. "Nothing's wrong. I just lost focus for a minute, sorry. But... could we sit down for a moment, maybe? And... um, could I get a glass of water? I’m feeling a bit nauseous," I hurriedly invent the excuse, hoping he’ll scurry away without argument.
"I'll find a restaurant," Harry assures me, his breathtaking green eyes shimmering with distress as he guides me fretfully to a nearby bench. "Just stay right here. And be careful, please." After swooping down and brashly pecking my cheek, he darts down the sidewalk without even noticing that his phone is still clutched in my hand. I grin, rolling my eyes at his endearing foolishness. Almost immediately, though, my focus returns to the more important matter at hand: Hallie.
The thing about revenge, for me, is that it's not complicated whatsoever. All I require is one effortlessly simple idea, one minuscule spark of inspiration, and voila. Payback complete. In fact, it takes hardly a moment to begin composing a flawless revenge plan: a letter, one that reflects Harry with each word and apologetically but firmly informs her that he has absolutely no interest in anyone besides me, his gorgeous fiancée. I manage to restrain the urge to spew a load of curses and disgust, acutely aware that such behavior wouldn't resemble Harry at all.
I'm sorry, Hallie. I just don't feel that way about you and I'm afraid I never will. You deserve a great guy, but it's not me.
-Harry
My fingertips linger unsurely over the 'send' button, wavering with the power and fury that courses through them. I did promise God, after all, that I'd refrain from doing anything mean for the next thirty minutes and I'm barely scraping by with five. Then again, Hallie did promise to be my faithful maid of honor, did promise to dutifully plan my wedding, did promise to always, until the end of time, be my best friend. With that thought my fingers, as if of their own accord, slam into the send button and sail the letter off into the distance to fulfill its purpose of demolishing my 'dearest' friend's heart.
As a matter of fact, if I'm feeling rather generous later on, I might even consider feeling the slightest bit if regret. I mean, poor Hal will be utterly heartbroken.
Satisfied, I swipe my finger over the email and erase all evidence of its existence from his inbox. There. Business is entirely taken care of. Harry will remain clueless and Hallie will be taught a valuable lesson on why you never cross Arabella Edwards. And as for me? Well, I'm still untouchable.
---------------
I sincerely hope that you don't absolutely hate my guts right now. I mean, yeah. Hallie's luck absolutely sucks. BUT a good story has to have a plot and can't be AWW lovey dovey all the time. Oh, and even if you want to murder me, please don't.
VOTE. Like... hmm. We're incredibly close to 3,000 votes. So... 3,100? That's the new goal, loves. Next chapter will be updated then. Don't worry, this story isn't over yet. And thankfully, my writer's block seems cured for now. Comment, too! I'm pretty sure comments play a huge part in rankings, so BLOW UP MY COMMENTS ON THIS STORY. I dare you ;)
I love you all <3