❝ You need not be sorry for her. She was one of the kind that likes to grow up. In the end she grew up of her own free will a day quicker than the other girls. ❞
~~~
March 2, 2013
California
This was not home.
Whitney sighed and rolled over onto her back. Staring up at the ceiling of Mrs. Howard’s guest room, she rested her hands on her stomach and resisted blinking until her eyeballs felt like they were going to burst. Mrs. Howard’s house smelled like a typical old person’s house with Vicks and cheap perfume tainting the air. Whitney wasn’t complaining, though. After weeks (years, rather, but who’s counting?) in a stuffy, secluded hospital room, Dr. Riess finally released her yesterday on the condition that she would be under 24/7 supervision. Mrs. Howard graciously volunteered. At least, until Whitney’s mom could fly out; she had to find someone to take care of Whitney’s grandparents before coming to see her daughter at home in California.
But this was not home.
Actually, Whitney was kept in the hospital for a much longer time than other drug-induced coma patients. The initial reason for her prolonged stay was because her very long coma made Whitney walking medical mystery. The doctors and nurses just couldn’t figure it out.
"She OD’ed on antidepressants. The longest she should’ve been in a coma is a couple of days. Why was she asleep for three years?” they whispered to each other while shooting glances at the girl in the hospital bed.
Whitney knew the answer, obviously, but medical experts didn’t normally accept I-was-stuck-in-a-place-somewhere-in-between-sleep-and-awake-and-couldn’t-wake-up-until-that-guy-from-the-boy-band-got-into-a-coma-because-there’s-this-really-weird-combination-system-and-he-was-my-match as a logical explanation. So she kept quiet until the guys in the white coats shook their heads, shrugged, and said something along the lines of, “Well, she looks healthy.” And then they let her go home.
Where was home, though? Whitney often wondered while lazily counting the stripes on Mrs. Howard’s curtains. The house next door was where she lived all her life, but was it home anymore? She hadn’t been there in a long time, and only bad memories popped up whenever she thought about it. Plus, she didn’t like the “Home is where the heart/family/food is” bullshit. Her family was broken and scattered over the country, and food still made her nauseated after not properly eating for three years. And her heart? Simply put, it was taken from her. Snatched away. Stolen. Whitney wasn’t exactly sure when she last had it, but she had a hunch as to who took it. And he sure as hell wasn’t returning it anytime soon.
A shiver coursed through Whitney’s body. She rolled onto her side and curled her legs up into a fetal position, trying to ward away the memories. She hated the thoughts that reminded her of everything. Throughout her hospital stay and recovery, she pushed aside any slight recollection of...well. Whitney scrunched her eyes and sucked in a gulp of air. She had to stop thinking about it. Stop, stop, stop.
Hugging her legs closer to her chest, Whitney couldn’t help but feel regretful about every single thing she did and said in Neverland. Why did she have to stumble upon her match right away? Why did she show him around Neverland? Why did she stop being frustrated by his endless questions? Why did she let him make her laugh and relax? Why did she tell him about her dad? And why oh why did they become friends?
She knew this would happen if she allowed herself to get so close to him.
His number was still fresh in her mind. Whitney often found herself repeating it over and over and over again, like Dory repeating the P. Sherman address a million times in Finding Nemo. Her cell phone was in her back pocket. More than once, she considered typing in those digits into the keyboard and pressing “Call.” But she didn’t. Whitney told herself that it’d just be awkward and it was really for the best if any contact between them was forgoed.
But deep down in her gut, she knew the real reason why she never called or dropped a message. Because if home is where the heart is, then her home was stuck across the pond and out of her grasp. She knew that the time in Neverland with him was going to be short and fleeting, but it still hit a sensitive spot. And Whitney wasn’t a fanciful girl full of far-fetched hopes and dreams. For a sweet time, she and Niall lived somewhere in between their two worlds, but that was all gone now. The minute they left Neverland, Whitney knew she’d never see him again.
There was a reason she was reluctant to agree to being friends in the real world: he had his own life and she had hers. She was stupid to think he was actually expecting her to reach out when he was caught up in his superstar life. It was all ridiculous from the start, and Whitney could see that now. She had to grow up, move on, and build another home here in California.
That’s the thing about Whitney. She was practical, so practical. A boy bander, for fuck’s sake, she scolded herself. Of all people, it had to be a super famous boy bander who’s touring the world and on magazine covers and meeting hundreds of girls every fucking day. You’re a lost cause, Whitney Davies.
Even though it was the middle of the afternoon and broad daylight, Whitney pulled a blanket over herself and fell asleep, those thoughts still lingering in the back of her mind.
~~~
“This week, we’ll be seeing lots of nice weather with temperatures in the high–”
“There are seven beautiful girls standing in front of me, but I only have six pic–”
“All right, designers, make it w–”
“And Kaepernick has the ball! He’s running it to the end zone! TOUCHDOWN, SAN FRANCISCOOOO!”
Bored out her mind, Whitney stopped punching the buttons on the TV remote and rolled her eyes at the football game playing out on the screen. “It’s March,” she told the TV. “MARCH. Why’re you still showing reruns of the Super Bowl? Everyone already knows who fucking won.”
“Whitney?” Mrs. Howard called as she poked her head in the living room. She chuckled when she saw Whitney, who was sprawled out on the ancient couch and intently watching the game while cursing it under her breath. “Everything okay?”
Whitney pointed at the screen. “Yeah, I’m just watching the Super Bowl a month late. There wasn’t anything interesting on so – DAMMIT, DON’T JUST STAND THERE YOU FOOL! Sorry,” she immediately added after her outburst. “I was...talking to the quarterback.”
Mrs. Howard laughed as she sat down on the couch next to Whitney. “The Super Bowl, hm? I thought you didn’t like football.”
“I don’t, but I’d rather watch grown men in tights tackle each other than a stupid reality show with a bunch of crying girls or something. This is way more entertaining.”
She could tell Mrs. Howard was trying not to laugh. The older lady just nodded and put on the glasses that were hanging on a string around her neck. Fixing her eyes on the game, she gestured to the team wearing the white and purple jerseys. “They won.”
“The Ravens? Yeah, I know,” Whitney replied, keeping her eyes on the TV. “Dr. Riess told me.”
“Ah, I see. Well, I wanted the 49ers to win.”
They continued watching the football game without saying much to each other, the only noise being the shrill whistles and shouts from the game and Whitney’s groans of annoyance at various players. Actually, it strangely made her feel rather calm to transfer her frustrations from herself to a football team that couldn’t hear her. After the third quarter was over, Mrs. Howard stood up and made her way to the kitchen. “I’m going to make dinner now. Are you hungry?” she asked Whitney.
Whitney shrugged. “Not really. I’m good.” Food made her stomach feel queasy. She never thought she’d turn down a snack, but Neverland does that to people. As soon as Mrs. Howard left, Whitney stretched her arms and grabbed her phone that was lying on the coffee table in front of her. The game went to commercial, so she resumed a habit she had picked up in the hospital, which was to Google anything that she was remotely interested in to catch up for three missed years. While reading a review of The Killers’ new album, advertisements played in the background.
“Come on, kid. I’m Drew Brees.”
Whitney sneaked a peek at the TV. Oh, look. It was a Pepsi commercial starring Drew Brees, the New Orleans Saints quarterback who led the team to a Super Bowl victory in 2010. (For someone who didn’t like football, she certainly knew a lot about it.) Also, his last name sounded awfully similar to the name of a little girl she once knew.
“And I’m Harry.”
Hold up. Harry?
Suddenly alive, Whitney scrambled up and fumbled for the TV remote, turning the volume up as loud as she could without the sound reaching Mrs. Howard’s keen hearing aids. She stared at the boy named Harry on her screen. He had curly hair, wore skintight jeans, gripped a Pepsi can, and talked with a British accent. Right away, she knew who he was.
“Who?”
Harry. Harry Styles.
“From One Direction?”
She grabbed the nearest pillow and smothered her mouth with it. It tasted like mothballs and regret.
But there they were. One Direction, the one and only. She couldn’t look away if she tried.
Whitney hadn’t bothered to look them up online, knowing that what she’d find would only make it worse. She couldn’t avoid them now. Undeniably real and inhumanely attractive, the band showed off their impressive achievements and screaming fanbase, making Whitney’s eyes grew wider and wider with each passing second. And when a very familiar voice started speaking, it took everything she had not to die.
“If ya give ‘im da Pepsi, ya can be in da band.”
God, that was such a stupid line. Yet even the sound of his Irish accent hurt more than she expected it would.
Ignoring Drew Brees’ off pitch screeching, Whitney sank back into the stiff couch and closed her eyes. And then, just before the commercial faded away, she heard his laugh. The laugh that made her feel like everything was okay. She missed that laugh more than she cared to admit.
See, this is what Whitney had been trying to avoid. She didn’t want to be like this. She didn’t want to feel like she was sinking back into a deep dark hole of nothing whenever he popped into her life. It just...hurt. Whitney wished it wouldn’t hurt so much.
The game resumed, but Whitney wasn't watching.
If this was reality, she didn’t like it. The flimsy, happy bubble shielding her from the cold happenings of life had been popped. But that was the price of growing up and moving on, and Whitney had to pay.
~~~
A/N:
yay for short filler chapters. but at least i updated sooner than two months, right? yeah. okay.
I HOPE THIS ADEQUATELY EXPLAINS WHY WHITNEY HASN'T PICKED UP THE DAMN PHONE. seriously though there's a reason why no phone call or text or whatever has happened.
oh and if you haven't heard, i'm writing a short story called An Awfully Big Adventure and it's about...Bree! the story will have three parts, focusing on Bree's life before, during, and after neverland. i hope you check it out because i'm really excited for it! i'm planning to post the first part in two weeks. unless college apps kill me before then.
anyways, please remember to vote and comment! thanks for reading!
catherine
[dedicated to _plead. i don't know if you're aware of this, but you're quite amazing and i love you.]
EDIT: to everyone who's asking why whitney hasn't called niall yet, hear me out. in this chapter, you can see that whitney is trying to grow up and forget about neverland altogether because it hurts to think about niall (ahem). plus, she knows that it's ridiculous to try to contact a megafamous singer whom she met in a coma. this is an allusion to Peter Pan: whitney, like wendy, wants to stay in neverland and never grow up, yet she has to go back to real life and move on. there's a reason why she's not rushing to the phone, so don't worry because i have way more things planned for whiall than a petty phone call or text. :)