I'd like to say that the past twenty four hours haven't passed any differently than they might normally have, and it would be partly true. I had walked back through part of the park, found the subway, and taken it all the way back to the dorms, where I showed my ID as I always do, made my way up to my room the same way I always do, and proceeded to pack up my belongings for my move to my best friend's apartment in less than forty eight hours. So, while it's true that all of that happened after everything yesterday, I wouldn't say nothing was different.
I was different, much to my own surprise. Concentration, which was never my forte if I'm being completely honest, was as far from my mind as speaking Japanese (note: I can't speak Japanese). I was only able to get half a box full last night before the temptation of my laptop grew to be too much - and I watched every One Direction video I could find, including those "Best of..." and "Harry's Funniest Moments" videos that fans (bless their hearts) put together.
And I can't say why I watched all of those videos and interviews. Did I expect the media perception of Harry Styles to sway the way I was feeling having met and spoken with him in person? I guess, but I wasn't prepared for the way all of the footage made me like him more. It seemed like the Harry I was watching in interviews was the same Harry I'd met in the coffee shop mere hours before. Obviously he was good-looking, but impossibly, his cute, funny, charming ways with the other boys, and with the interviewers made him even more attractive, to the point that I was finding him downright sexy. So much so, that I was having difficulty refraining from moaning out loud when he did certain things, like licked his lips or ran a hand through his curls.
And the opportunity to do anything about it had passed nearly twenty four hours ago when I'd left that coffee shop.
"Do you want to keep or chuck the minion stand-up?" Emily was standing next to the dresser in my dorm, holding my cardboard cut-out of a minion (yes, from Despicable Me) with two fingers, as if it was the most grotesque thing she'd ever laid eyes on.
"His name is Gary, and yes," I snatched him from her, "We're keeping him."
"Okay, but he stays in your room." She dropped him unceremoniously onto the floor and tossed her long blonde locks over one shoulder to close up a heavy box filled with miscellaneous items from my desk, "This one's done. You'll only have to finish packing up your clothes for tomorrow now."
"Alrightey." I responded, making a mental note of the dirty pile of laundry that sat in my suitcase, tossed there as haphazardly as I could manage.
Nearly twenty four hours.
I couldn't get the whole thing out of my head. And unfortunately, the process of moving was all pretty mindless work - just pack the crap up and haul it to the new place - so I stood no chance of forgetting about it. Or even just putting him out of my mind for more than two minutes at a time.
"So, I'll have Bryan come with me tomorrow with his car so we can load all your stuff up. Can we park outside the building?" Emily asked, picking up her bag and slinging it over her shoulder.
"We may have to drive around a few times." I paused, "And by we, I mean Bryan. I don't think it would be a good idea to leave the car parked right in front for too long a time."
Driving in New York City was always...interesting, to say the least. Moving in New York City was a challenge if there ever was one. Like doing anything in Manhattan, it took stamina, smarts, and lots of hostility. With Emily on my side, I knew I had good odds. But thinking about driving in Manhattan only made me think about how it easy it must be for One Direction to drive around Manhattan - or should I say, be driven around Manhattan... in a car that's not a (sometimes vile-smelling) yellow taxi. I mean, of all the perks of the job, being driven around seems like it would be up there on the list. At least top five.
And then it made me think about Harry driving, and what he must look like behind the wheel of a car. Was he a good driver? Could he drive here in America? I know in England they drive on the right side of the car, and the opposite side of the road. That would be confusing. I wouldn't blame him if he didn't want to drive here. Could he drive at all?
"Are you even listening to me?"
I looked up to find Emily staring at me, a hand on her hip, her mouth open slightly, as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing.
"Huh?"
"You're thinking about him again, aren't you?" Emily revealed a small smile.
Of course I'd told her everything that had happened. Every detail - down to the fact that I had actually watched a three minute video that featured Harry's laugh on loop. The shame of it had only deepened when she'd looked at me with blue eyes wide and told me to "sit down and take deep breaths because I must be getting sick." But she was my best friend, and despite finding my new obsession a little weird, I could tell she was definitely excited about my run-in with Harry Styles. If it weren't for her shrieking when I told her he said I was cute, I could definitely tell by the red mark I still had on my forearm where she'd slapped it repeatedly for leaving the coffee shop before he did.
I toyed with a loose string on my comforter, not meeting her eye, "Maybe."
I heard her sigh, but fearing judgment, I didn't look up. "Wish there was something we could do about it." The bed sank next to me, and I looked up to find her sitting beside me, her head hung low, her eyebrows furrowed in thought.
"Me too." I admitted, relieved I wasn't the only one feeling that way.
According to One Direction's website, their tour continued in New York through tomorrow. They were playing two sold out shows at MetLife Stadium out in Jersey, but obviously the boys had decided to stay here in Manhattan. Just the thought of him here, in the same city, was thrilling, giving me more than anything else, a painful sliver of hope that I might run into him again, and make up for my stupidity yesterday in leaving without at least letting the whole situation play out. What if he had continued talking to me after the fans left? What if he really did think I was cute? We could've exchanged numbers, and then who knows what else.
But then the even more painful realization settled in like an overprotective parent shielding their child from something they perceive to do more harm than good - nothing would've happened anyway.
As soon as the thought came, I pushed it back, back, back, to the smallest, darkest recesses of my mind, willing it to stay there, and not reappear every time I let myself recall everything that had transpired between Harry Styles and me, and all that could've happened between us.
And while it was back there, I let myself be overcome with the one desire I had in my control, the one thing I had left in my power to feel like I'd done everything possible to play this thing out to the end, "Would it be crazy for me to go back to the coffee shop?"
Emily looked at me then, not with the judgment I was sure I'd find, but something worse in her eyes - her almost transparent blue eyes: pity. "You know he won't be there... right?"
I turned away, staring at my hands in my lap, "I know." I said, not admitting to her (or myself) that I was hoping with everything in me that he would be, "I just - I don't know."
We were quiet for a few beats, before Emily started, "Look, you could go there again. But what would it help? It would only make you regret doing nothing yesterday even more."
I knew she was right. That I would only be let down in that coffee shop if I went there again. And why would I want to ruin my memory of it with disappointment? Self-preservation, pride, and common sense all pointed to not going back there.
But that's where I found myself an hour after Emily left me to my own devices in my bare dorm room. The bell over the door tinkled just as it had yesterday, and the aroma of coffee beans wafted around me as I entered. There weren't as many people sitting around tables though, and there was only one person in front of me on line, and she was already ordering. After a quick sweep of the place from my position by the door, I moved forward behind her when I didn't see the head of curls and striking green eyes I was looking for, and tried not to feel too upset.
"Can I help you?" the barista called, and I swung my head towards him. He was sporting gages, an eyebrow ring, and a backwards baseball cap on his head. His forearms were covered in colorful tattoos, and his brown eyes were watching me with polite interest.
"Um, yes, I'll just have an iced coffee please, cream, no sugar." The bell tinkled again, and I whipped my head around to find a young mother pushing a stroller through the door.
"What size?" the barista asked, and I looked back at him, hoping it wasn't obvious how dismayed I felt.
"Medium, please."
"And your name?" He looked up at me again, his expression blank.
"Maddie." I responded, turning to look down at the little boy who had bumped into my leg. He was looking up at me with huge brown eyes ringed with incredibly long lashes before his mother grabbed his arm and pulled him back, apologizing for him.
"It's okay," I was saying just as the barista continued, "Maddie, as in Madelyn?"
I turned back to him, "Yes," was all I said, watching as he plucked a clear plastic cup from the stack next to him and scribbled my name on it.
The door opened again while I was paying, and an older gentleman in a suit walked in, a newspaper tucked under his arm. Knowing that no one else had entered the shop, I surveyed the patrons once more before choosing a seat, coffee in hand, intending to read my book and wait for him to appear and sweep me off my feet.
Or the more realistic outcome: not be able to concentrate on my book and leave here feeling so disheartened I would drown my sorrows in copious amounts of ice cream and pretzels when I got home.
As I attempted to focus on the story in my hands, the damn bell over that damn door chimed endlessly. Streams of people flooded into the shop, talking on phones, laughing with each other, or standing solemnly by themselves - all going somewhere and thinking about someone or something, worrying about their own issues, smiling at each other, ordering their coffees, leaving with their coffees, and none of them were him.
More than disappointment, I was feeling foolish. Did I really expect him to show up again? Why? Because out of all the people in the world, he would want to see me again? It was so clear to me now, sitting in that coffee shop, just how ridiculous I was being that I felt the heat rise in my cheeks out of humiliation. I'd made so much more of what had happened in my head than what it really was - which was Harry Styles making small talk with a girl in a coffee shop before moving on to do his next international-pop-star-thing. That girl had just so happened to be me.
"Madelyn, right?"
The deep voice startled me out of my self-deprecating thoughts, and I didn't have time to get excited about who it might be before I was looking up at the barista who had taken my order. His brown eyes were locked on mine, and he looked a little uncertain.
Wondering what he could possibly want, and realizing it had been strange that he'd asked for my full name, I answered warily, "Yes?"
"Um, by any chance, were you here yesterday?" he said, taking the opportunity to sit across from me, despite the fact that I hadn't said he could.
Confused as to what he was getting at, I answered again, my response sounding more like another question, "Uh, yeah, I was?"
Rather than respond, the barista reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of folded paper that he turned over and over a few times in his hands before speaking again, "I know this is a little weird, but," he sighed, "there was this guy here yesterday who wanted me to give you this."
The hope I had been harboring in my chest since yesterday sizzled into unabashed excitement, burning its way from my heart to my extremities.
It couldn't be.
"He was a little disappointed to find out that I hadn't seen you yesterday, but he told me to look for a really pretty girl with long, dark brown hair and blue eyes and said her name was Madelyn." The barista was looking right at me and he smiled a little, "And you're a pretty girl with brown hair and blue eyes, whose name is Madelyn. He said you might not be here again today, but he hoped you would be. And he said that if you were, he wanted you to have this."
The barista extended his hand, holding the folded paper out to me. I had been holding my breath during his whole explanation, and let it out in a long, slow exhale as I reached out to take the paper from him with a shaky hand.
It couldn't be.
I was sure I was dreaming until I felt the paper in my hands, and I knew that my imagination wasn't that good. The weight of it settled between my fingers, and I found I couldn't open it just yet, too fearful that it wouldn't read what I hoped it might - that it wouldn't be from who I thought it was... hoped it was.
I slid it between my fingers and looked up at the barista, "Um," I started, my voice so soft I had to clear my throat to be sure I could still make audible sounds, "Was - did the guy who gave this to you..." I had to be subtle, I realized. I couldn't blurt out the name of the person in a crowded place like this. Or maybe I was just too afraid that it would be the wrong name. "Did he have curly hair?"
The barista smiled, a handsome smile - a knowing smile, "He did." He said with a nod, "Brown, curly hair."
I felt my breath catch in my throat, and I stared down at the paper in my hands, absolutely mesmerized by it. My heart thrummed against my ribcage, and I felt a smile spread on my lips. I looked back up at the barista, who was smiling at me.
"Thank you," I breathed, looking down at the paper, and back up at him, "Thank you."
"It's no problem," he said with a laugh. He patted the table a couple of times, and stood to leave.
"Wait," I called after him, and he turned to meet my eye again, "What's your name?"
"I'm David." He said, with another charming smile.
"David," I repeated, "Thank you."
"You're welcome, Madelyn." With that, he turned and walked back behind the counter, just as more customers walked through the door.
I looked from them to the paper in my hands, feeling the ridges from where the pen had pressed into it. Closing my eyes, I prayed with what felt like every single cell in my body that it was from who I assumed it was - that the disappointment I had been feeling for the past twenty four hours would be placated. That he had been just as affected by our chance meeting as I was. That he, unlike me, had chosen to take action.
Opening my eyes, I was momentarily relieved to find the paper still there in my grip. And I ran my fingers over those ridges once more before taking a deep breath, and lifting the top.
I smiled again. I couldn't help it.
Madelyn,
I hope this makes its way to you. If you can, I would love for you to meet me.
Central Park. Thursday morning at 8.
I'll be waiting at Bow Bridge.
-HS
P.S. I enjoyed talking with you, as well :)