ISABELLA
A variety of scents, ranging from paprika to nutmeg to melted cheese, filtered throughout the rather big confines of the kitchen. The kitchen smelt like home. The sounds of pots and pans hitting the counter brought back a sense of familiarity and nostalgia. This would be the first significant holiday celebrated away from home. It was sad to know that I wouldn't be enjoying a turkey feast with my family, but it was still heartwarming to know I was able to experience this with Harry.
I watched Samantha stir the pot of basil chicken soup. I've never had it before, but the heavenly scent that was coming from the pot made my stomach grumble with excitement. "That smells amazing," I tell her. She turns around, a warm smile on her lips.
"Thank you, Isabella." Harry's mother looks at me once more, her lips still upturned into a smile, and faces the steaming pot of soup.
"You can call me Izzy, if you like."
"Is that what you prefer?"
"Yeah. Isabella seems too... formal."
"Harry seems to have taken a liking to formalities," Samantha giggles. Her smile falling slightly at the mention of her son's name. This only feeds my curiosity more about Harry and his relationship with his family.
The little that I know about Samantha, I know that she was left to be a single mother for many years after Mr. Styles, Harry's dad, left them. Harry only being two and Ben four. I had so much respect for Samantha. Having to take on the job of being a single parent had to be difficult. I couldn't imagine how it must have been. It made sense that she got married. She probably wanted to give her boys a better life, a life that she couldn't give them on her own.
"I'm so glad that Harry has found a nice girl like you," Samantha brings me out of my thoughts. I look over at where she stands, her body leaning against the counter. She has a warm smile on her lips, her hands folded and sitting on the countertop. "He has gone through so much stuff and so many hardships. Harry has always had a lot of pent up anger inside of him. But with you," she pauses. Her eyes glass over, tears flighting to fall. "But with you, he seems happy. I haven't seen him this happy in years."
My heart warms at her words. A fluster of butterflies eating up inside of me. I knew that Harry had a lot of pent up emotions. Emotions that he hasn't opened up to me about. I knew that with me he was a lot kinder, but I hadn't realized how blatant it had been. "I don't know what to say," I smile shyly at her. I can feel my cheeks blushing at her words.
"Thank you. Thank you for choosing to be with my son. I know that sounds silly but as a mother, you want your children to be happy. You want them to find someone that will give them all the happiness that you fail to give. I was worried that Harry would never find that. I was worried that he'd get too caught up in his lifestyle of partying and drinking that he'd never find the right girl to settle down with. I see how he looks at you, how protective he is over you. It's all I ever want for my boy."
"That's a lot of pressure," I laugh lightly. Samantha joins in on my light laughter, her lips quirking up into a smile. "I really, really like your son. He's amazing. He's smart, funny, kind - he's the best there is."
Samantha sniffles, her fingers brushing back a few fallen tears. "I'm sorry," she chuckles. "I'm just so happy."
I walk over to Harry's mother and wrap my arms around her into a hug. She wraps her arms around me and holds me into a motherly embrace. I pull back. She is smiling at me, her eyes glistening.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Of course dear."
I take a deep breath, the words swimming inside my mind. I search for the right way to ask without offending or crossing any boundaries. "Harry's dad, his real dad... what happened to him? Harry hasn't mentioned much about him."
Samantha looks over at me, her eyes downcast. She takes a seat at the counter, her fingers running through her chestnut brown curls. "Harry's father left us when the boys were young. He was a musician; singer-songwriter type."
"Really?" I ask, my eyes widening. "Harry is awful at singing."
Samantha chuckles, "Unfortunately, Harry inherited my genes. He used to be wonderful but puberty hit him. Ben is the musical one of the two."
I smile and nod, laughing at the memory of Harry trying to sing in the car. It wasn't that he was terrible, he just could use a bit of work is all. "Have you and Harry's dad spoken since? I'm sorry if this crossing a boundary or-"
"Oh no, it's alright. Harry's dad and I hadn't spoken since he left through our front door. Even when we were finalizing our divorce it was through lawyers. His mother and I still keep in contact. We used to meet for coffee every once in a while but not as frequent as of late. Dylan is a great man, he really is. He just -" she pauses. Her eyes searching for the right words. "A bit selfish is all."
I place my hand on hers. Our eyes meet, a soft smile on my lips. "You're an amazing mother, Samantha. Harry is lucky to have you."
She sniffles for a few moments. Her eyes glistening red with a few unshed tears. She wipes them away quickly. Sitting up, she straightens her posture. "I don't even know why I'm crying," she chuckles to herself. "Alright then. Let's finish up this dinner, shall we!"
-
The Beck residence was covered in the finest and most elegant decorations. Candles lined the grand dining table and was paired with flowers of all sorts of types and size. Colours of whites, pinks, yellows and baby blues filled the table. Spring had sprung throughout the house.
I sat beside Harry at the table. Samantha in front of us and Mark at the head. It was an awfully large table for such a small party. From the moment that Harry had sat down he was tense. His hand was fitted in mine, but his mind was somewhere else. I looked over at him from time to time, but was met with his side profile.
We ate our soup in silence. The clanking of spoon on bowl being the only sounds heard. The soup was delicious. Harry's mother had done a wonderful job with it. Even though the soup was unfamiliar, the taste was. It brought nostalgic memories of holidays at home and dinners with family.
"This is wonderful, Samantha." I compliment her on her soup. She smiles at me gratefully.
"Thank you dear."
Harry puts his spoon down on the plate, his hand moving the now empty bowl to the side. He looks at his mother, who nods quickly. I scrunch my eyebrows in quick confusion over their exchange. It isn't until Harry grabs his plate and begins to take a piece of freshly cut roast that I understand what they were saying.
"Isabella, tell me. What do you do with your life?" Mark's booming voice frightens me. I jump slightly in my seat, my eyes shooting up to him.
"I am a Business graduate-"
"From where?" He asks me, his eyebrow quirked in curiosity. His voice almost mocks me, as if it's unbelievable that a girl like me could be done university. With a Business major at that.
"New York University, sir." He gives me an almost approving nod.
"No Ivy league?" He smirks.
"I was accepted to both Harvard, Yale, and Brown but decided to go to NYU instead. It seemed to fit."
"Interesting," he takes a sip from his wine. His eyes watching me intently. "What do you plan on doing with your life?"
I can feel Harry tense up in his seat. He puts his fork down slowly, his eyes turning to look at Mark. "Why the fucking twenty-questions?"
"Harry," Samantha whispers. Her eyes sending him another warning. As if to say, not now.
"I'm just trying to get to know your little girlfriend here, Harry. No need to get worked up." Mark chuckles, a smirk plastered on his face.
My hand meets Harry's knee and I give it a reassuring squeeze. His gaze shifts over to me. A small smile is on my lips in which he returns it with a half-smile. I knew that he was trying his best to keep his cool. I was proud of him for that. Yet at the same time, I was hoping he'd change the subject away from me. Being interrogated by Mark was the last thing I'd hope to do this evening.
"Isabella, dear. What do you hope to do with your degree?" Samantha asks me. Her eyes lit up as she begins to put food on her plate. I follow in suit. My hands needing to become preoccupied.
"I want to open up my own publishing company."
"Oh! Do you write?" Samantha asks me. A wide smile on her lips.
I laugh lightly, "No. I love books, novels, everything to do with literature. I work at a small bookstore right now. We see a lot of unknown authors bring their novels in to be sold. I'd love to be a part of that; help unknown authors reach their goals. Get their books out there. It probably sounds silly."
Harry smiles at me. He reaches over and interlaces our fingers. He brings our hands and place them on his lap. I somehow manage to use my right hand and continue eating my food.
"It's not silly, baby." He tells me, his vibrant green eyes lighting up with a sense of pride.
"No, not silly at all! You know, Harry used to write."
"Really?" I ask. I suddenly get excited. A new aspect of Harry that I never knew. Harry used to write - who would have thought.
"No." Harry quickly says. His hands grip his fork. His knuckles turning white.
"What are you talking about?" Samantha laughs, "Harry used to write for his school paper. He'd write a column about the local bands and music. Reviews and such. He was such an amazing writer."
"Why'd you stop?" I ask Harry. He doesn't say anything. His jaw clenched and eyes focused on his plate.
"He stopped when he was sixteen. Right after Sa-"
"That's enough!" Harry loud voice booms. I jump in my seat. My fingers leaving Harry's hand in shock. He looks at me, his face softening.
"That is no way to talk to your mother!" Mark's voice is equally loud. His strong voice filling the room.
"Fuck this," Harry moves his chair out. "When I say to drop something, I fucking mean it. I don't want to talk about my life. We were talking about Isabella's. I'm not a damn topic of conversation, for fuck's sake."
I sit back in shock. Harry walks out of the room, his feet heavy as he walks. I stare at his back. My eyes still wide. The loud boom of the front door shutting echoing throughout the quiet halls.
"I'm sorry," Harry's mother's soft voice breaks the tension. "I didn't mean to say anything to upset him."
Quickly, I shake my head. "I'll go follow him."
I move from my chair. Lightly running across the dining room and towards the front door. I open it wide, my eyes searching frantically for Harry. I run out the door, looking back and forth for the familiar head of curly locks. "Harry!" I yell out his name. No answer.
"Where are you?" I call out again, "Harry."
There's a large path in the front of the house. It leads to the backyard. I follow the gravely path, my feet moving quick. "Harry!" I shout out again, hoping to hear his voice.
I walk along the pathway towards the back until it ends. In front of me is a tall tree. At the top sits a tree house. A cloud of smoke comes from the very top. Found him.
Careful to not fall, I climb up the steep ladder. My hands grip the fragile steps. Praying to God that I don't slip and fall. Heights had never been my forte. Something that I'd always fear. The closer I got to the top, thicker the cigarette smoke becomes.
Sitting in the middle of the tree house was Harry. His knees were up to his chest and his red plaid shirt was laying on the ground. His butt sat on top of it. He doesn't say anything as I climb inside. On my knees, I crawl to the open space beside him. I take a seat, not once saying a word.
We sit there in silence. The thick cloud of smoke becoming almost suffocating. Harry takes the cigarette stick and butts it in an old ashtray. His hands reaching out for mine, our fingers interlaced.
His hands are cold against mine. His fingers trembling slightly. He was angry. I could feel it in the way that he breathed and the tension in his fingers. "What happened back there?" I ask him carefully. My eyes focused on his large hand in mine. I rub my thumb against his skin. Tracing the cross tattoo on his hand.
"Nothing. I don't like people in my business."
He lets go of my hand, only to wrap his arm around me. He pulls me against his chest. His lips pressing a soft kiss to the top of my head. I pull his free hand out from underneath his leg. I hold it tenderly with my hands. Not wanting to let go of him. Not wanting him to let go of me.
"Tell me?" I ask him, hoping for a bit of his heart. A bit of his vulnerability.
"Not much to tell."
"Bullshit," I whisper back. My voice not going any louder.
A deep sigh emits from Harry. The setting sun's light creeps in from the small window of the treehouse. The light hitting Harry's face in the most handsomest of ways. His eyes sparkling in the sun's glow. He was beautiful. Even in his sorrow, he was beautiful.
I only wished to be able to touch his sorrow. To carry his hurt.
"I have too much baggage, Isabella. You wouldn't want any part of it."
"Sometimes, baggage isn't meant to be held on to."
A deep, painful chuckle is uttered. The sound resonating from somewhere deep within him. "Not this baggage, baby. Trust me. Once you hear my shit story, all of it, you wont want to be with me anymore. You'd be done."
I feel a stabbing pain in my heart. A pain that only his self-destructive words can cause. There was nothing that he would say or do to make me care any less for him. "I will always want you, Harry. Nothing you say will change the way that I feel about you. I'm in this. Let me in," I plead. The softness of my voice breaks. A small tear slips down my cheek. I am suddenly very thankful for the darkness of the treehouse.
Harry sighs, "Are you so sure about that?"
"I've never been more sure about anything else." I tell him confidently.
Harry is silent for a moment. His grip on my hand as tight as it was before. "I've never felt this way about someone before. Not to this fucking extent. I can't get you out of my head, Isabella. Everything that you do drives me fucking nuts. But in the best damn way possible. You are fucking stubborn and hard headed. But you care about people in a way that is so fucking kind that it's almost sickening. You trust too easily and you can be too fucking naive. But, I like you. I like you so damn much."
His words are loud. The meaning of each word heavy. I knew that Harry cared for me, but I could never believe that he cared about me to this extent. The idea that Harry would want to be with someone like me was already a ridiculous concept. He's been with many women before. Women that breathed fun and adventure. "I could never see myself with anyone else," I admit to him.
Harry turns to me. His eyes searching mine. Not once does his grip on me loosen. He pulls me up, bringing my feet over his legs. "Let's go home," he says to me.
"Now?" I ask him. Disbelief in my voice. It was late, too late to be driving back to London.
"Yeah. Stay at my place. Please."
I think about it. I didn't want to be rude and run off. Not after the dinner that his mother had prepared. Yet the desperation his his eyes and the need in his voice tells me otherwise. "Okay. Let's go."