a/n hi there friends :)
It's been a long time hasn't it... I'm sorry about that. I'm a full time student trying to pay rent, so my days have become a little hectic recently. Nevertheless, I'm here with a new chapter! And this one's SUPER long to make up for my radio silence <3
27.
HARRY'S POV
I wake up alone. In an apartment that doesn't feel like home. With a suitcase full of dirty clothes laying open on the floor.
I'm surprised I slept at all. I turn my head to look at the clock. It's unplugged, so I reach for my phone and tap it awake. The brightness of the screen is a little blinding, but my eyes adjust to read the time. 5:30.
Outside it's dark, but there's still noise below. I slowly sit up and rub my eyes, pushing my hair out of my face.
If it hadn't been for our conversation yesterday, her words still ringing in my ears, I might have regretted flying out here. But she did want me here. She missed me. And I missed the way it felt to be wanted by her. When she took out Cherry and trained it on me, the feeling came back. So intensely that even now, hours later after sleeping, I still feel butterflies. I'm an addict. I need another fix.
But I can't call her. No, she has to call me, lead me, draw me in. She needs to be the one to initiate because then I'll know that she actually wants it. That she actually wants me. I would give anything for her to hold my face tenderly in her hands and kiss me.
I stand up off my bed and wander aimlessly into the body of my apartment, flicking on the espresso machine and reaching for the tall, glass jar of coffee sitting next to it. As the water boils, I scoop the grounds out and pour them in. Then I lean back against the counter and stare as the dark liquid drains out into the cup beneath. One, two, three shots of espresso. It seems to be the only amount of caffeine these days to keep me going. I wish I could just go back to bed, but I know laying there trying to fall asleep again will only be worse.
I turn off the machine and take the cup in my hands, wandering to the big window behind the couch and sitting down in front of it, staring out at the darkened city. I softly hum the melody to a song I've been quietly building in my head all week. The music came easily, the words I'm struggling with. As usual.
I sit in front of the window, sipping my coffee and watching the sunrise for a long while.
It isn't until the sun has risen up above the buildings, and it's shining on my face, that my phone rings. I reach down for it and accept the call.
"Hello?"
"It dropped."
I shoot up from my spot and run to my laptop laying on the couch. "What?!"
She giggles a little. I flip open the laptop and a browser. "Go to YouTube."
"Okay," I press my phone between my shoulder and ear, typing away and pulling up the YouTube homepage. "Oh, holy fuck."
"What?" she asks innocently. I stare at the thumbnail, the first recommended thumbnail on my homepage. The thumbnail for a video that was released five minutes ago.
"Holy fuck, Quinn."
"Do you see it? I didn't even tell you what to search yet."
"Is it what I think it is?"
"The Carters' music video? Yeah."
"Holy fuck, Quinn," I breathe, staring at the thumbnail, frozen in time. I can't click on it, but I can't look away. Beyonce. Fucking Beyonce. How, how the fuck? "How?"
"They wanted a fresh face. I had a professor with connections."
"Holy fuck."
"You keep saying that," she laughs. "Why don't you watch it?"
I take a deep breath. My hands are shaking for her. "This is insane."
"I know," she reassures me. "It's okay. Just watch it."
"This is insane," I mutter again and mute the phone call, clicking the video.
The Louvre. The fucking Louvre. I feel my eyes starting to water a little. It's so good. It's better than I could have ever imagined. She filmed fucking Apeshit. I unmute myself and sigh heavily.
"Did you watch it?"
"Yeah," I nod.
"Well?" There's a hesitation to her voice. She's nervous. I don't understand how she could be. "What did you think?"
"Quinn, it's so good. It's so powerful. I can't--I," I sigh again and stare at the laptop screen. "This is it."
She hesitates. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, welcome to the rest of your life. This is it, this was your big break. You did it, you made it."
"I see," I can hear her sucking air in between her teeth. "Well in that case, maybe it's time to go out and splurge a little. Want to go to the bookstore with me? See if we can find your favorite book?"
I look across the room to the hallway where my bedroom lies. "I can do you one better."
We meet at a park, in front of a tall pine tree with bare, dying branches. She approaches grinning, blue jeans, bright red boots, layered white and gray graphic shirts, and big blue earrings. I flick my sunglasses up from my eyes and smile back at her.
"Hey," she calls shyly at me and adjusts her bag on her shoulder.
"Good morning, Ms. Bellini," I tease. She scratches the back of her neck. "How's it feel to be a successful, professional music video director."
"It feels pretty good," she smiles gently, stuffing her hands into her pockets. "Now where's this book?"
I pull it out of my bag and hand it lovingly to her. My copy of Norweigan Wood, filled with notations, underlined paragraphs, coffee stains, and tears. She takes it and flips quickly through the pages, smiling and all the annotations she notices.
"Perfect," she grins ear to ear. "I love it when people mark up stories."
"I felt like I didn't have a choice," I shrug and watch her slide the book into her own bag.
"Do you want to go get breakfast?" She smiles shyly. I offer her my arm.
"Let's do it."
We wander down the streets of New York, the morning officially waking up the rest of the city. The sidewalks are damp from melting slush, leaving a chill in the air. I'm incredibly aware of everyone else around us right now, but I think that's just habit. I'm always aware, always have to be.
In front of us, a man is walking hand in hand with his son, who's wearing a bright red backpack. As we approach, he stops walking, his eyes wandering up and over Quinn. She doesn't seem to notice, content with resting her arm in the crook of my elbow and staring up at the buildings around us.
"Quinn," I mumble, "that man is staring at you."
"I know," she responds. So I guess she had noticed. She adjusts her arm, and looks over at him giving a soft smile. Upon realizing he's been spotted, the man begins walking quicker, tugging the kid along to get him to school.
"Isn't that uncomfortable?" My face scrunches up.
"What do you mean?"
"That he was staring at you."
"People stare at other people all the time, Harry."
"I guess." But I still feel a weird pit in my chest.
"Don't people stare at you?" She looks up at me. "You get stared at all the time, and that's not weird right?"
"No, but you're not me."
She rolls her eyes and looks away. And then her body becomes rigid and she points. "That one."
We walk into the cafe and slide into a booth across from each other. She runs a hand through her hair, accepts a menu graciously from our waiter, and orders an orange juice.
"Are you vegetarian today, Quinn?"
"Yes," she quickly replies. Her eyes glance across the menu and a smile dances its way onto her face. She peers up over the paper at me.
"What?" I laugh.
"You really liked it?"
"Of course I fucking did. Are you kidding me," I laugh again, but then make sure I look her in the eyes so she knows I mean what I'm saying. "It was incredible. It was amazing. I genuinely think you're going to be nominated for a Grammy."
The phrase doesn't shock her as much as I thought it would. She looks down at the menu and grins to herself. "I'm really glad you think so," her eyes dart back up to mine. "I get it now, why you care so much about my opinion. If you hadn't liked it, that would have been hard for me to stomach."
"And that doesn't scare you?" I lean forward on my elbows.
She gives a small shrug. "It does a little. But it's the truth. Bea's been trying to get me to embrace those feelings. I'm working on not shying away from caring about what you think."
Her words leave me breathless. Her grace, vulnerability, honesty is radiant. But I try not to show it, because I know that was probably hard for her to say. I change the subject. "I'm so glad you kept it under wraps, and so well. The music industry suits you, you can keep a secret," I tease.
"What was your favorite part," she sips her orange juice. The waiter takes our order, two garden omelettes.
"I really liked the shots where she danced and sat in front of the statue, in that big white dress, it was so aesthetically pleasing and--"
"I loved those shots too," she grins.
"Tell me more about what it means."
"Well," she runs her finger through the condensation on the table. "It depends. A lot of it's about race, about black creators working to find a place in an industry that doesn't favor the color of their skin."
I swear she could be in an interview right now. I lean in, resting my chin on my hand.
"That specific shot is supposed to represent victory, that's what the statue she's in front of is about, but also there's some symbolism with angels and death and racial violence."
I find myself smiling. She watches my expression.
"What?" she murmurs. I shake my head.
"You did that." She rolls her eyes.
"I workshopped it a lot with them, I was fairly involved, but at the end of the day I was really just translating the artistic vision of the Carter's." She smiles to herself. "That's part of the reason why I like directing music videos so much. It's not just me doing what I think would look cool, I'm collaborating with the performer. I'm translating their vision."
"What were they like?"
Her eyes sparkle. "They were so cool. So cool. Honestly, I went to work everyday absolutely starstruck."
"You have nowhere to go but down now," I joke. Our food comes. She shrugs. I can't say anything more, I'm overcome with pride again.
"What?" She sighs but giggles at my abrupt silence.
"I just can't believe it," I shake my head and bite into my food. Salty.
"Thank you," she smiles gently. "But let's not talk about it anymore. It's weird," she takes a bite of her own food. I wait patiently for her to eat it before she finishes her thought. "I've spent so much time not allowed to talk about it, and now that I can I don't really want to anymore."
I nod understandingly. "Well then we can talk about something else."
She pauses, staring at me intently, deciding if she should say what's on the tip of her tongue. "You met Wes last week."
"I did," my body grows defensive.
"Did he say anything to you at all?"
I clench my jaw and look out the window. From across the street I can see someone is taking a photo of us, paparazzi maybe. I turn back and twist my fork around in my hand. "Not really."
"Well that's a lie," she chuckles and starts to blissfully eat her food again.
"I assume that means you want to know the truth."
"Yes I would."
"He said a lot of things to me," I press my lips together. She looks up carefully. "A lot of things I don't think he really had the right to say." Her expression melts into one of empathy. "I don't like him very much," I decide.
She nods knowingly. "That's understandable."
"Why do you still see him?" The words tumble out before I can consider them really. Immediately I regret it. She sets down her fork and folds her hands together, staring at her bright red nails.
"Have you ever been with someone like Wes?" she mumbles. I shake my head. "The thing about people like him, is they make you need them."
"So you don't want to still see him? You wish he was gone?" Stop. Stop talking Harry. Jesus.
She tilts her head, her eyes never leaving her hands. "I don't know. I don't think so."
"Is that his influence on you talking?" Literally where are these words coming from. This isn't my business. I'm not her therapist. I shouldn't be talking about him like this with her. I press my lips together and hold my orange juice in my hands.
"Yeah probably," she nods and reaches for her fork again. I reach for my own. "We're just very connected. I don't think I'll ever be able to fully let go of him, just like you won't be able to fully let go of--" she stops herself and looks up guiltily. "I almost just said his name, sorry."
I shrug but I feel my heart race at the thought of him. "It's okay." Wes's words ring in my ears from that night. "The people we imprint ourselves onto when we're young are the relationships we trap ourselves in for life."
She squints, taken aback by the phrase. "Wow, yeah." She stares at me for a little longer, impressed. "That was good, you should put that in a song."
I scoff. "That's one of the things he said to me."
"Ah," she looks back down at her plate. "Well he's right."
"You think you're trapped?"
"Remember," she bites her lip like she knows she shouldn't say what's about to spill out of her. I lean forward. "When we looked at each other's tattoos."
"Of course." How could I forget? That day was incredible, the first half of it anyway. Before we went home with different people.
"I told you," she pauses again. I guess she knows that she really shouldn't say what she's about to say, but that just makes me more excited to hear what it is. "That I lost my virginity on a boat."
I feel my face fall. Oh.
"It was him." She finishes the thought.
"Was it his boat?" Is the only thing I manage. She shakes her head.
"I don't know whose boat it was, we snuck onto it. There's no way he could afford a boat," she chuckles a little to herself. I want to keep eating the omelette, do something with my hands, but my plate is clean. I down the rest of my orange juice. "But I'm just trying to say, we imprinted on each other in that way. And it isn't just me, he feels that way too."
I don't really have anything to say. I shouldn't feel strange. I shouldn't feel weird. She can sleep with whoever she wants to, and she should, and it's in the past, and I shouldn't care. I shouldn't care. It's not my business. But I feel so strange.
It's him. He's why I hate what she just said. The fact that they shared that moment. And she got a tattoo about it.
"Are there any others about him," I whisper, gesturing to her leg. She hesitates, worried that her answer will upset me. But I know what that means. I play with the rings on my fingers. "Which ones."
She bites her lip. "The tiger, the daffodil."
She wanted to get the one I gave her removed because it reminded her of me. But he's there, all over her leg. He's all over her. I hate it. I hate it so much.
I realize I'm clenching my jaw so tightly it's beginning to hurt. She's staring at me softly, worriedly. "Baby," she murmurs.
"Why."
Her mouth twitches back and forth. Her leg starts to bounce under the table. She sighs and looks down at her thigh. "The tiger," she pauses, "is from a short story he wrote about me. The daffodil I got when we broke up, it means rebirth."
"He wrote a short story about you?"
She nods gently, carefully watching my movement, my eyes. She's right. I don't know her. I don't know them. They go deeper than I thought. They're intertwined. It makes the back of my neck heat up. It makes my skin crawl. "You okay?" She mumbles.
"I guess you're just more connected than I thought."
"Yeah," she responds blandly.
We leave the cafe, she stuffs her hands into her pockets and walks side by side with me. After a while I realize we're wandering back to her apartment. She seems so hesitant, quiet, trying to sense how I'm feeling. But what am I supposed to say? I shouldn't be upset but I am. I am so ridiculously jealous of her toxic relationship with this guy. I can't tell her that. I shouldn't be. So I have nothing to say. But I sense that I'm making her anxious. I huff.
"Someone papped us at the cafe," she tries. I nod.
"Yeah I saw." I glance over at her. "Are you alright with that?"
"I'm trying to be," she sighs. "It's not like I can make it not happen."
I look back down the sidewalk. "There are ways. No perfect fix--"
"It's okay," she interrupts me. "I need to just let it happen."
We stop in front of her apartment. She reaches her arm out and gently runs it over mine, the fabric of my jacket moving underneath her fingertips. I hold my breath. I get it. I want her to keep it there forever.
"I'm going to go in there and read that book now," she smiles shyly. I nod.
"I'm going to go write a song."
Her eyes light up. "Yeah?" I nod. "Well make it a kiwi."
"Promise," I assure. Her hand drops back to her side.
"See you around, baby," she grins ear to ear and wanders toward the building, answering a phone call as she goes inside. I huff, shove my hands into my pockets, and turn on my heel to walk briskly away.
I don't understand why this keeps happening. A perfectly normal conversation between the two of us turns into a surge of jealousy or panic in one of us. I feel so frustrated with myself.
I wander into a pho place, looking for comfort food, something to eat for lunch, and I spot a familiar face. Kind of anyway, the whole night before Wes confronted me on the fire escape has become a blur.
"Hi there," she smiles at me from behind the podium. I narrow my eyes for a second, and suddenly her name pops into my head.
"Trinh! Right?" I doubt myself, but she brightens and it relieves me.
"Yeah! We met at Quinn's last week. I'm surprised you remember," she grabs a menu from the stand and gestures into the restaurant. "Did you want to grab lunch?" I nod and follow her to a booth overlooking the street. "Is this spot okay?" She asks sheepishly.
"Of course," I grin and slide into the booth, taking the menu from her.
"Just you?"
I nod again and clear my throat, glancing down at the menu.
"I'll leave you to it," she knocks her knuckles against the table and then wanders back to the entrance.
"Hmm," I stare at the copious options, feeling somewhat lost. I have an intense desire to look across the table at imaginary Quinn and ask her if she's vegetarian again.
"Don't know what to get?" She's sympathetic in my head. Bright blue hair, golden blonde, dark red, brown. The same hazel eyes. Her laugh is light. She traces drawings into the condensation on the table. She runs her inky black nails over the top of her head and fights a small smile. Her leg bounces excitedly. She tilts her head at me, waiting for my response.
But I shake her out of my head because she's not actually sitting in front of me right now. It's just my imagination. I'm going to have to order on my own.
I set the menu down in front of me, leaning back in the seat and looking out the window. My fingers fold and unfold the corner of the menu over and over until I feel a crease form. I watch the people briskly walking by in the cold afternoon. Some of them on their phones, some of them staring straight ahead with earbuds in. They all move with such ferocity, like they're at war with the city around them. A young woman strolls by, casually glancing in the window, and then doing a double take, her eyes widening. She pulls out an earbud and stands completely still, staring at me through the glass. I smirk and give her a small wave.
"Hi," she mouths.
"Come here," I mouth back, gesturing with my hand for her to come inside. She blinks, dumbfounded, and then turns on her heel and steps into the building.
I watch her hesitantly make her way over to me, until she's standing awkwardly in front of my table, unsure of what to do with her hands. I give her a warm smile.
"What's your name?" I offer.
"Becca." She manages to whisper.
"I'm Harry, nice to meet you," I offer. She nods.
"What are you doing here?" She asks, and then her face scrunches up at the question. I laugh, trying to put her at ease.
"Just getting lunch, what about you?"
"Going to work," she sighs. "I'm a huge fan," she's relaxed a little bit now, and begins to pull out her phone. "Could I get a picture?"
I nod and shift, standing up out of the booth and leaning into her as she holds her phone up for a selfie. I lift my hand up to give a peace sign to the camera. She takes a photo and then sticks the phone back into her pocket.
"No, you should look at it now, make sure you like it. If you don't we can take another one."
She blushes and pulls her phone back out, glancing down at the screen.
"Well?"
"It's good, I like it," she nods. "Thank you."
"Of course," I smile warmly. She sneaks a look at her watch. "Have a good day."
"You too," she puts her phone away, and then stands awkwardly before me for a moment. Then sharply inhales and wanders away, out the door of the restaurant and back onto the street. I sit back down in the booth, staring at my rings while she retreats out of my peripheral.
Trinh skips back to the table. "Have you decided yet?"
I step into the Columbia offices. They smell familiar, oaky. I walk straight past reception and up the stairs to Jack's office. My knuckles softly tap against the half open door and I stick my head in.
"Hey," I call to him. He looks up from his computer and grins.
"Mr. Harry Styles," he sits back in his chair and drums his fingers against his desk. "How's your stint in New York been?"
I wander in and sit down on a chair propped against the wall, crossing my legs. "It's been interesting," I smile a little, thinking back to the first day I met her. He nods obliviously.
"That's good, really good." He smacks his hands on the table and reaches for a pen to twirl in his hands. It suddenly occurs to me that he is uncomfortable with my presence. Does he feel guilty maybe? I wonder if he knows that I know. He reaches for his phone, taps a few buttons, holding it to his ear. "Henry? Hey, can you pick up some coffee? Yeah a miel and..." he looks up at me. I hold three fingers up. "And a triple espresso. Thanks." He hangs up the phone and leans back in his seat again, still twirling the pen.
"So what's this meeting about," I weave my fingers together and rest them against my kneecap, tilting my head. He nods and clears his throat.
"We just need to talk about timeline," he begins, the pen whirring like helicopter blades. "Last meeting we had you talked about wanting to release HS2 sometime in December. Are we thinking this year? Or the next?"
I shrug. "To be completely honest I haven't written enough for an album this year. It would be nice to release right before the new decade hits."
He nods slowly, his lips pressed together. "Are you thinking about laying low until then? I mean you released that single kind of out of the blue a couple of months ago."
I sigh. "You know what I really miss, Jack?" He leans in. I tilt my head to look out the window behind him. "Being on stage."
"Of course you do," he offers.
"I miss playing for a crowd. I just wish all the songs would fall out of my head and arrange themselves into an album so I could perform new stuff. I just want to perform."
"You know there are other ways to do that," he offers gently. Henry walks in with our coffees and Jack gives him a grateful nod before turning his attention back to me. I take the cup in my hands and let the familiar feeling settle into my stomach. "Perform I mean."
"Like?" I prompt him to continue. He sips his coffee and shrugs.
"Acting, modeling, etcetera. You should talk to Jeffery about some different avenues." He pauses, running his tongue over his teeth. "Maybe find another movie to do, like you did with Dunkirk. And you can always book a couple small shows and play some of the debut stuff again."
I nod. "I'll talk to Jeffery."
"Good." He decides and sits back, watching me intently for a moment. "How's Quinn?"
The night is seeping in through the windows, but I can't sleep. I wander the apartment aimlessly, refusing to go on my phone, trying to find something, anything to do with myself. I just need something to distract me from my thoughts.
I eventually end up in the music room, a guitar in my hand. I hear the song I've been building in my head slowly transfer itself onto the instrument. I close my eyes and think back to the day, letting whatever words that come to mind fall out into the world.
"Nine in the morning, the man drops his kids off at school. And he's thinking of you, like all of us do. Sends his assistant for coffee in the afternoon, around 1:32, like he knows what to do." Both of them had been thinking of her, obsessed with the thought of her. It had been clearly plastered across their faces. I knew because I probably looked the exact same. I feel the urge to sing out her name, but remember what she said when I wrote Oh Anna. She doesn't want her name in a song like that. I fumble for a replacement, but simply settle on her pronoun.
"She, She, She lives in daydreams with me. She's the first one that I see and I don't know why, I don't know who she is."
She does, even when she wasn't with me today, the memory of her was following me around. Living in my daydreams.
"You don't know me." That's what she always says when she gets defensive, when she wants to push back, cut me off. "You don't know me." And maybe she's right. Maybe I don't. I didn't know just how close she was to Wes. I didn't know she had tattoos about him. I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know. I don't know who she is.
"He takes a boat out, imagines just sailing away," The words leave my mouth so aggressively, I'm almost spitting them. I'm so angry that he's finding his way into this song. That's all he ever does, worm his way in. "And not telling his mates, wouldn't know what to say." If it had been me, if I had shared that moment with her, I don't think I ever would have come back to shore.
I repeat the chorus over. And then over again. And then new words pop into my brain.
"Lives for the memory, a woman who's just in his head" I cry out. This line is about me, no one else. "And she sleeps in his bed." Once. "While he plays pretend, so pretend." That's what we did in LA. We played pretend, and it was the best, it just wasn't real.
I sing the chorus again. The song is missing something, but I can't find any more words. So I let it hang in the air, unfinished, unsure of how to make it feel complete. Unsure of how to make myself feel complete. Unsure of where we stand. I'm just unsure.
My phone rings. I set the guitar down and pick up the call.
"Hello?"
"I finished the book," she says.
"In one day?"
"It's a good fucking book."
"A good fucking book you say?" I grin, glad to have caught her in the same linguistic trap she ensnared me in so many months ago. She laughs a little.
"Well, I mean, you've read it, you know."
"Yeah," I think back to the awkward moments where I closed the story in public, worried someone would read the words from over my shoulder and judge me.
"So one promise fulfilled."
"Do we need to make another one?"
"Yeah." She shuffles a little from the other end. "Any ideas?"
"What's your next project?" I ask.
"Well we just wrapped for one. I film for the MET in a month. A lot of agencies and labels have been trying to book me though. It's hard to stay on top of it all."
"Mm," I twist my ring around my finger with my thumb. "Sounds like you should get a manager."
"Yeah," she laughs a little. "Do you want that to be our promise?"
"No, I want you to promise me that you'll have fun at the MET, and you'll show me your coverage when you're done."
"I'll put some of it on Cherry for you."
For me. The thought of her doing anything for me, because of me, makes my heart race. "That sounds good," I smile softly. It feels strange that she's about to do something that I haven't. I've never gone to the MET. But it's good. I'm proud of her.
"When was the last time you slept?" She sighs suddenly. The words catch me off guard.
"Umm, I don't know, why?"
"I can hear it in your voice."
"I'll try to go to bed now," I offer.
"Okay. Do that."
"Okay."
We sit in awkward silence. I look around the room, and then down at the guitar.
"I wrote that song."
"Yeah? Is it fun?"
"It can be, if done the right way."
"Good." She breathes softly from the other end. I want to reach through the phone and hold a strand of her hair, pull her into a hug, let her kiss me. "Is it about me?"
"Yep."
I can hear her mouth turn up into a smile. "And it's not sad?"
"Not necessarily I guess."
"Good." She decides. "Goodnight baby."
"Goodnight Anna."
She hangs up the phone. I toss it to my side and hug the guitar to my chest.
I won't be falling asleep, not for a long while.
a/n aww AHHHH wow what a long chapter. way to make it to the end!
How are you liking the story so far? Who's your favorite character? Who do you want to see more of? WHEN WILL HARRY AND QUINN JUST FREAKING KISS ALREADY UGH?!