Harry Styles is spending the summer in a quiet villa on the French Riviera, hoping to find inspiration for his third album. It's not happening. When he sees a beautiful windsurfer racing across the waves, he believes lessons might be a good distract...
Lia woke in a tangle of sheets and limbs. Harry was sleeping on his stomach, head turned towards her, hair falling loosely over his forehead and eyes. And then there was his mouth, the perfect cupid's bow shape, turning up at the edges and drawing down to a soft point at the center.
Beautiful at rest and sensuous when he spoke or sang. Now, however, slightly open and pouting, it was the mouth of a boy. He looked so young as he slept, like the first photos she had seen of him over ten years ago.
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As she stared, tiny creases began to form at the corners of his eyes.
"You're staring at me, aren't you?"
She wasn't going to lie. "I am."
He opened his eyes, and in the morning light she could see every color in them; green, brown, blue, gold. She had read somewhere that his eyes had been dubbed perfect by some group that actually tabulated these things in a pseudo-scientific manner. She agreed.
"It's late. I have errands to run and chores to do at the house before I'm back here for lessons. What did we do with our clothes?"
"I think they're by the pool. Just put on something of mine. I must have something that'll do. Let's go see."
In the sitting room they looked through drawers and shelves; in the closets and wardrobe they paged through the hanging items. Harry found a pale pink dress shirt and cinched it around Lia's waist with a silk scarf.
"You're ready to walk in Milan. If I ever stop singing I could become a stylist. Do you like it?"
She did.
They found his trousers and her dress, blown into the trees alongside the house. She left the boards and rigs at the house; she had no other lessons but theirs that day.
They kissed goodbye as if they'd been doing it forever.
*****
Mariam was in front of her house when Lia pulled in. They hadn't seen each other in days. It was the first time in her memory that she wasn't exactly happy to see her friend. She felt guilty.
"And where have you been, young lady? I worked the late shift and you weren't here when I got home after midnight. And what are you wearing?"
How much could Lia tell her? How much did she want to tell her? The answer to both questions was a very guarded 'not much.'
"I've been out, and I'm wearing a shirt and scarf."
"But who's shirt and scarf? Where are your shoes?" She had come around the fence. "Good lord. I know that look. You going to tell me, or is it covered in that agreement?"
Lia went inside and came right back out with two bumpy round bottles of Orangina.
"There are things I can't tell you. There are things I won't tell you. But I'll tell you the rest. Fair?"
