Ghost Writer [Harry Styles][H.S. Fanfic]

21 - I MUST BE DREAMING

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I. Am. Drunk.

No, but seriously. I'm sauced, zonked, shit-faced, plastered, three sheets to the wind, and whatever other words you use for the typical, faint of heart, lightweight drinkers. One in which I rarely put myself in the category of. However, tonight is a different story... and I blame Louis. It's his fault. I blame him. I don't know what kind of sorcery he was using, but he seemed to have an endless supply of flasks hidden somewhere on his person. And I'm pretty certain that one of them was filled with Everclear.

With mostly tequila filling my belly to the brim, this is the first time in a very, very long time where the walls and bar tops and humans became my best friends. My three to twelve-ish drinks plowed into me like a freight train, and all of a sudden, the entire building was leaning right. Mitch cut me off and shoved dinner rolls down my throat when he caught Niall carting me around on his back because my legs stopped working—also because it was fun. He insisted that I be sober enough for my surprise later, which he refused to spill the beans on. The jerk. That was about an hour and a half ago.

The hardcore drinking started at Soho House after my performance at The Peppermint Club. I can't help the smile that curls up on my lips, remembering the few nauseatingly long seconds of gut-twisting silence once I finished playing. To say the least, I was fucking terrified when I took in the sight of a room full of wide eyes and gaping mouths before my ears were assaulted by the roaring of applause and hollers of excitement.

Seeing Harry sprint towards the stage and jump up to sweep me off my feet, crushing me with an unrelenting hug of pride, moved me to tears. Tears in which I quickly sucked back into my face because... mascara. I will never forget the look on his face for as long as I live. It took everything inside of me not to sink my fingers into his curls and crash my lips against his, throwing my stupid rules out the window. But alas, I did not.

Thus, bringing me to why Louis was pouring shots down my throat all night... Between him and Mitch, I felt like a large adult-baby getting spoon-fed.

Pretty much since our arrival here, Harry has been surrounded by countless females just aching to get a piece of him. They've made sure I couldn't get within a twenty-foot radius of him all night, and I may or may not be a smidge peeved by that fact. Apparently being "engaged" in this city is just a new fad that couples do nowadays to gain a larger social media following. Meaning that our big news was about as serious as your local small-town barista remembering your black coffee order.

Regardless, he doesn't seem all that bothered by the attention. There's definitely a little green monster Harry has yet to meet that's brewing just underneath the surface of all this raging cynicism. Hell, I've yet to meet this monster, because I've never met anyone significant enough to stir that emotion to this magnitude inside of me. That being said, I have no right to be jealous when I'm the one who told Harry to move on.

I just wasn't expecting it to be so soon.

Scanning the ever-growing crowd of my after-party, I'm not sure who eighty percent of these people even are. They're apparently friends of friends of friends of friends. I don't do well with strangers like I used to. As I'm sure almost everyone has gathered. So, to loosen myself up, I drink. A lot.

Now that my legs are working again—with notable difficulty, and my head is no longer on a carousel, I somehow sneak past Mitch and found my way back to the bar with no human assistance. The couple wall-bounces don't count. Unlike earlier, this go-around—apart from one last tequila shot, because I'm a rebel—has me sipping on ice-cold water while bobbing my head to the overrated background music coming from the DJ booth.