oh, anna [-hs]

epilogue

75.
TWO YEARS LATER.

"Shit! Fucking hell!" I shout and suck on my knuckle.

It simmers against the saliva in my mouth. I bounce between my feet and dance out of the kitchen and around the hotel bed.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Goddamn soup!"

I hop back to the stovetop and glare down at the bubbling pot. The little metal spoon I was using to stir the soup has fallen to the bottom of the broth, I can see it distorted in the liquid. I won't be able to reach in and pull it out.

I probably shouldn't have been using a metal spoon to stir a hot liquid, but in a hotel kitchenette you play the cards you're dealt.

I turn off the stovetop and pour the soup into two bowls, the metal spoon clattering to the countertop. It makes a splattered mess on the surface. I leave the pot in the sink and elbow the utensil into the basin too. Then I cover one of the bowls in tin foil and take the other to the hotel bed.

I hope he gets home before it's too cold. I tried to time it out so it would be warm when he got back, not too hot but not too lukewarm.

I climb into bed and hug the soup to my chest, prying open my laptop with my foot. My editing software flashes on the screen. I sip from my bowl and lean forward to drag my finger across the touchpad and select a specific clip. One that I've been obsessed with since I filmed it.

Harry's laying on the floor, arms out like he's making a snow angel in the dust. The camera rocks a little as I sit on the edge of the stage. You can see the tip of my bright red cowboy boot in the corner of the shot, but I kind of like it.

He tips his head to my camera, a playful smile tracing his face. You can see it in his eyes. He's got pre-show adrenaline.

"Quinn," he presses his lips together. "Tell me something I don't know."

I sip the soup and watch the screen hungrily.

"Oh, you're so clever," I zoom in on his face and mess with the focus until he appears sharper in the frame.

That's the line I use on him, I use on everyone actually, when I'm looking for content. He's picked up on that now.

"Well?"

"I don't know," I sigh and toss my head back and forth, rolling the thoughts around.

There's not much he doesn't know about me these days.

He shifts onto his side and props his head with his elbow. "There's gotta be something."

"This morning I had oatmeal for breakfast."

He scoffs and tips onto his back. "I knew that."

"Emma called me on Wednesday."

"I know that too. We share a room," he laughs. "And you guys always talk so loud with each other. It's very cute."

"Do you have one?"

I lean forward, eyes unblinking, heart pounding as I anticipate his next words.

He hums to himself. "You're my girlfriend."

"That I am," I chuckle.

"I think if we were two different people, I would marry you next week."

The camera shakes.

"Did that scare you?" He murmurs gently.

"Different people?"

"Do you want to get married?" He laughs.

"No."

"But would you? If you were a different person?"

"Probably, I guess."

"Exactly."

He looks back up at the ceiling and splays out his arms like he's giving the world a hug.

The clip ends.

Obviously I'm not going to put this one in the documentary. But I can't delete it. It sits on my desktop, labelled "September Conversation, Chicago".

The soup has left a warm puddle in my stomach. I feel woozy with sleep. I lean back and pull up Emma's blog for the third time today. She's in Austria for one more day, and then she's coming to France. Our paths will cross for the first time since Harry and I started the tour.

She's posted a few new pictures, her and Caroline.

Caroline is from Vermont. She bakes her own bread and rolls her own pasta. She has long red hair that she braids back and soft brown eyes and a million freckles. When Emma introduced us, Caroline practically broke my hand shaking it. She makes ceramics to unwind. She has a butterfly tattoo on her shoulder blade.

After the wedding, they decided to take a train through Europe and live with Caroline's aunt in the alps for a few months. Emma tells me that every day after dinner they go on a walk around the lake by her house.

I can't keep my eyes open much longer. I feel myself drifting into a pleasant, peaceful haze.

The front door softly opens, and he wanders in. I hear him shifting around humming to himself, and I smile. Half-asleep, I can't remember if I say anything, I don't even know if I can.

He rustles around the room for an eternity. The shower goes on and turns off. I worry he's never going to come to bed. But then I hear the lightswitch. And the darkness in my eyes goes black. He moves my laptop, and the weight of his body climbs into bed.

He smells so warm.

"Quinn," he whispers close to my ear. I manage to turn my head and let out a low hum. "Thank you for making me soup."

"How was the show?"

That voice can't be mine, but it has to be. The world is so hazy. I don't know if I even said it out loud.

"We missed you." He traces his hand up my side and brushes the hair off of my face. "Especially Mitch."

I grin. But then I feel stupid and stop. I don't know if this is happening in my head or not. I could be dreaming.

"I'm so tired," my voice is gravelly and faint. He kisses my neck. "I love you."

"I love you too. I'm happy to be home."

Home.

We are, aren't we.

a/n goodnight :,)

Keep your eyes peeled for another book I'm working on. Coming soon. 

I love you all v much. <3