Don't Pester The Ski Patrol • L.S.

7

Back home, I can confidently say I do not have any real friends.

If you were to ask any fan of mine who my best friend was, their answer is easy: actress and model Josie Hollis of Hollywood Hills. They're right to think that, because we make them think that on purpose. She guest stars on the show a lot as my 'partner-in-crime.' We've been voted best celebrity friendship for years in a row. We click. We get each other. Thick as thieves, the two of us.

The truth is, I barely talk to Josie. Though I don't consider her a best friend, I consider her as one of the very few people I would actually be happy to see at a party. The only other people in that circle are Lottie, another influencer acquaintance of mine named Donis Dickie, and Sean Kingston.

(I don't know Sean Kingston or anything, I just think I would love to pick his brain for like four hours straight. He seems like he either knows too much, or not enough.)

I've been perfectly content with not having real friends, if I'm being honest. I'm especially good at keeping things to myself, what with all the NDAs I sign a week. If I'm excited about something, I celebrate alone, and that's how I like it. Me, myself, and I.

Though, for the first time in my life, I find myself desperately wanting someone to gush to about Harry. This is unusual for me - I do not have crushes, and if I ever did, I certainly wouldn't flaunt them around for everyone to see. I don't even talk about my hookups even if I have an especially good one - which, sadly, is rare. There's something in the water in the Hills, because nobody there knows what they're doing in bed.

I'm sure this sounds lonely, but trust me, it's the complete opposite. I was surrounded by so many people all of the time that it felt good to have these things to myself. It's why I came to Whiteface, after all; to be lonely. Though, that's been trumped a little bit. Not like I mind. Being with Harry doesn't feel nearly as overwhelming as it did when I'd be surrounded by hundreds of people at a club. It feels tranquil and comfortable, like I'm laying in a hammock and drinking hot chocolate.

I show up at Harry's house early, because if Prairie hates tardiness as he says, I'd rather combat that than aggravate it. I look briefly to the car parked on the side of the lodge, and decide to just let myself in, because Harry's expecting me anyways.

Except, when I walk in, I'm not greeted with Harry. It's then I realise the car parked outside is not his.

I'm greeted with two men I do not recognise. They're both taller than me and well put together in some expensive leather trench coats. One of them has brown hair swept off his face, and big brown eyes illusioned by glasses. The other one has slick black hair, black eyes, and a nice beard; a well-groomed beard, as I admire.

Before I can express my shock, the one with the black hair goes, "Um, what the fuck? Aren't you Louis Tomlinson?"

"Yes," I say, because I am, and that's all I want to say on the subject. I close the door and relock it, and take a few paces into the lodge and out of the foyer. I act as if it's not unusual that I'm here. I was, after all, invited.

"Louis Tomlinson as in, from the show?" The brown haired one asks sharply.

"Well, it certainly isn't the guy behind me." I riff, pointing to nothing but air behind my back.

"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me!" Exclaims the brown-haired one, putting an angry fist onto the dining table they're standing next to. "This is the Louis Harry's been hanging with? Party boy cokehead Louis fucking Tomlinson? Worse-than-a-Kardashian Louis fucking Tomlinson?"

"I'm sorry, who are you guys?" I ask, completely ignoring his insults. Yeah, I've heard worse. And if he wants to think that's me, then so be it.

"Sorry, we're being so rude. We're friends of Harry's. I'm Zayn. Mr. Angry over here is Liam."