Colorblind [h.s]

22

The drive home with Niall went as expected. He played his music loud enough that we couldn't possibly hold a conversation.

My guess is that he wanted to prevent me from asking him a million questions about Harry, which is annoying. Sure, I would've most likely done that, but I don't want them knowing that. My concerns about Harry shouldn't include the boys being nosy about it.

Ironic, Violet.

The rest of the week went on as scheduled. I mainly spent it cleaning and Christmas shopping for everyone. I got each of the girls their favorite wine and a candle to pair it with. I got my mom a few sweaters and added in some fancier candles as well. I want her to open as many presents as possible.

I also hung out with the girls and even helped Lilian study for her marketing exam. We mainly just discussed winter break- how Bella's going to Cabo with her family and the rest of the girls are going home.

I, on the other hand, will be holding down the fort until Christmas Eve. I don't particularly enjoy going home. It's not that I dislike my mom or anything, it's that being home is a constant reminder that my dad isn't there- and I think my presence is the same for her.

Every family dinner, birthday, Christmas. He's never there and he's never going to be. It's a hard pill to swallow.

My mom always reminds me that "He's here with us, Vi," and that he "Will always be with his little girl," but that doesn't mean anything to me. I can't see or hear him. I can't feel his hugs or hear his laugh.

People always say that losing someone is a life lesson, in which I always respond with how it's one I never asked to be taught. It's a never-ending cycle, so I figured out that being home as little as possible is a good caveat.

It's now Friday, marking almost a week of silence from everyone. From Harry. Niall did text me a few days ago some slightly concerning tweet that I think was supposed to be funny, but besides that it's been radio silence.

I ordered pizza and ate over half of it while Pretty Woman played on the TV, and then cracked open a bottle of Pinot and am now on my third glass.

Julia Roberts is such a classy prostitute. I wish I had her hair. I'm drunk.

I'm so focused on the movie that when I hear three loud bangs, I practically jump ten feet in the air.

Is someone knocking?

I pause the movie, not daring to move. I hate being home alone, and being drunk and home alone is monumentally worse. About thirty seconds later, four more pounds come sounding through the door.

"Violet, open up," I hear a familiar voice slur.

Harry.

"Violet, c'mon," he says as he jiggles the door handle.

I slowly get up from the couch and walk towards the door.

"Fuck- just, can you-" he sighs, "Can you please open the door," he says softly.

I'm right against it and place my hand around the knob, gently swinging it open to reveal him, and he looks horrible.

His eyes are bloodshot, surrounded by dark circles. His hair is a mess, pulled back by a green bandana. He smells like whiskey and cologne, but doesn't look hammered. He's definitely drunk, but not obliterated. If anything, he looks more tired than fucked up.

"Hi," he sighs, looking down at me.

"Hi," I reply quietly, moving my body to the side so he can come in.