ೃ⁀➷ In the year 1994,
Maya Bennet travels to New York to attend a famous music festival, Woodstock. After stumbling into the wrong tent when searching for her lost boyfriend, she has an odd interaction with a handsome mysterious stranger. A year l...
𝐂𝐫𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | Bananarama 𝐌𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐲 | Jesse Jo Stark 𝐀𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐚 | Steve Miller Band 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐞 | The Police
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"I'm open, Harry! I'm open!"
Eric, a little boy that lives up the street, around the age of ten, runs quickly in Walter's backyard, keeping his eyes open and over his shoulder as Harry grips the child's football tightly in his hands. With a wide grin and a pair of shades covering his green eyes, he lifts his forearm, and smoothly brings his shoulder back, positioning the ball in the direction he wants to throw it. Within seconds, the boy still yelling out his name, Harry launches it high into the air in a perfect spiral—I can't help but laugh when Eric falls to the grass, rolling onto his back and jumping back up onto his feet with a contagious smile. "I caught it! I caught it!" He shouts excitedly, holding the ball up into the air as if he won the super bowl.
"Nice spiral son!" Dean shouts over to Harry from behind the smokey grill, holding a bottle of beer in his hand as Walter walks behind him with a tray of hotdogs. I smile to myself at the small, yet sweet interaction, watching Eric run toward Dean with the football. He tosses it up into the air and Dean lightly bends at his knees, catching it with one hand, before tossing it up into the air and positioning it in his hand until his fingers align with the laces. "Go long." He tilts his head down to the little boy, and within seconds Eric's running back toward Harry with his hands held out to the side.
Throwing the ball much higher than Harry did before, Harry's eyes narrow behind his glasses as he takes a few steps back, lifting his hands up toward his chest. As the ball comes down in a lazy spin, Eric raises his hands high up in the air, but gasps loudly when he blindly bumps into Harry's chest, letting out a contagious fit of laughter from the crash. Harry reaches down and gently places his hand against the boy's back, making sure he doesn't fall over before he catches the ball with his other hand. My eyes widen at his quick reaction, and I smile to myself when he playfully shouts out the word, "interception!"
We got here about an hour ago. Harry drove the long way, avoiding all bumps in the road while I held my homemade cupcakes on my lap. Zayn sat in the backseat with Rizzo's legs lazily draped over his thighs, because she spent the night at their place. So we all drove together. Ten minutes in, he snatched one of the cupcakes off of the tray, and swallowed it down along with the bottle of a beer he stole from my fridge; in preparation to spend his entire day with Rizzo's family and other people in town.
When we finally arrived and got out of the car, Rizzo licked her thumb and wiped the corners of Zayn's mouth to dust away the orange and black sprinkles he left on his cheeks from his messy snack. He, of course, cringed and complained like a child, while Harry waited, leaning against the side of his car with a cigarette in his hand. I asked him to tell me if he got uncomfortable at any point at least a million times, reminding him to lie about an eyelash, but he brushed off my concern and told him he'd be fine—And he was right, because five minutes after stepping into the house, he started introducing himself to people on his own. I even lost him at one point—Then I found him in the backyard playing ball with the boys.
