I'm In Love With The Brown-Haired Boy//L.S//

Chapter Eleven

"Yo, the game Friday was sick. If we keep playing like this, we'll make it to the championship," Zayn says, throwing his arm around my shoulders. We're at lunch, standing in line, waiting to get our food.

When he says that, all I can think about is what happened after the game. The thoughts race through my head. I can still feel the moment. I can still feel my heart racing and my stomach doing jumping jacks. I can still smell his scent. I can still feel the way his lips felt on mine. I can still feel his body pressed up against mine. I can still feel him. I've been trying to make sense of the whole situation—if it was all just some crazy dream that never really happened.

"Aye, Louis," Zayn calls out to me.

"Huh? Yeah, what?" I ask, completely oblivious to what's going on around me.

"I asked you if I could stay the night tonight," Zayn says while grabbing a scoop of mashed potatoes and slapping them onto his tray.

"I don't know, 'cause it's a school night, and you know how my mom can be."

"Come on," Zayn groans. "I haven't stayed over in, like, forever," he says, rolling his eyes and moving down the line to grab some juice.

"It's been two weeks."

"Exactly."

"I'll see." Just as I finish talking, I look up and make eye contact with Harry, who's standing in line surrounded by his friends. We both quickly look away and go back to what we were doing.

The air around me suddenly feels heavier. My chest tightens, and I can feel the heat creeping up my neck.

"What's up with you?" Zayn asks, nudging me as we move further down the line.

"Nothing," I mumble, focusing way too hard on scooping a small portion of mac and cheese onto my tray.

"Nothing, my ass," Zayn says, raising an eyebrow. "You've been acting weird all week, man."

"No, I haven't."

"You have. Don't even lie."

I roll my eyes, trying to shake the tension, but my hands are gripping the tray tighter than necessary. I sneak another glance in Harry's direction, just to see if he's looking back—but he's laughing at something one of his friends said.

It's like it didn't happen. Like it wasn't real.

"Seriously, what's up?" Zayn presses as we reach the end of the line. "You're not this weird unless something's going on."

"Just... stressed about the game this Friday," I lie. "Coach is riding us pretty hard during practice."

Zayn narrows his eyes like he doesn't quite believe me, but he doesn't push. "Alright, well, we're winning this week too, so get out of your head. And text me about tonight, yeah?"

"Yeah, sure," I say absently, following him toward the table we usually sit at.

As we sit down, I can't help but glance back over at Harry. He's still there—effortlessly cool, surrounded by people who adore him. But for a split second, his eyes flick to mine again, and it's like a jolt of electricity runs through me.

I quickly look away, my stomach twisting into knots.

I need to figure out what the hell I'm doing—what we're doing—before I lose my mind.

***

My phone dings while I'm sitting in fourth period. I sneakily open it to check the message. I catch a glimpse of the sender—it's from Harry. I open it, and it reads: