Heat - Harry Styles

twenty-two

One Month Later

When you really love someone, it's like you've known them forever. That's how I feel about Harry. As I sit at the dining table I've had practically every meal at for the last twenty two years, I can't help but think that Harry looks like he belongs across from me. Long limbs bleed into the wood of the chair. Gold rings scrape gently against the surface of the well-loved table. He somehow manages to be out of place, but fit just right. Harry has always had a way of making himself fit in.

After that first dinner, my parents were completely sold on Harry. They love his charm, his kindness, his talent... but most of all, they love how much he cares about me. Even now, my mother gushes about Harry with a smile across her face. The only issue that we've run into with regards to my family is their concern about our relationship entering the public eye. It would be nice to think that they are simply worried about what the tabloids might do to our relationship, but I know that their real concern is with what it would do to my own self confidence.

Like every girl on the face of the planet, my preteen years were... rough. Maybe it was due to the fact that I had what my brother used to call American Girl doll teeth that I hadn't yet grown into, or that I spent every free moment at my grandparents' house instead of the soda shop that everyone rushed to after the last bell.

During most of my time in middle school, I would come home with tears in my eyes and remnants of spitballs in my hair. My mother would spring into action, pouring me a glass of sweet tea and cooing sweet words and reassurances until my tears dried. She would always tell me that it was some version of love or jealousy that caused my classmates to pick on me. I found it hard to believe that any boy would express their fondness via saliva soaked algebra homework, but it was more comforting than the belief that I was just fundamentally different from all the kids I had been raised with. Whatever it was that separated me from my peers, I didn't grow out of it until I reached high school.

If the words of middle schoolers almost completely destroyed my sense of self, there is no telling what a multibillion dollar media conglomerate might do to me. As much as I appreciate my parent's concern, the burden of keeping our relationship a secret has really begun to take a toll on Harry and I. Of course, it all got a bit easier after we told my parents. There's no more sneaking out early and back in late, no more made up sleepovers at Charlotte's house. However, Harry and I are longing for just a bit more normalcy – to be able to go out to dinner or grab a drink with my friends. The only issue is that in the quest for more normalcy, we'll likely blow up the small amount we already have. It's a big gamble, probably a bad bet. But we have to take the leap eventually.

"What are you thinking about over there, Bee?" Harry's voice rips me away from my thoughts. We have been laying on the floor in my childhood bedroom for hours. He's leaning against my bed, lightly strumming on his guitar, stopping to scribble words every few moments – presumably song lyrics. I'm working on a charcoal sketch that isn't quite turning out how I imagined it would. I have half a mind to crumple it up and toss it in the corner. "I've never seen that crease between your eyebrows quite so deep."

My hands instantly shoot up to my forehead, as if I could smooth the skin with my fingers.

"Just wondering what I'm going to do if People Magazine gets their hands on any of my yearbook photos," I sigh. A half-truth. Recently, I have gotten into the habit of telling these half-truths... lies by omission, whatever you want to call them. Harry has been so adorably concerned about our relationship going public that I don't want to add any pressure by confessing to him just how worried I am about the whole thing.

"Hypothetically, what would someone have to do to get their hands on such photos?" he teases, eyebrow arching slightly.

"What would you even want with those?" I shake my head with a laugh.

"Morbid curiosity," he shrugged with a smirk. A brief silence fell between us, but I didn't speak. I could tell that Harry had more to say than just a joke.

"Anyways, it's not fair that you get to have this whole secret life before we met. I don't know anything about past Sloane, but you can google literally anything about me."

"I have googled you a time or two," I confess. "At the beginning."

"Do I even want to know what you saw?" he asks with a groan. "I hate to think of you reading articles about me and exes... or seeing photos of me with other girls. I mean, I would hate it if all I found were photos of you and other guys when I searched your name."

"I'm not a sadomasochist, Harry," I laugh. There it is, another half-truth. Though not on purpose, I have seen some photos of Harry with his various exes. I've tried to push them out of my head but it's hard to scrub your mind clean of the image of your boyfriend's hands wrapped tightly around Kendall Jenner's waist. Those familiar fingers digging into supermodel skin – it's the stuff of nightmares, really.

"I don't believe that for a second," he said plainly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're an artist," he shrugs noncommittally. "I know you love pain, anguish, jealousy... all that stuff. Even when you hate it you need it to create. The same way you need love. Besides, emotional pain is addictive."

"Emotional pain is addictive," I whisper, turning the words over in the air between us. "What do you mean?"

"It's like with you and that Spencer guy," he begins. "Like, I hate hearing about what went on between you two but I can't help but want to know. It's like I need to know about it no matter what kind of grief it might bring me."

"Talk about morbid curiosity," I scoff lightheartedly. "I guess you're right though. I have wondered a lot about your dating history. It just never felt fair for me to deep dive into your past without your permission," I confess.

"Good, a lot of the stuff online isn't really true anyways."

Another silence settles between us, but this time I feel like I'm the one who has more to say. I have so many questions I want answered but at the same time, I'm scared of what those answers may be.

"Can I ask you some questions then?"

"Anything," he almost whispers. He sets his guitar down and lays face up on my bedroom floor, famous fingers picking at the blue and white threads of my childhood carpet.

"Can you tell me about your last relationship?"

"What do you want to know?"

"I don't know," I admit. "I guess I just want to know what your relationship was like. Why were you with her... stuff like that." I'm not exactly sure why I want to know all this. It's almost like, in some twisted way, if I can understand what he saw in his last girlfriend I can understand what he sees in me. Like this girl from the past can act like a mirror for my present.

"The last girl I dated was really beautiful and we had a lot of fun together, but I don't think we ever really cared that much about each other. You know what I mean?"

I nod and hum quietly although – no, I have no idea what he means. I have never dated anyone that I didn't really care about. In fact, the only person that had come close to being my boyfriend in my adult life other than Harry never quite made it because I feared that I might care about him a bit too much. So much that I feared I'd lose myself in him. Griffin was patient with me, but it never ended up completely working out between the two of us.

Even now I can't exactly put a finger on what makes Harry different, why I decided to let him in completely. He just makes me feel safe. But now, I begin to feel the fear creep back in – the idea that Harry is with me because I am simply the best and most convenient option to him right now. 

That like Charleston, I am just another vacation.

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