Cherry Bomb [h.s]

38

this is part 2 of the double update, so make sure you read ch 37 first! 

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After having sex two more times, we lay there in the bed, my head resting in the crook of Harry's arm. The party upstairs is still going strong, but I want to just stay here a little longer. I catch glimpses of fireworks through the large glass windows leading to the balcony. The colors shine sporadically, a mix of purples, blues, reds, yellows, and greens. 

My fingers gently trace over the tattoos on Harry's chest mindlessly, and his hand rests on my arm. Every once in a while, he circles his fingers there, and I'm left with goosebumps. But the good kind, when you don't want the touch to end. 

We've been still for a while now, just listening to each other breathe. I think Harry must have fallen asleep, until he shifts underneath me and takes in a deep breath. 

"My father was at the concert tonight," He suddenly admits.

I lift my head and turn to look at him in the face, brows furrowed. Out of everything, I was not expecting him to say that. 

"Your father?"

He's never really talked about his father, or his mother either. The only thing I knew was that Harry and his father had a bad relationship. 

"Yeah," he confirms, "he just... showed up to my dressing room" 

He speaks of the instance as if it were some freak accident. Like 'Oh, my dad? That guy? Yeah we play golf on the weekends,'  instead of the rocky relationship it is. But I know his cold demeanor is just a way to deflect his feelings. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask softly, trying not to overstep. 

He swallows and clears his throat, "I um, don't really talk about this with anyone."

"You don't have to-"

"No, no," he stops me, "I want to." 

I look at him, but he still doesn't say anything. I want to hear more. I want him to know that it's okay to be this vulnerable and open.

I take a shaky breath in and pray that what I'm about to tell him won't hurt me later on. I'm still not sure exactly how much I trust Harry. In the back of my mind, I'm still wary of divulging my secrets to him. But if I can't take this leap of faith, how can I expect him to?

"Would it help if I told you something, too?" I ask him, my voice coming out unevenly. 

His eyes shift to mine for the first time this conversation, full of a deep sadness I've never seen on him before. 

"I think it would, yeah," he says, "but you don't need to--"

"My sister's dead," I interrupt, catching him off-guard. But if I didn't get it out now, I wouldn't have ever admitted it. It hurt too much to say out loud. 

"I didn't know you had a sister," he finally speaks, shaking off the shock. 

"Her name was Violet," my voice breaks a little, and my eyes sting with the threat of tears, "There was a car accident. She was 16."

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice the softest I've ever heard it. 

"Yeah, it's whatever," I shake my head.

"It's not," he tells me, his hand resting on my jaw so he can keep our eyes locked, "It's not whatever." 

His mouth is downturned and he looks into my eyes seriously. His gaze has an odd effect on me. It's calming and comforting, instead of intimidating and intense. These moments are so rare, that I take a mental picture.