Going To California |l.s.|

Chapter 1 - New Neighbor

"Mr. Tomlinson," the interviewer smiles, giving my hand a firm shake. I return the expression, assuring myself that he can't see right through it as I imagine so. His hand is cold, the skin dry and calloused, which only further irritates my own clammy ones. His teeth are that of which you'd see on a picture hanging up in a dentist's office; perfectly straight and blinding to the eyes of the beholder. He's surely around my age, possibly older, with slightly aged skin that is overdone with stage makeup that I'm sure is just as noticeable on my own face. His brows are plucked to shape his face, and he also looks to be cleanly shaven. I can tell he isn't meant for the sun, as the makeup team has done an obvious job on his sunspots to which he must've gained from being a young teenager, running out and about with his friends, not having a care in the world about the damage being done to his skin by the blazing sun. I can look into his eyes and see the energy they behold, only by cup after cup of coffee that seemingly have no effect on the condition of his teeth. "Please, take a seat." 

And so, I do, right on the brown, leather armchair that isn't as comfortable as it looks, with a full audience sitting across the room, their claps dying down. I make sure to smile and wave, engaging the audience to make myself look more media trained than I really am. At this point, I'm merely going through the motions. 

"So, Louis," he starts, silence otherwise filling the room, with the exception of the buzz that the air conditioning is emitting. "Thanks for coming out here today, we're very glad to have you." I can tell his words are rehearsed, and normally I'd be annoyed at the unoriginal conversation, but I'm just as forced as he seems to be at this point, so I'd be a hypocrite to judge.

"Thanks for having me," I smile, looking from him to the crowd, and finally back to him. 

"If I'm correct, this isn't your first time in LA, is it?" he asks. I'd use his name as a part of my answer, but if I'm being completely honest, I've already forgotten it. He isn't nearly as big as some of the other early-morning talk shows, so I haven't exactly gotten my facts down.

"It isn't," I shake my head, finding a spot on the floor and looking at it as I focus in on what I'm saying. "Been here a couple times, actually."

"And how do you like it?"

"Yeah, it's nice, Los Angeles," I say. "A bit far from home, I have to say, but there's no beating the weather."

"No, there isn't," he chuckles, nodding in agreement. "And your first time was with Harry Styles?" There it is; the million-dollar question. I came in here knowing the reason for their request for this interview with me, and I intend on being honest here.

"It was," I smile, recalling the memory. "The good old days."

"And what was your role?" he asks. "The fans knew quite a bit about you from the beginning of yours and Mr. Styles' first sightings here, but I've been informed that you were never business-related to him in any way."

"Well, it was his first time travelling so far for his music, and I felt like I needed to be there for him. He was obviously a natural though, so in the end, it was just a holiday for me," I smile, and the crowd laughs, although I wasn't aware it was a joke.

"So, you two were close?" he inquires.

"Very."

"So, Louis, where is Mr. Styles today?" This is a question that is all-too predictable. It does sting every time someone asks me, but only to a certain extent. It mainly causes shame and regret to downcast my emotions, but I never let it show. I'll be damned if I let people know why Harry Styles has fallen off the face of the earth.

"I wish I could tell you," I shake my head, looking back to the spot on the floor out of pure discomfort. Harry wasn't joking; they really don't waste time getting to the nitty gritty. "I know just as much as you, so I won't be a good source of any updates."