Money is an ordinary thing for Harry Styles. He was born into it, was taught how to easily make it, and how to spend it wisely. His life has been given to him on a silver platter and he loves it. He started Songbird Studios because of it. It did so...
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I first got drunk when I was eighteen on my cousins' rooftop in Santorini. I remember it was an expensive bottle of whiskey that I occasionally took swigs from. I remember my cousin laughing when I winced at the taste. I definitely remember the massive hangover I had the next day.
I remember everything about that summer like it was yesterday. The dry heat made my curls frizz up. Eating every meal outside, the sounds of the waves hitting the shore filled the occasional silence. The giggles of my little cousin's friends whenever I'd come into the room. How by the end of the summer I had at least ten 8-year-old girls profess their love to me. The broken air conditioning in my bedroom and how sticky I felt in the morning. Sofia Samaras and the nights we spent wrapped in bedsheets and sneaking around her father. The nights I snuck into clubs with my older cousin. Her teary eyes at the airport as she asks me if we'll ever see each other again. I said 'maybe' to give her some glimmer of hope but I know I'll never see her again.
And every time I drink whiskey I'm transported back to that humid summer in Greece.
"Are you listening to anything I'm saying?" Zayn asks.
"Something about that girl you signed. Rumer, right?" I pinch the bridge of my nose, practically yelling over the music in the club. "What about her?"
"No, I'm talking about Violet."
"I don't want to talk about her." I groan, taking a sip of whiskey and thinking of my happy place. "It's your birthday, don't you have something better to talk about?"
"No...I mean, yes I do but-"
"I'm gonna get another drink." I cut him off, finishing off my drink and pushing myself out of the booth.
Zayn, being the self-absorbed motherfucker he is, rented a whole nightclub in downtown Hollywood for his birthday. The whole place is filled with hundreds of people I don't even know the names of. Some clients of ours occupy the dancefloor, stealing everyone's attention by dancing dramatically. Copious amounts of drugs and alcohol are all over the place, and almost everyone has their tongue down someone else's throat.
I'd rather be with my kids right now. All four of us are in my bed, watching some Disney princess movie we've watched a million times before. Small socked feet against my back and soft snores in my ear while I try to sleep. I'd be so uncomfortable and have the worst sleep of my life but I'd leave this place in a heartbeat to be with my babies.
But instead, Clara has the kids for the weekend. I'm feigning interest in small talk, drinking way too much, quietly reminiscing on my teenage years, and regretting my decision to come to this goddamn birthday party.
I rest my forearms on the bartop, sending the bartender a nod. He reads my mind, turns around to fix me another drink, and sends the amber-liquid-filled drink in front of me. He busies himself with another partygoer as I let the drink sit on my tongue before swallowing it.
