Exposure • h.s.

CHAPTER18.

I can't even remember the last time I felt this pumped about a party. It's like college all over again, when I somehow managed to sneak into the epic, alcohol-fueled parties thrown by those sororities some of my friends were in.

My bedroom, which was basically just a sad, little box where I locked myself away these past three days, has transformed into a colorful mess: clothes are scattered all over the floor, after I chucked them out of their boxes, which arrived just yesterday; shoes are randomly placed along the baseboard, and I have no idea how a blue Converse ended up on the bed. Makeup containers are open, and brushes desperately call for a wash, lying all over the bathroom sink, some dangerously close to falling off, others soaked from rolling under the open faucet. I've never had so many emotions running through me at once – anger, anxiety, amazement, and terror are all mixed up inside me, leaving a trail of intense feelings. I force myself to keep calm, grounding myself in the moment.

It's all just a bad dream, right? Nothing actually happened.

After all, that's how I've always dealt with problems. Silencing them. Pretending they don't exist.

This approach is undoubtedly a sign of unresolved issues I carry with me, but it's the only way I know how to confront life's obstacles.

Remember, you're an actress, Mabel.

I'm doing this to toughen myself up and not let things get to me.

It's just a bad dream, nothing really happened.

I've got this persona I'm trying to don – the carefree girl who's never been the target of some almost defamatory articles, absolutely loving her new life in Los Angeles. I reason with myself that, logically, that would be the smartest move. I'm in completely uncharted (and, let's face it, unfriendly) territory, dealing with a bunch of strangers and situations I'm not used to. And after talking to Zayn, I'm convinced that openly hating Harry will only lead to a world of trouble. So, I need to find a way to hide that corrosive animosity I feel towards him – though it's easier said than done.

Zayn and I are on the same page on that: I'll have to try and play nice with Harry.
I'll pretend to be his friend.

Tonight, I've opted for my go-to comfort outfit, a dazzling sequined blouse that drapes over my shoulders like a soft fabric caress, leaving my bare back to exude a sensuality I feared had long evaded me. As for the bottom, a simple pair of light-washed, loose-fitting jeans, paired with my cobalt blue Converse, my loyal companions on this wild rollercoaster called life. I apply my makeup, finding solace in the familiar routine that seems to heal all my troubles: I carefully draw an elongated line with my eyeliner, giving my eyes a hint of determination, and then outlining my lips with a lip pencil, topped with a swipe of gloss for a luscious finish.

Adding a final touch, I secure a dainty black choker with a striking blue gem and an evil eye motif, perhaps a talisman against any bad vibes Harry might bring.

As I peer into the mirror, my eyes dart restlessly, and I can't help but give myself a light pat on the cheek for encouragement, even though I've already put on blush.

It's a reflex, something I've seen somewhere before, an echo from the depths of my memory.

Then, it hits me.

What the fuck?

I can't believe I just did that.
Did I really just do that?

Did I really unconsciously mimic one of Harry's moves?

"Okay, I definitely need a drink," I mumble, attempting to shake off this odd trance.

A bit of alcohol might do the trick, helping me relax and face the night with more ease. Anything to distract myself from Harry, who keeps popping up in my thoughts. I can't stand the guy, and the thought of pretending to like him is enough to make my skin crawl. It baffles me how the public adores him madly – he has them wrapped around his finger, hanging on his every word, awning over him like crazy.