Evie | H.S |

89. The do-over

I wish there was a way that I could go back in time and tell twenty one year old Evie what was on the cards for her.

I'd tell her to keep on trucking with music. Even when she felt like she was at her brokest, lowest and least enthusiastic with no more gas in the tank - I'd tell her to enjoy the ride because there would be light at the end of the long tunnel. The kind of light she wouldn't even dare to manifest. The sort of light that seemed so beyond the realm of possibilities. I'd tell her it was going to be tough work, but it'd be worth it. I'd promise her.

I'd tell her to be kinder to herself and to the people around her. They only wanted the best for her during the time she felt like she deserved dirt. Even when it felt like they were being, what she interpreted as, condescending - they did know better. She should have accepted that help more readily with an open mind and open arms.

I'd tell her that she deserved more than she was willing to accept. I'd force her to set the bar higher. I'd beg her to find a happy medium between her rose tinted lenses and seeing clearly; seeing through the bullshit.

I'd tell her to be more assertive with what she wanted. Wether that be with work, music, friends or relationships. I'd tell her to put herself on the stage sooner, too. Don't hang back and live in someone else's shadow.

I'd tell her that her person was out there and they'd treat her not only as an equal, but like a queen. They'd be kind, supportive, understanding and patient. Age appropriate, too. She didn't need to settle for anything less.

Because even at one of her embarrassingly lowest moments, on the bathroom floor with her head in the toilet, she'd find someone who would still look at her like she radiated the light from the sun, moon and all the stars combined.

With the worlds worst hangover finally subsiding after a couple of days, I was back to feeling somewhat human and I had sworn to a lifelong one-glass maximum of champagne.

So, I'd probably also go back and tell younger Evie to enjoy her ten out of ten hangovers because once she hit 27, they'd turn into a two hundred out of ten.

The only silver lining to such a hangover was the blurry memories of how well Harry had handled me.

I'd called him the next morning with the most hectic hangxiety of my life. "You're apologising like you hit my grandmother with your car or something" he'd laughed, reiterating over and over that it was a non-issue. I didn't need to be worried about it. It's just what boyfriends do. Or should do, rather.

He told me he'd waited till I was deep asleep and snoring away, before he slipped out of bed and snuck out to fly back to Denmark.

It blew my mind that he'd not only made the trip to surprise me, but that he did so knowing how tired he'd be for a show the very same night he landed back there.

To have arranged a private jet, as well as the security and cars to and from the airport, just so he could be there to support me for a couple of hours was a gesture that I didn't take lightly. He did all of that for me, like it was nothing.

And if that wasn't gesture enough, a few days later he dropped the one year anniversary version of Harry's House. Of the six tracks, five I'd heard live. The sixth I'd heard a demo of (never forget 'Keep Driving-gate') but a lyric change in the form of a swap of one single word floored me.

Maple syrup, coffee,
Pancakes for two
Hash brown, egg yolk,
I will always love you

When Harry had casually slipped the L-bomb after we romped around my kitchen in a giddy graceless waltz, I had put it down to just that, a slip.