Heat - Harry Styles

twenty-five

I was walking to a coffee shop when it happened. I rounded a corner and spotted a middle aged man in the reflection of a window. He was crouched behind a car, a long lens camera resting on the red hood. In the quiet of the morning, I could hear the faint clicking as he captured frame after frame. My breath hitched in my throat, but I did my best to keep my eyes planted straight ahead. The last thing I wanted to give him was a clear shot of my face. I pushed my sunglasses further up the bridge of my nose and picked up my pace.

I entered The Grind, a coffee shop I'd been frequenting since high school. I felt a wave of relief rush over me as I heard the bell above me chime and listened as the door rattled closed behind me. I moved my sunglasses to the top of my head and waited at the back of the line, glancing over the menu that I'd read thousands of times before. I was deciding between and iced dirty chai and a cold brew when I started to hear whispers around me. I looked away from the menu and looked to my left. Everyone was staring, whispering with their heads ducked in close to their friends. They quickly looked away and straightened up when they realized I was on to them.

I chewed the inside of my lip, suddenly wishing the woman in front of me would speed up her order so I could get out here.

"This one's on the house, Sloane," the owner called to me as he slid a cold brew–my usual order to the end of the counter. He eyed me with pity as he dropped a straw beside the cup. "I know you probably want to get going."

"I appreciate it," I said earnestly. I'd never been more thankful to be a regular. "I promise I'll pay for it next time."

"Don't worry about it," he smiled. "Just maybe keep an eye out when you leave. There are a couple of guys on the bench across the street. Looks like they have cameras."

My stomach lurched. "Gotcha, thanks."

I rushed out of The Grind with my head down, desperately trying to get down the street before the men noticed me. It turned out that my escape was anything but covert, I could hear the hurried footsteps of the men slapping against the concrete sidewalk behind me. I kept my eyes glued to the ground and did my best to pick up the pace.

"Sloane, how did you meet Harry?"

Of course they knew my name. My face was getting hot, but it wasn't just the humidity that was getting to me. I was being chased by three men I'd never even seen before. How many more were there, and where could they be hiding?

I didn't know where to go. If I went back to my house or Harry's place, they'd know where we lived. I should've driven–or at least ridden my bike. At least then I'd have a chance to lose my tail. Just down the block, I could see Beverly's, the little neighborhood market all the kids used to walk to after school. My dad used to give me $5 every friday so I could buy an ice cream cone.

Beverly's could be my safe haven. They hadn't followed me into the coffee shop, so they probably wouldn't follow me into the market, right? I rushed through the door and was thankful when I was greeted by a familiar face.

"Well, hey there Sloane," Lucinda Beverly drew out in her standard Southern drawl. Her family had owned this place since the 1800s, and she seemed to know all the Charleston locals by name.

"Hi Mrs. Beverly," I tried to smile but I'm sure it didn't quite come out as believable.

"Is everything okay? You look a little red. Can I get you a glass of water?" she asked as she approached me, concern lacing her tone.

I glanced at the checkout counter, eyes widening as I caught sight of my face plastered on a copy of a tabloid. HARRY'S NEW FLAME the cover read. It featured both of our faces outlined in a big red heart. Where had they even gotten that photo of me? It looks like something my mom would've posted on Facebook.

"I'm being followed," I confessed. "There are three men across the street with cameras."

"Oh honey," she cooed. "I heard you were dating that famous boy. Why don't you go take a seat in my office and I'll go out there are tell 'em to leave."

"Please don't do that," I all but laughed. "I'm sure the last thing you want is a write up in a trashy tabloid. But I will take you up on your office. I'm going to see if someone can come pick me up."

"Let me know if you need anything else, sweetheart," she offered as she handed me an ice cold bottle of water. She examined my face fondly. "You know, it's no wonder you're dating a singer. You look just like your grandmother did at your age–beautiful."

"Thank you, she'll be grateful that you're helping me."

She patted her wrinkled hand gently on my shoulder. "Through that door on the left," she pointed.

I pressed the plastic bottle against my cheeks before taking a sip of it. I was thankful for the temporary relief it brought me. I knew I needed to call Harry, but I gave myself a few moments to calm down. I knew that he would freak out if I called him when my emotions were still high.

"Hey," he answered almost immediately.

"Hey," I sighed. "I want to preface this by asking you not to freak out too much."

"What's wrong?"

"There are three men with cameras that have been following me all morning. I'm fine right now, but I don't know what to do. It doesn't look like they're going to leave any time soon."

"Where are you? Are you with anyone?"

"I'm at Beverly's–that little grocery store near my house. The owner is letting me sit in her office until I figure out what to do."

"Is there a back door?"

"Umm," I began as I peaked down the hallway. There was an crooked door hanging from rusted hinges, but there were a few boxes stacked around it, so they must use it for deliveries. "Yes, the back door should open out onto Savage Street."

"Okay, stay put. We'll be there in a minute. I'm sorry that this is happening."

"It's not your fault."

"Yes it is," he sighed.