And They Told Me I Couldn't Act

TAKE 28

WHY IS IT so fundamentally difficult to be friends with your idol? I'm sitting across the bar, it's a small party so Harry didn't book out the whole place but he did take them somewhere pricy with a small niche clientele.

Have you ever been to one of those places that are completely inaccessible unless you're on the list? A place where you had to surrender your phones into a locker?

We went there.

I watch Harry Wolfe as much as I can. I'm not sure why I'm intrigued by him. I'm trying desperately to think of Harry as Harry Wolfe, but things move and flow faster than the tides and I can't keep up. The same Harry Wolfe that captivated me has suddenly without warning shifted again.

Harry.

I make a list in my head.

The Harry I know, he's grumpy most of the time. I smile a bit at this, what once hurt me now brought joy to my face - let's hope the same can be said if I accidentally step on an attachment plug.

He's also introverted, if you watch videos of his concert, Harry Wolfe looks so effortless like he's born to be in front of thousands of people. With his charisma and his smile, Harry Wolfe knows how to work a crowd. Harry? He's comfortable enough but given any time of the day - I know, he'd love to be at home.

Harry is also indecisive, he looks like he's got his whole life together but he's afraid of stepping out of the line, of picking the wrong choice so much so that he'd settle on a fence and surrender himself to whomever.

I wonder what would happen if he decided to choose for himself, would Harry Wolfe even exist? How much of the idol I worshipped, loved and would have given my life for is him and how much of it is Charles and his PR team doing? How intensely did he have to train to change the sullen introspective guy I know to what everyone sees him as?

"You look lost in thought," Harry comes over to me, smiling with a wine glass in his hand. He must have finished his rounds to come and talk to me. I'd spoken to a few of them, but I couldn't keep my eyes off him.

I shrug.

"What's on your mind?"

"Your music video," I lie, or take the truth and throw a blanket on it. It feels safer. After all, I did think about it. "I just hope I did your vision justice."

I don't know whether Harry took my hand out of gratitude or show. He pulls my hand to his lips and kisses it gently. It must be for show, but why does his eyes look softer? Is this the alcohol haze talking? I barely drank. Just six glasses of gin tonic.

"You were the best person for the job."

I pull my hand away, not sure what to feel. I know I should act but it's been a long day of acting and I don't want to act. I want to bottle up myself and keep it in a quiet room.

"I'm sorry," he says, quietly in a way that I know is real. Because everything real about our relationship is always done in private, in softened whispers and screams. "I don't just help anyone, Nessa, nor do I think of you as a damsel in distress. I'm sorry I let you think that."

I pause, it's hard to remember what exactly we fought about but his apology takes me by surprise, more so when I know I'm the offending party. "You shouldn't be apologising," I say reaching for him, shakily. "I should."

"You shouldn't," Harry says. "My actions are always pulling us in the worst way," he says, "from the moment we met, it was my decision to ask you to come in the car, to take you to the hospital, and even the music video." He laughs. "I feel like I'm in denial really but you're the one always fixing my mess."

I wonder briefly, if he was intoxicated. Since when was Harry Wolfe this candid. He's not the same Harry I met, the one who didn't spare a care for me. His hands reach forth pulling me into a hug. 

"I'm happy you're here," I hear his muffled voice.

"Can't breathe," I push lightly at his chest and his arms loosen up. I glance up at him to see him beaming. Drunk. Probably. But the apology was still very nice.  

He runs a hand up and down my back.

It's a soft touch, it's gentle and reassuring and for a moment, I just enjoy the touch, is it to prevent people from gazing too intently at us? From eavesdropping our conversation?

I close my eyes.

I want to pretend this is real.

I freeze.

Why do I want to pretend this is real?

Maybe it's the after-effects of wrapping up Vanity High that have pushed me in this direction. After all - Vanity High made me someone of worth. Granted it wasn't a main role, but it was a TV series. One that's expected to make it past the pilot episode. One we've filmed a whole season for.

Now, is this what post-filming depression feels like? That you cling to any warmth?

It's just a phase, and in that minute, I let Harry's rare warmth, feel real.

Maybe that's the mistake.

Maybe the mistake is woven in my fingers reaching for him to hug him, to intentionally suffocate myself in his very muscular, unforgiving chest. Or were the threads at the beginning of this whole foray?

"I'm happy I'm here too," I whisper.

He moves away and even with my pull, it doesn't deter him, "Sorry, could you repeat that?"

I'm not that dizzy when I respond, "I'm happy I'm here too."

"How about the shoot?" He asks.

I don't try to read him, I just open the blanket that covers my truths from the monsters that threaten to engulf me when I let my guard down, "I've never been happier to be on any set than yours."

Harry bends down and his lips catch mine. His lips are soft, filled with warmth. His hands move up my back slowly.

I respond, standing up so I can pull myself closer to him. I'm not sure how we moved so fluidly and not at all awkward like my kisses on screen with Christopher felt. Is it all the time we've spent together? All the conversations we shared that turn this kiss into warm chocolate?

Or maybe I did drink too much because I swear I can see fireworks behind my eyes as our lips meet. When we break apart, it's not because someone stopped us but because we're both light-headed from not enough breath.

I stepped down, I'd been tip-toeing to reach him and he'd born my weight without complaint. My fingers reach to touch my lips, they feel a little funny. I feel a little funny.

And just as I realised what the feeling was, I had barely a minute to run to the bathroom to throw up. 

AN

I hope you can tell they're both drunk in this chapter. I tried my best to write it as unclear as possible as wispy as the drunk conversations you find in an English bar. 

Cheers,

Pain.