HARRY STYLES
Four Months Ago
All the bodegas nearby where I could pick up a bouquet of flowers were closed, which was ironic if I considered being told a million times that New York City was the city that didn't sleep when I moved here. That turned out to be a lie. Plenty of things were closed when I needed them the most, like right then.
Instead of wandering any further down the block, I raised my arm for a taxi until one of the yellow vans swerved and stopped on the side of the road for me. I yanked on the door handle and climbed into the backseat.
"Eleven Greene Street," I told the driver as I buckled up and fished my phone out of my pocket.
Allison hadn't texted me, which wasn't a good sign at all. When she was mad, she'd ask me where I was and send a million question marks. She'd send me pictures of Jane and ask me if I remembered our daughter, and she'd ask me if I'd like to share a photo of myself so Jane could remember me. When she was pissed, however, she didn't text me at all. I assumed I would go home to find her asleep in our bed, potentially with the door locked. She didn't typically lock me out, but I figured she might on a night like that one.
"Here's fine," I unbuckled my seatbelt and paid the driver in cash with an extra $10. He said nothing to me as I stepped out and closed his door for him. It was a simple interaction like I preferred. That's one of my favorite things about New York-no one cares for small talk.
I let myself into the building and heard my shoes squeak on the glittering white marble floor on the way to the lift, listening to the faint jazz music playing in the hidden speakers as I tapped the round silver button to go up. My eyes threatened to close, so I widened them and blinked rapidly to keep from passing out right there in the threshold of the lift.
As the doors slid apart for me, I went in alone and rode up to the third floor without any interruptions. There was a sick part of me that sincerely hoped Allison might really have been sleeping as I fit my key into the lock of our front door and let myself in, but I was sorely mistaken when I saw her sitting at the kitchen table with her favorite tall candles burning between her and the empty space where I should have been. Well, the candles used to be tall, but then they were about four inches above their gold holders. It was worse than I thought.
"I'm so sorry," my voice sounded hoarse as I dropped my keys on the kitchen island, crossing the open floor plan to get to the dining area by our floor-to-ceiling windows. "I tried to leave, but...you know."
With full red lips, she nodded and continued to stare at the untouched dinner in front of her. It looked like filet mignon, mashed potatoes, and green beans, and I'm sure she worked hard on it. I'd bet it was good a few hours before my arrival but maybe not after.
"You know, I was so prepared to fight with you," she had to clear her throat when her voice came out scratchy from the lack of use. "I had this whole speech prepared about how you don't value our relationship or my time, and about how you constantly choose the restaurant over me."
I nodded as none of this was news to me. We'd had this fight twenty times at the very least, and that was just in the last month.
She looked up at me with piercing blue eyes. "I've been sleeping with Brad from the office for about four months now."
As I blinked back at her, I saw it in my mind. I saw myself arriving late at her office Christmas party, and I saw her laughing with Brad with a glass of wine in her hand. She was giggling and touched his chest before we made eye contact from across the room, and I think that was when I suspected it. I suspected it. I didn't know it, but after knowing it, I felt like I was going to be sick. How else is a man supposed to feel when his girlfriend of eight years and the mother of his daughter tells him she's been cheating on him for four entire months?
