Notorious

Petrichor

It isn't the incessant chirping of birds that wake me from my deep slumber, or the man snoring like a train next to me, or even the alarm clock screeching some TLC classic. None of these things cause me to jump out of bed like my life depends on it.

No, it's vomit.

My stomach churns and on instinct I am jolting from the warm bed, crashing into walls, and covering my mouth as I burst into the bathroom and fall to my knees on the cold tile floor.

And suddenly the fuzzy navel I found so deliciously funny just a few hours prior suddenly makes me want to confront the inventor of that stupid drink and push him off a cliff.

I smell him before I see him: mangoes and a woodsy pine scent. And then just like the night prior I feel a warm body saddle up behind me –smoothing back my hair and rubbing my back in circles and cooing in my ear.

And it just makes me more sick.

I wretch and I wretch and I wretch until nothing else could possibly come out of my stomach before I feel Harry move from behind me, the pitter-patter of his footsteps on the tile, a clinking, before he is back.

My world is spinning along with my stomach but I still manage to make him out as he hands me a toothbrush before grabbing onto my hand and aiding me to my feet.

"C'mon, Munchkin. Let's get you all cleaned up –you're smelling up my apartment."

And he really wouldn't be Harry if he didn't make a comment on it, so I allow him to lead me to the sink and watch as he places a drop of toothpaste on my brush before allowing me to rid the awful taste in my mouth.

Once I'm done cleaning up, he leads me to his bed and only then does it really sink in that I got so hammered last night that he had to take me to his place because I couldn't find my keys.

The humiliation is further carried on when I look down to see that I am dressed in one of his tee-shirts –when I couldn't even function to undress myself- and there is a bucket on my side of the bed, just in case.

I find little relief that the bucket is empty.

"Oh god," I groan, flopping onto his feather blankets and avoiding his stare, "I am so embarrassed."

Embarrassed about getting black-out drunk, about the fight in the bathroom, about jumping to conclusions, about my entire life honestly.

"Yeah, I don't know how you're ever going to show your face in the light of day again."

Despite his teasing tone, I still pick up a pillow and toss it at his face, breathy chuckles muffled by the fact that my face is buried in his blankets.

"Shut up, you jerk."

He laughs along with me, though I don't know why. He was upset last night and not the kind of angry upset that I had witnessed from him before, but a more resigned upset. Sad, yes, but like he was used to people assuming the worst of him.

Of me assuming the worst of him.

And he would be correct.

The second that Harry Styles stepped into Niall's apartment I had already written him off. The rumors, the gossip blogs, the small amounts I saw of him in person all had me convinced that he was some heartless womanizer.

And I held that against him for months, and I obviously still am.

Because when I heard that snippet of argument between him and my brother I instantly jumped to conclusions, as if convincing myself that Harry was the kind of guy to play me all along –as if that was what I deserved.