Harold

one

I sit, sipping my green tea as I hold my headphones close to my ears, both hands pressed firmly. There is a new artist, Claire Bethany, begging to be signed but I just can't see her going anywhere. I try my best, hoping I can change a lyric or add in a few beats but nothing comes to mind. I feel terrible; I hate turning new artists away. Most producers easily say no but it isn't in my nature-never has been. I can only imagine the pain they must feel being rejected.

I remove my headphones and check back to my email. I click on Bethany's name and begin typing the unfortunate email that our studio will not be able to sign her to CRUSH records. I stare at the screen, hovering my index finger over the mouse, trying my hardest to find another way. Maybe I could point her in a new direction?

I shake my head and do what Calvin always asks of me-put your feelings to the side and do your job. I press the key and her fate is sealed from our label.

The last few sips of my green tea is heavenly and I strongly consider buying another but contain my caffeine addiction for a more necessary time. Instead, I take out my journal and begin writing. Ever since I was seven and began going to therapy for the death of my family, I've kept a journal. I write and write and sometimes I get so lost I forget time exists. But sometimes my pen runs out of ink. And then I'm pissed. Like right now.

Twenty minutes later my head is squeezed between my palms and I have sunk into the booth, my eyes glaring at the dead pen.

I'm lost in thought when I hear a familiar voice smoothly mumbling my name.

"Atlee?" I sit up, turning my head slowly because it can't be him. But then it is. It's him. I carefully move my attention to the left where a distant face stands in front of me. I can tell he's wondering if I'm actually Atlee French or my dopple-ganger.

An idiotic grin reaches my eyes that I haven't felt in years.

"Harry?" I wonder if it's actually him; hair pulled back into a bun, tattoos peeking from his sleeves, and green eyes brighter than ever. Last time I saw him he wasn't so happy. Let's be real, he was a mess. A mess that ran away from all of his problems, except me. He should have run from me.

A smile crosses his face. The smile that I hadn't seen in years.

I can't understand how this man standing in front of me is the same curly haired, chubby child I grew up with. His awkward stages have been taken over by a muscular frame and stubble under his lip and chin. His dark, black bags under his eyes are no longer there. His skin is no longer pale and I see life in his stance. I feel speechless for the first time in front of Harry.

"Hey," he sits across from me, twisting a loose leaf notebook in his ring-clad fingers, "it's been a while."

I want to get up and hug him. I want to jump into my old best friends' arms but I stay seated because I know that would be wrong. That wouldn't be fair.

I nod, still smiling. I know he's waiting for me to speak, because he knows how much I love to talk, to tell stories.

"A while? God it's been what, three years? Four? How are you Harry? Wow, this isn't what I was expecting when I woke up," I laugh hesitantly as Harry shakes his head, chuckling. Another sign that he's in the process of healing. Or maybe he's already healed?

We were the cliche story. The boy next door falls in love with girl. Boy and girl become best friends. Boy falls in love with girl. Girl doesn't love him back. That's the gist.

When we were young, he was my rock. After my family died, me being the only survivor in the house fire, Harry's mom took me under her wing. I grew up in the Styles' household. It wasn't a normal relationship. Most best friends don't just move in with each other. But normal wasn't a part of our vocabulary.