Why You Gotta Be So Rude?

Wedding Colors

A Month Later

"Harry, stop moping."

"Don't tell me what to do."

"Yes, I can! I'm the bride and when I say I want my brother's help on picking out my wedding colors, then I get my brother's help picking out my wedding colors! Understand?!" Gemma snapped, making me roll my eyes behind dark sunglasses. It was always, 'I'm the bride this,' or, 'I'm the bride that.' Honestly, I couldn't have given a shit even if I had tried. "And take off those disgusting sunglasses. We are inside for goodness sakes! You look like hooligan. Honestly, Harry. Why are you so rude?" She crossed her arms, huffing as she leaned back against the white sofa that she sat in.

I looked around, not taking off my sunglasses. I had to big of a hungover to even think about it. Especially in this room that was made of white everything. And I literally meant white everything! White sofas, white chairs, white walls, white desks. Hell, there was even a painting of a snow filled scene, all painted in different shades of white.

"Gemma Styles?" A receptionist called out, looking of from her white clipboard. And guess what she was wearing? Yep! A white blouse with a black pencil skirt and white flats.

Gemma squealed, clapping her hands together, practically bouncing in her seat. I smirk, thinking that it kind of reminded me of a retarded seal. "Ooh! Me! That's me!" She bounced out of her seat, practically running in her high heels, towards the poor receptionist. Was it cruel of me to wish she'd fall, so she'd be less peppy?

As I got up, I finally took my sunglasses, knowing it'd be considered rude in this fine establishment.

"Right this way, ma'am." The receptionist said failing at sounding posh. She turned towards me, and wrinkled her overly large nose at me. "Excuse me. But we don't allow your kind in here."

I scoffed, "My kind? And what exactly is my kind?"

"The hooligan kind. I'm going to have to ask you to leave." She said in her nasally, fake posh voice.

I held my hand up to my chest, dramatically, "Well! I never! How will I ever go on living knowing that I, Harry Styles, am not allowed in this fine, fine establishment?" I moved my hand from my chest to my forehead, "I guess I must suffer. Knowing that I, Harry Styles, am a hooligan."

Her eyes widened, as she stuttered, "Harr- Harry Styl-Styles?"

I move passed her to where Gemma is standing, arms crossed, looking amused. "Gurrlll, you done messed uuupp." I laugh at her. Gemma and I walk into the back room where the actual wedding planning is organizing her notes.

"You're receptionist is a bitch." I say bluntly. She raises an eyebrow. "She called me a hooligan and told me to leave. Now I may not be a business owner, but that doesn't seem like it'll keep you in business."

"I'll talk to her about it." She says still eyeing me. I roll my eyes, knowing she won't. She probably would have said the same. She claps her hands, "Alright! So what were you thinking for colors?" Gemma's face lights up.

"Well I was thinking of something along the lines of pink!"

"Is your fiancé okay with pink?" I ask, knowing he's probably not.

Gemma's mouth forms an 'O' shape. "You're totally right! Nevermind the pink! Harry, what color do you suggest?"

"Black." The wedding planner, Diane as told by the plaque on her desk says, wrinkles her nose.

"Black? No. Too dreary. Let's do something else! How about purple?"

Gemma shakes her head, "I like black." Diane's face takes on a sour look, making it look like she just ate a lemon.