Show Me (A Harry Styles Fanfiction)

Chapter One - Another World

Words will be just words,

Till you bring them to life.

I'll lift you up, I'll never stop, you know I'll take you to another world.

- "Another World", One Direction

....

"Um, are you sure about this, Ali?" my mother asked me for the billionth time.

I stood at the airport, hefting my backpack over my shoulder. My mother stared at me, her baby blue eyes - a mirror of mine - wide with concern.

"I'm sure," I say, moving my chocolatey bangs out of my eyes. I forced a smile on my lips. "I'll be fine. Dad'll take awesome care of me. Congrats on your new job."

I gave her another bear hug, kissed her cheek, and boarded the plane. I waved to her until we were off, and my mother, and the home I'd always known, was gone.

That's exactly what happened. My mother Jessica got a new, big-paying nursing job...in England. I really...didn't want to go. I didn't want to leave Miami.

I offered to move in with my estranged father. He lives all the way in Chicago, the windy, foreign city. So, here I am.

I placed my headphones in my ears, cranking up Ed Sheeran's "+" album on my fully charged iPhone. I was prepared to listen to it on repeat, the entire flight.

I didn't have many bags with me - just three cheap suitcases, my backpack, and my acoustic guitar. That's all I needed, really. I turned my gaze to the window, watching me soar, soar away from what I'd always known.

A new beginning. A new life.

XXX

"Ali? Is that my Ali?"

My eyes flung open, and I turned to find the loudest voice in the airport. "Dad?" I called, yanking my earphones out of my iPhone.

I felt him before I saw him. My dad, Robert, wrapped his strong, hairy arms around me, pulling me tight against his chest. "I missed you!" he said at top volume in my ear.

"I missed you too," I said, giggling. I hug him for a few more minutes before he steps away, examining me. His eyes traveled from the white beanie on my head, to my black Red Hot Chili Peppers crop top, and to my fitted dark skinny jeans.

"You're...you're beautiful!" my dad choked, wrapping his arms around me once more. And I heard the whispered, broken, "You look just like your mother." The last time I saw my father was when I was twelve, all pimples, frizzy hair, and braces. He and my mother divorced when I was three.

Dad's happiness was infectious. He boisterously reached for my bags, chatting away about how much he missed me. He lead me to his rusty Ford red truck, the very same one he'd used when I was twelve.

A flood of memories rushed back when I saw my dad's truck - six year old me sitting in the backseat, with the makeshift leather belt as a seatbelt strung across me, juice box in hand, singing along to my favorite "The Lion King" CD, giggling as my father imitated Pumbaa's voice. I thought of nine year old me sloppily dripping vanilla ice cream on my dad's ratty seats. Tears sprung to my eyes.

He noticed my pause, and my loud, shaky swallow. "You all right?"

I shook my head, adjusting my beanie. "Fine, Dad. Just..."

"Pretty sentimental, huh?"

I nodded. "You have no idea."

He clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder, grinning at me. We sank into those same, holey carpeted seats.