Know

27 - Heartbreaker

Louis' flat is buzzing with guests when I arrive. He lives in a different, busier neighborhood of London than I do, in a spacious studio home with minimal furniture and maximal clutter. People are stuffed inside, each with a drink in their hand, some merrily swaying back and forth to some hilariously off-key karaoke singing.

"Harry, my lad! So glad you could make it!" Louis says, lazily slinging his arm around me. His face is already flushed pink, matching the giddy grin across his lips. "Where's Jules? I was really hoping to meet her. She must be a really cool girl if she's okay with you being such good mates with your ex."

"Louis," I say, hoping he sees my seriousness past his glazy eyes, "Me and Samanthora are not mates, not even close. There's been a huge misunder---"

"Har-reh!" Samanthora shrieks, sounding already too drunk. No doubt, the combination of her skin-tight dress and numerous wine coolers has her wobbling toward me.

I met Samanthora at a mutual friend's hotel party. She knew exactly who I was before we even shook hands. Within the first ten seconds of meeting her, she gave me a summary of her entire modeling career, which was limited to a couple catalogues and local television adverts.

"But I'm working my way up," she had told me, as if I was some sort of modeling agent she was trying to pitch herself to.

I thought she was pretty so we went out for a little while. I wanted to keep my personal life the way it's meant to be---personal---but she kept demanding that we go public with our relationship. I even caught her waving at paparazzi when we were out together. That behavior wasn't very different from the girls I've gone out with, so I didn't think much of it.

And then I met Jules.

"Samanthora, we really need to talk," I say.

"Yeah, you bet we do! What is the meaning of this?!" she huffs, swatting a flimsy tabloid in front of my face.

Smack in the middle of the front page is Jules and I with an accompanying headline in yellow block letters: HARRY STYLES AND... SOME GIRL? I bitterly roll my eyes. She's so much more than some girl.

One cover photo shows us getting off the London Eye and another is of us on the ice rink. They're candid, of course, and very dark and grainy. She's holding my hand while her head is thrown back in laughter at something I said. She always seems to enjoy my jokes, no matter how dumb and cheesy they are. And even with Samanthora fuming at me, I can't help but smile at the evidence that no amount of graininess can hide Jules' effervescent glow or her radiant beauty.

"Yeah, that's me and my girlfriend when we were out last night," I reply without so much as blinking. "What else do you want me to say?"

"Girlfriend? I thought I was your girlfriend!" she whines.

I heave a sigh, unimpressed by her thick-headedness. "You haven't been my girlfriend for a while, Sammie---"

"Sah-man-thor-ah," she corrects, dragging out every syllable. "You know I hate nicknames."

"Listen to me," I say, lowering my head to level with her eyes. "We are not together, not dating, not hooking up, not a couple, nothing."

She gapes at me in disbelief, her eyes and jaw wide open like a dead fish. If dead fish wore massive amounts of makeup. "Are you breaking up with me? This close to Christmas? Does that mean you're not going to get me that necklace I wanted?!"

"I'm not breaking up with you because you are not my girlfriend and I. Am. Not. Your. Boyfriend. How many times must I tell you?" I slowly answer, trying to contain my frustration.