Colours that I Can't Change

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

//Harry//

Past — July 17th, 2012

Madrid, Spain

The best thing about Spain, I’d decided the first day here, was the heat.

We never have weather quite like this back in England.  I could never feel the sun’s harsh rays beating down on me as I lay on an outdoor pool. And England doesn’t have genuine Spanish food (and booze) either.

Gemma was still sunbathing off to the side in the pool and my parents had moved under the parasol.  Although I was a teenager, I loved family vacation.  My parents trusted me enough to let me wonder alone in the foreign streets.  The only rules they had for me were: have my mobile with me at all times, have enough cash for food and cab fare, and to be back at the hotel by ten at night.  Pretty decent and reasonable deal, if you ask me.

At home, I was known as the flirty bloke, something that I didn’t mind too much.  When Josh used to be around, that had been his role in our group.  He would flirt with everyone around him, including us.

God, nearly three years and I still couldn’t go a day without thinking about him.

The day Josh disappeared off the face of Earth, I had drifted away from the rest of our group. (Our group started to disintegrate a week after Josh’s disappearance anyways.)  I never found friends whom I shared the same depth of friendship with but at the same time, I wasn’t all alone. Shay is a lovely girl who loves to gossip, yet she seems to have the sixth sense for knowing when I want to be left alone. 

Anyways, now that the afternoon sun was almost suffocating, I decided to move back inside.  Actually, I wanted to go into a bar outside of the hotel.  The hotel, admittedly, did not have the best selection of liquor.  So I pulled on a loose sleeveless top, a pair of Nikes and my Penguins snapback. 

Stepping out into the street, I did a quick scan of the street.  About fifty yards down, I spotted a sign that read pub.  Mentally, hooray-ing, I nearly jogged inside.

I checked my wrist watch and it was only four, which explained the lack of customers. A middle-aged bloke was cleaning the countertop and there was a bloke with super tall hair sat off to the side.

Taking a seat directing beside him, I waved my hand to get the bar tender’s attention.

“Ron y coca-cola, por favor,” I said.  The bartender frowned at my terrible pronunciation but he went about fixing my drink anyways.  The guy next to me, however, started laughing quietly.

When I turned to glare at him, I was met with green eyes and a longish face.

“Your Spanish is horrible, mate,” he said in a Manchester accent.

I try my best to look offended.  Judging by the amused glint in his eyes, I had failed.

“Are you always this rude to strangers? I huffed.

“Honesty is the best policy, young grasshopper,” he replied without batting an eyelash. “And to be fair, you can pretty much expect them to speak some English if the place is called Pub Caliente.  If they didn’t want no tourists in here, they would have made it all Spanish.”

The entire time he was walking, I was trying to decide for myself whether or not I should find a seat by myself.  Whilst I was no expert in body language (then again, who is?) I usually knew when people were flirting with me.  The way this older man was leant towards me and how his eyes never wavered from mine was a sure-fire way to be certain that he was into me.  Honestly, I was flattered.  This was the equivalent of a college student flirting with you, yeah?  Except, I had a man who was clearly about ten years older than me instead of someone who was in his late teens or early twenties.