Missed Connections

Chapter 39 - Best Mates

Louis

What the fuck just happened?

I am so mad right now, I could kick a pap. If there was one around. And I wasn't hiding like a little bitch in Toronto. But where in the bloody hell does she come off accusing me of having issues? She hasn't lived my life and doesn't have the faintest clue about what I have been through. I need to protect myself. Not only for my sanity, but also because my life isn't just my own anymore. It's shared with Freddie. Anything I do affects him, and I want to be the best dad I can possibly be.

He didn't ask to be born with a famous father. He didn't ask to live his life in a fish bowl. I try to protect him as much as I can from all that crap, but it isn't always possible. And Briana doesn't help the situation much when she spews out garbage all over social media. I know I'm not perfect;  I am guilty of my fair share of snarky tweets, but that girl needs to learn when to shut the hell up! Don't engage the crazies.

FUCK!

I run my hands through my hair, messing it up completely by pulling on the ends. I smile, recalling the conversation with Evynn earlier today. Suddenly a lump forms in my throat. Imaginary strings feel like they have pulled my heart down and out through my ass. Evynn.

What the hell did I just do?

A flash of movement becomes visible just outside the threshold of the room. From the clomping noise, sounds like a pair of boots is trying to wear holes in the flooring.

"Stop hanging about in the hall, Harry, you fucking loser! I can see you pacing. What did you do, make a fucking cuppa? Like that's going to make it all better?"

Harry appears in the doorway, and as prescribed, he is carrying two brews. He stumbles slightly as he crosses the room, the heel of his Chelseas catching on the edge of the rug. A stream of hot tea pours out of the mug on to his hand, leaving a cursing Harry in its wake. He's also managed to leave a stain on his white t-shirt and a wet spot on his dark jeans. I roll my eyes and shake my head. Harry and his bloody fucking boots.

Harry plops down on the couch next to me after steadily placing the mugs on the coffee table in front of us. He fiddles with his t-shirt, as if inspecting the newly formed stain will wipe out its existence. I roll my eyes once more. Finally, satisfied he can't do anything with it, Harry shrugs his shoulders. He then flips his long hair backwards sending strands flying in my direction. Harry and his bloody fucking hair.

"So, Lou," Harry starts with his deliberately slow drawl, "is there a reason that you just sent a beautiful girl storming out of this house?"

"I didn't send her!" I retort. "She left of her own volition."

Harry looks at me, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed in concentration. "And you absolutely believe that you had nothing to do with it?"

"I didn't tell her to go!"

"But you didn't tell her to stay either.  Or go after her."

"Why would I have done either of those things?" I fire back. "She was acting like a dozy cow! Accusing me of not trusting her, of wanting our relationship to end."

Harry clear green eyes bore into me. He sits back on the couch, watching me intently as he pulls on his bottom lip between his fingers. He pauses this idiosyncratic movement only to lean forward and take a sip of tea. As he tips the cup up to his mouth, he ever so slightly pushes out his tongue, which he promptly scalds on the still obviously hot liquid. Harry jerks backwards in response, sending more tea cascading down the front of his shirt and on the the edge of my joggers. Harry and his bloody fucking habits.