WHEN (A NIALL HORAN A.U)

chapter one ➤ butterflies & grass hoppers

➤ ROWEN'S POINT OF VIEW

I hate butterflies.

Not like actual butterflies, but the ones you might get in your tummy when something nerve-wracking or exciting is about to happen. I feel like giving such an awkward-terrible feeling the name of something beautiful is a crime.
I've always been curious about that.
Why don't we say "I'm so nervous, think I have grass hoppers in my stomach"? It would make much more sense. Grass hoppers hop, much like your stomach does when you're nervous. I don't think my stomach has creatures flying or pollinating flowers when I'm nervous.
Right now was a major grass hopper moment.
In less than twenty minutes I'm supposed to be skyping in for an interview with an executive of one of the biggest names in the music producing industry, for a job as a secretary which, I'm hopeful, will eventually lead to a job as a sound tech in one of the recording studios in LJP Records New York City branch.
I'm incredibly nervous.
It's only 8:15 a.m, and I'm dreading the timed hour-long interview at 8:30. Lucky for me, I managed to drag Quinn, my best friend and roommate, out of bed around 6:00 to dress me, because I'm way too anxious to try and put something presentable together.

"Would you hold still I can't do your makeup when you're moving so much!" Quinn snapped, probably feeling a mixture of exhausted and exasperated, Quinn was not a morning person.

"Sorry, sorry." I said apologetically.

"Hush and hold still, I have eight minutes to finish your eyeliner, fix your lipstick, and powder you before your interview!"

I stayed quiet. I've learned in the five years of our friendship that sometimes it's better not to respond. I truly was blessed to have Quinn, I don't give her nearly enough credit.
Quinn can be a brat, but she's definitely the sun to my moon. And as much as I hate doing makeup or putting effort into my looks, I am dreading the moment she tells me she's done. With any luck she won't be done any time soon.
Unfortunately for me, Quinn was always punctual. She had a knack for planning everything accordingly. How rude.

"Alright, you're done." She said, powdering my face lightly.

I let out a sigh.

"Are you nervous?" Quinn asked, obviously slightly nosey.

"Nervous? Of course I'm nervous! I'm interviewing for one of the biggest jobs for one of the most respected companies in the country! Nervous doesn't even crack the top ten of words that describe how I'm feeling." I stated, matter-of-factly.

Quinn rolled her eyes at my words. See what I mean? She's a brat!

"Well Ms. Nervous Doesn't Crack The Top Ten, you better let go of that feeling because your computer is ringing."

It took a second for her words to sink in before I was scrambling over to the bay window to answer my ringing laptop. I'm not even a second into the interview and I've already screwed up.

In a second, the blue screen unfolded to reveal the face of my potential employer. He was stunning, to say the least. His eyes were a bright and mysterious blue, his hair obviously bleached blonde towards the ends, and a million dollar smile.

"Ms. Lancaster?" His Irish accent surprised me, snapping me from my daze.

"Good morning." I said, albeit awkwardly, my cheeks no doubt a rosy red color too hard to hide behind my makeup.

The eye-pleasing man cleared his throat, shuffling some papers at his desk. He reads over some of the papers, presumably my resume.

"Ms. Lancaster, it says here-"

I know it's rude, but I cut him off, "Rowen. Please, call me Rowen."

The man gave me a look, before continuing: "Alright, Rowen, it says here on your resume you graduated from the University of Michigan, with Summa Cum Laude honors, with a degree in Music and Music Technologies, is that correct?"