Merry Happy

Chapter Twenty Seven

He had asked her to dinner on the 6th day of June.

She hadn't thought too much into what she would wear, telling herself she wouldn't be one of those girls who spent hours in front of a mirror before a first date, even if it was with Harry Styles.

She had worn a summer dress, with a pink and white flower print, while he had worn a white t-shirt under a blazer. He had looked down at the pattern on her dress when he had first seen her, at loss for words in his awkward-teenage-boy clumsiness and eventually was able to mumble something about whether or not they were peonies.

She had smiled, tucked a piece of auburn hair behind her ear and gave him the benefit of the doubt.

They were peonies.

And he had smiled, the wave of relief rushing over him as he escorted her to the table, where their glasses were already filled with ice water. It was a fancy place, a place where the waiters wore white dress shirts and black pants, where she knew she wouldn't be able to order chicken fingers and french fries.

He was nervous. Maybe even beyond nervous, with the way he tapped his fork against his plate, or the way his knee bounced under the table. His face had gone a deep shade of red when he had tripped over his own feet when walking to the bathroom, or when he had asked her which pasta she wanted.

He was cute. She knew he was cute, just as every other girl in the world knew that Harry Styles was beautiful, but somehow, in the awkward way he sat across from her as if this was a first date and she was a girl and he was a boy, she knew that beauty was something other girls never got the chance to experience.

She took that chance to know that beauty, and she fucking ran with it.

And maybe it was in the way he smiled up at her from under his floppy hair when she laughed at his stupid jokes, or he asked if they had bottles of beer instead of whatever was on tap, and how hard he tried to ignore the flashing cameras outside the glass windows as they ate their meal, almost looking bashful and apologetic about it–that she knew Harry Styles wasn't just a boy plastered all over the magazines or MTV.

And she wanted, more than anything, to know him like that.

She wanted to know him, the boy who would later on show her what real heartbreak felt like when she found him sitting outside her front door at 3 in the morning while staring at her with his heart sewn clumsily onto his sleeve.

And he had done everything he could up until this moment, to let her get to know him like that.

-

When she was fully aware that her heart was still alive and working properly in her chest and she reminded herself that she couldn't stand and cry in the hallway forever, she wiped her tears and reached out to him.

"Harry–" The sound was brittle, pleading. His head drooped to the side, and it was the first time she was scared about how much he had truly drunk. "Harry, you can't sit here like this. Please."

She tried wrapping her arms around his limp hands, pulling on him in hopes he'd help her out, but his eyes closed and a lazy smile appeared on his face.

"Quinn–" He whined as she tried pulling at him again.

They were now simply tears of frustration that she blinked back. "Harry, let's get you inside. My neighbours are trying to sleep."

As if by some miracle, she watched as he tried to pull his legs from under him and make an effort to stand. He stumbled and lost his balance, but she caught him around the waist as he giggled when her arms wrapped around his waist.