indie » styles

fifth

day the eighteenth

It was a strange feeling; the feeling Wren got when she saw Harry with the pretty girl drinking coffee and laughing. It was jealousy, she knew that. But why? Harry wasn't hers. She barely knew him. No one could possibly be jealous of someone they've only talked to a few times. They did have small chats whenever they happened to be leaving or entering their homes at the same time. But that was normal, that's what neighbors do. Maybe Harry knew she was set to go to SCAD at the end of August and Wren knew that Harry enjoyed listening to Cigarettes After Sex (a band she fell asleep to that night just to hear what Harry loved).

However, that wasn't enough to be jealous. Jealousy was something felt for a boyfriend going to get drinks with his pretty friend who's in town or someone you dislike receiving the job you wanted. Jealousy was not for watching a neighbor you hardly have a relationship with talking to a girl. A girl who's his age and absolutely gorgeous.

Nonetheless, Wren didn't like the pretty girl with the pretty blue eyes, the pretty blonde hair, the pretty ski sloped nose, the pretty clothes, the pretty jewellery.

But she especially didn't like the fact that Harry was talking to the pretty girl.

Unfortunately, the bookshop she was headed towards happened to be right next to the coffee shop where the two sat. She would love head back home but her friend was expecting her at this time and Wren couldn't cancel. She hated to disappoint people.

As Wren approached their table, she felt a nervous tug. Would Harry acknowledge her? Would he not want his table partner to know he associated with a girl barely out of high school? As she got closer she couldn't help but notice how beautiful they looked. How the sun hit them perfectly, two beautiful people who looked straight out of a Nicholas Sparks novel.

Wren looked towards Harry as she made her way to the door. He didn't say a word but gave a grin and a wave. She mimicked his action, quickly hurrying inside the bookshop. The action was more than she anticipated, but she couldn't fight the disappointment that he wouldn't exchange even the smallest of words with her.

Pushing down the hurt, she made her way to the back of the bookshop where her friend sat waiting. Instead of letting her friend know something was wrong, Wren faked a smile and approached her.

**

When she and her friend parted ways, Wren watched Harry and the girl get up to leave. She couldn't believe how long the two had been there. But actually, she could. You often spend a lot of time with someone you enjoy the company of.

She watched with pain as the pretty girl jotted something down on a napkin and handed it to Harry. He gave her a pretty smile, she returned it with a pretty smile of her own. Not wanting to watch any longer, Wren turned around to leave. Unfortunately, the shoelace of her scuffed converse was untied and resulted in her tumbling into the nearby rose garden. The fall didn't produce the least bit of pain but the thorn that found itself in her cheek caused her teeth to clench.

Although her face stung and she could feel the warm blood running down her cheek, Wren hoped more than anything Harry hadn't seen.

"Wren, are you alright?" No such luck.

His figure loomed over her, eyes full of concern.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry you had to see that." She cleared her throat and started to get up.

"Why are you apologizing to me? I'm not the one who fell." Before Wren could respond, Harry reached out and softly stroked her cheek just above the cut. Her breath hitched at his close proximity. "You're bleeding."

"I'll be fine, it's just my cheek." Wren insisted, feeling her face burn both from Harry's touch and the wound.

It's just my cheek. My cheek on my not pretty face. Wren thought.

"Don't say that. Anything can become infected. Here." Harry shifted through the backpack that was slung across his shoulder. Wren watched him reach in and pull out a small first aid kit. Wren said nothing as he removed a cloth, Neosporin, and a bandaid.

"May I?" He asked softly, Wren only giving a small nod in return. Harry first gently dabbed the cloth against her cheek. Next, he squeezed the ointment onto his finger and with a ghost-like touch, he softly rubbed the Neosporin on her wound. Wren had to look away from the green eyes which were focused so heavily on making her better. No one had taken care of her like this. The tenderness was a feeling that caused a release of dopamine to flood from her brain. Harry cared.

Finally, he unpeeled the bandaid. Wren looked down at his fingers.

The bandaid was Pokemon.

Harry gently placed it on her cheek. The light feeling of his touch sent a wave of tingles through her face and down her spine.

"All better." Harry smiled, crumbling up the wrapper and stuffing it into his jean pocket.

"Why the bandaid?" Wren found herself asking, not wanting Harry to leave just yet.

"What do you mean?" He asked with genuine curiosity in his eyes.

"I mean, why do you just carry around bandaids?" The question was dumb, she knew that. All first aid kits contained a bandaid. Harry probably thought Wren was a complete idiot.

"Because," Harry said. "Bandaids are just so indie."

**

if you don't think band aids are indie, then ew.

because they're a heck of a lot more indie then hydrogen peroxide.