Written

Chapter 3

I oblige Catherine's request and make my way to the break room. I put on a pot of coffee and reach for a teakettle before realizing that I've never made tea before.
When I turn around, Harry is standing in the doorway. I hold the teakettle up and say the first thing that comes to mind. "I have no idea how to make tea." He laughs and reaches for the kettle, filling it with water and setting it on the stove.

I take a seat at the small circular table, and I am at once surprised and unsurprised when Harry takes the seat opposite me. "You're good at your job," he says.

"Thank you. So are you."

He smiles. "How did you get into this?" He asks. I wonder if he's just being polite, or if he's genuinely curious. Either way, I tell him the gist of it. He listens, once again never breaking eye-contact.
When the whistling of the teakettle interrupts the end of my story, he holds a hand up to stop me when I move to stand up. I stay in my seat as he walks over, removes the kettle, and busies himself with the tea. When he is finished, he sits back down across from me and lets me finish. He is quiet for a moment, and I think he is bored.

"Is this what you want to do for the rest of your life?" He asks.

No one has ever asked me that before. I haven't thought about it much, so I answer honestly, surprising both him and myself in the process. "No."

"No?" He asks.

"I love this job, but...I don't know. It just seems like there are better things out there. More important things, you know?" He nods, watching me intently.

"How old are you?" he asks.

"I'll be twenty next month," I answer. I've never felt like that was too young before, but under his scrutinizing gaze, I feel like a child.

"Really?" He seems surprised. "That's impressive."

"It's really not," I answer. "I'm not the youngest person in this business."

"I wasn't talking about the business," he says. "But that is impressive. I meant that it's impressive that you have this career already, but you still want to do more."

"Oh," I say. I think he's complimenting me.

"What is 'more,' exactly?" he asks.

"I don't know, exactly," I say. "I've lived here my whole life, so maybe something elsewhere. A different city, maybe. Or a different state."

"A different country?" he supplements.

I laugh. "Maybe." I had never thought about it before, but I am thinking about it now. It might be nice to get away from here. But I reconsider. "Probably not another country," I say, more to myself than to him. "My brother, Ryan..." I trail off, not wanting to reveal too much of my life to this beautiful, famous stranger. He won't care.

Harry looks at me curiously. "Your brother Ryan...?"

"Nothing," I say. "Never mind." I can tell that he is curious, but only in the way that people become curious once you dangle information in their face but jerk it away at the last second.
Despite his supposed interest and his caring eyes, I have to remind myself that he probably doesn't care. Everything is inconsequential to him, my life (or anyone else's for that matter) will never amount to his.

Disappointment flashes in his eyes. He folds his arms across his chest and leans back in his chair, looking away from me for the first time since he sat down. "Right," he says. He sounds...pissed off?

"I'm...sorry?" I mumble. The air in the room changed from warm to chilly in the last five seconds of conversation. I look down.

"No," he says, leaning forward again. "No, don't apologize. I just get frustrated sometimes." I smile a little and relax slightly. The way I see it, I have two options here: politely end the conversation and spare us both the awkwardness that's settling into the room, or invite him to explain. As always, my curiosity gets the best of me.

"Why?" I ask. He looks at me for a long time before answering.

"People don't really carry on conversations with me anymore," he says. "It's kind of upsetting. Every time I meet new people, it's like they feel like they can't talk to me." He pauses to look at me. I don't say anything, he is not finished. "People automatically assume that I don't take interest in what they have to say. And that assumption is false. Especially in your case." He inclines his head towards me. I'm not sure if it is pity for this boy who craves conversation, or flattery over his subtle compliment, but I lean farther across the table and tell him what I usually tell no one.

"My brother Ryan is sick," I tell him. "So I couldn't leave the country. I can't leave him." Harry's eyes flash up to mine, and I see an emotion that I can't identify.

"He's sick?" He asks.

"Yeah. Brain tumors."

"I'm sorry," he says. I refrain from rolling my eyes. 'Sorry' is so cliché, and for someone who craves conversation, Harry is not very good at it.

"It's okay," I say, visibly withdrawing.

"It's not," Harry says. I look up at him, into his eyes. He has that rare talent of speaking with his eyes; maybe he learned it from lack of actual conversation. I nod my head. He is letting me know that he gets it. That it is not okay, but that's the only thing there is to say.

"Let's talk about something else," I suggest. "Conversation topic?"

"Um," he starts. "Okay, why don't you like cheesecake?"

I laugh, and the air is warm again. "I don't know, it's just gross. It's got a weird texture and it's, like, salty. I just think cheese and cake don't need to be put together. Why don't you like it?"

"I've actually never had it before," he answers me.

"What?" I say in disbelief.

"I kind of thought the same thing, that cheese and cake don't really go together," he laughs. "So I've never tried it."

"You have to try it," I insist.

"You just said it was gross!" He laughs.

"It is, but you still have to try it! It's just one of those things that everyone has to experience, like rollercoasters and horseback riding," I tell him.

"Cheesecake and horseback riding?" he says. "Sounds like a romantic date." His eyebrows wiggle.

"Sounds like a gross and uncomfortable date," I correct him. Before he can respond, Catherine walks in the room with a look of irritation on her face. She seems surprised to see us sitting here, and she is momentarily at a loss for words.

"Tea?" she asks. I jump up and grab the teakettle. Catherine leads the way back down the hall to the holding room. Harry and I follow her in comfortable silence, and I feel as if I've made a friend.