Sonata (Harry Styles FanFiction)

29. The Jury's Still Out

Darien Grace

The rest of the day passed by in a bit of a blur. Our high wore off a couple hours later, leaving me frustrated and achy. As soon as my brain cleared up, I remembered how goddamn pissed I was at that British fucker. Maybe this was his revenge for my jumping him in the practice room. Why he needed to even have it, I had no idea, but he was foreign. He might as well have been a different species. Okay, so maybe the whole foreign part was a completely separate thing than his affinity for pissing me off, but right now Stella was hurting, so I was hurting. I wasn't exactly in the mood for rational thinking and decision making.

After brunch, we went back to the McKenney's. I didn't even bother waiting outside for the formal goodbyes- I was pissed at him. I just stalked inside and began the trek up to my room, where I unceremoniously dumped the contents of all of my drawers onto my bed hunting for my new favorite boy- Charlie. The lime green INA Wave was tucked away in my bedside table. It had been shoved behind books, my glasses case, the remotes for my flat screen, sound system, and ceiling fan, along with lots and lots of sheet music. No wonder I hadn't been able to find it.

Pulling on my beats, I switched my iPod to Yurima's Reminiscent and hit repeat. I don't know what it was about this music, but it sent a chill through me. Ever since I'd walked in on him struggling to play this piece the night before, it had been swirling through my mind, eliciting delectable images and memories.

I locked my jaw shut, the world unraveling around me as I spiraled away from earth half way through the third listening. As I floated back down to my body, Stella was finally contrite. She'd gotten her fix, but she was sulking. Charlie was no where near as skilled as the real thing; he would work in a pinch, but the dark days of constant recharging were over.

I guess I did have an addictive personality and sex was my drug. If that was the case, then, sex with the Darling Professor was a prime batch of heroin and I was more than happy to overdose.

I didn't understand how someone could be so tight assed all the damn time, though. Like, I get it; you're guest lecturing for a semester, but holy fuck! You're still a college student! This was supposed to be the time in our lives when we were allowed to fuck up and no one could say anything. This was the time for one night stands and binge drinking only to black out and do it all again the next night. This was the time to live.

Groaning in frustration, I lay staring at the pale cream ceiling. My blood was still boiling from his thoughtless accusations earlier. How was it that even the biting sting from his words made me want him that much more? How was it that even through the anger and the hurt I would still go back and make the same decisions? Maybe I did have a destructive personality to boot. I was willing to put myself through hell just to feel something. I knew how fucked up that seemed, but I didn't care. I knew that I would hang on to this chance to feel something; it didn't matter if that something was nothing but hurt, anger, and loss.

Even after these revelations, I didn't talk to him for the next week, I didn't acknowledge his presence. I walked into class and took my seat. I cranked up the volume in my beats, closed my eyes and willed the next forty-five minutes to pass quickly and painlessly. Everyday I left the room without a backward glance and everyday I felt those burning hazel eyes bore into me as I walked through the door. I refused to allow myself to indulge in those delicious wet dreams and wicked thoughts that I usually entertained to pass the time in that class. Even if I'd wanted to, I was still too damn pissed at him for his 'holier than thou' view of the world to even bother trying.

I threw myself into my music and took on more shifts at Daniel's to distract myself from thoughts of his hands on me. I was used to working three nights a week at the elegant French bistro in heart of the Upper East Side, but now I was in there five days a week— my fingers aching as I played well into the night.