Sold // Harry Styles

Chapter 22

The darkness engulfs Harry and I as we drive back to his cabin.  The only brightness belongs to the moon and the headlights that are guiding us home—if you could call Harry’s house that.

It’s not a very welcoming place.  I feel like my shoulders are always slouched forward, my toes are always curled with anticipation, and a general flip of my stomach occurs on a daily basis.  When I was at Styles’ home, I could feel my muscles relax.   His house was like a safe zone—a calming retreat.

They all seem so down to earth and sweet people which makes me wonder how Harry is involved with such a dangerous plan.

“Harry?” I ask.

“Hm?”

I draw little circles on my legs, trying to figure out how to word my question appropriately.  I don’t want him to be offended or upset by my curiosity.  “Why are you part of this?”

He stares straight ahead with no expression.  I know he heard me.  His ears perked up as I asked him the question and his hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.  But he ignores it.  I sigh and lean my head against the window.

I should have known he wouldn’t give me an answer.  He’s always so secretive about things.  He likes to keep everything hidden from the outsiders.  I’m not surprised if he lied to me just like he lied to his family at dinner.

“Part of what?” he finally asks.

I want to roll my eyes at him because he knows exactly what I’m talking about.  But, he responded to me—he’s acknowledging my question and therefore I have to be somewhat considerate.

“Why are you a part of the Eastside Academy Gang?” I clarify.

He shrugs his shoulders.  “I’ll tell you another time.  I don’t want to think about it right now.”

I bite my tongue and silently nod my head.  I look back out the window towards the moon.  It’s bright but only half of it is shown.  The other half is dark—nonexistent almost.

“Your hair looks great,” Harry says, breaking the silence.  He clears his throat.  “Have you ever had short hair before?”

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head.  “I like having it long.  It reminds me of my Mom.”

I look at my hands.  Harry doesn’t respond.  He’s probably unsure of how to react to my statement.

“When I was younger, she’d take me and my little sister to this meadow by our house.  Gosh, it was breathtaking,” I say as I remember the scenery.  “There were flowers everywhere—an array of beautiful pinks and reds and whites…”

My voice trails off as I picture my mom and sister sitting on a blanket.  She’d point out all the prettiest flowers and tell us the names of each and every one.

“She’d braid our hair and lace flowers within the cracks.  I’d always pick the yellow flowers—my sister always pink.”

My mother’s nimble fingers worked fast through my hair.  Sometimes, she’d even weave a flower crown and insisted that I was Princess Jacqueline of the Daffodils.  I’d always laugh at her before taking the crown off my head and place it on hers, insisting that she was Queen of Everything Beautiful.

“I didn’t know you have a sister,” Harry says interrupting my memories.

I nod my head.  “Her name is Emmy.”  I pause.  “She was my best friend growing up.”

 “Was?”

I chew on my lip.  “She, uh…passed away.”

My words linger in the air as I think over what I just expressed to Harry.  I haven’t talked to anyone about my sister in a long time.  Now that I think of it, I haven’t talked to anyone in a long time.