Honest || h.s.

Lisson

Skylar.

He's nervous. I can tell that much.

"Wembley ready?" he asks, giving a wobbly smile as I climb into his idling car. It's lunch time, and I told my parents I was going to visit Mara, which isn't entirely untrue--we're stopping to see if she still wants to come, but mostly to bring her food from the diner. I assume Harry's mum is aware of our London plans, but I hope my own parents don't find out.

"Think a small pub, not quite Wembley," I snicker, clicking my seat belt into place. "Is your mum working today?"

He nods, scratching his neck. "I... ho-ope you d-don't mind, but... she wanted to see you again, so... she's excited for us to pick up lunch..."

I have to bite down on my lip to keep from smiling wider, my chest swelling.

He looks at me and furrows his brow. "What?"

I shake my head, my grin unavoidable. "I adore your mum."

He smiles bashfully, looking at where his hand holds the bottom of the steering wheel. "...Me too."

"She's okay with you going?"

He nods, putting the car into drive. "We h-had a chat this morning. She knows you were there last night, but she wasn't mad. She knows how upset I am over J-Jackson... and..."

"That's cool," I reply softly, unsure of what else to say. "Does she know you asked me to be your...?"

At this, his cheeks warm, and he chews his lip to keep from smiling. "She's been begging me to get it over with and ask you. She loves it."

I laugh. "Heck."

"That's a new phrase." He reaches for my hand, and I grasp his fingers.

"What, heck?"

"Mhmm."

"Yeah, I dunno where I picked it up."

"Was it memes?"

"...Maybe."

"Heck."

I laugh. "Heck."

"Put on some jammin' t-tunes, if you'd like," he nods towards the aux cord. I oblige, plugging my phone in to blast some Fleetwood Mac, Bastille, and Lorde. We roll the windows down. It almost feels normal.

I hope Mara agrees to come with us, and I hope the hospital calls soon to allow visitors for Jackson. I can see it eating at Harry. There's paint stains on his wrists. I don't think he slept last night. He's still nervous, but he's smiling, and he's holding my fingers. And we're going to London tonight.

Heck.

I lean back in my seat and turn up the music, inhaling the eucalyptus scent in his car.

The diner is relatively busy, with servers bustling about and the smell of burgers and chips wafting from the depths of the greasy kitchen. I've eaten here only twice before, once with Mum and Emmit, once with Mara and a gal named Stephanie who wanted me to sign a deal with a graphic design company. I was supposed to do some art they were wanting to throw on some mouse pads or something, but I brought along Mara (my human lie-detector) to see if it was a good idea. Stephanie was a scammer, turns out. Shame. Not that I really wanted my talents underneath a computer mouse or tucked into a desk anyway.

Harry's mum lights up when she sees her son enter through the swing door, and she rushes to the waiter apparently about to bring us menus before exchanging a few words with him and taking the laminated papers. She returns her eyes to us with a radiant smile, bustling over.