Anywhere With You • {J.C.}

||Thirty-Four|Two Years||

The test was negative—Harlow Mavericks was not pregnant. If she didn't know any better, she'd say that Julian was disappointed by the outcome. She never forgot that look on his face—that disheartened look of defeat that weighed heavily on his eyes as he looked at the single strip on the plastic stick that determined his future—his future without Harlow.

She saw him once after that day—at a random party in the city. Although he wasn't tangled in the arms of another girl, it didn't make it hurt any less. Julian, however, had not seen Harlow. She was sure to leave the moment her eyes found him in that crowded room, fleeing the scene quicker than she'd arrived.

For one year, Harlow managed to dodge the boy that had seemingly wrecked her life. She was still living with Frankie and Scott—still working at Caverns. However, she was also working on a business degree, taking classes here and there around her work schedule. It was a mundane life, and sometimes she wished she'd taken that scholarship from Stanford. If she would've taken the opportunity, she'd be in California living a nice, new life.

Instead, she had hear all about the emerging band—The Strokes. Fab had suggested she come to one of their shows. She wanted to; Harlow wanted nothing more than to see Julian on stage, but, she couldn't. Because if it went bad, she'd have to tell him he could get better; if it was good, she'd have to tell him how great he did. Harlow couldn't do that; she had to let him go—it was for the best.

Nick had mentioned that Julian dropped out of Five Towns to focus only on the band. She ignored their sudden rise to fame, disregarding their name at all costs. In the beginning, they'd tried to be many other titles, but nothing seemed to fit as well as The Strokes... or, so Fab said.

She hadn't realized how much they'd actually accomplished in the small window of time she hadn't seen or spoken to Julian. One year had somehow turned into two, and Harlow slowly drifted apart from Nick and Fab. Which was for the best—they were linked to Julian.

Everything was as it should be, she was no longer connected to the handsome young man she nearly had a future with.

She believed that strongly... until she saw him again.

"Our next guests are one of the most talked about new bands to emerge in the past year and their acclaimed, ah, cd right here- this is the first one... is entitled, is this it; ladies and gentleman, please welcome, The Strokes."

Harlow's eyes trailed from the textbook at her crossed legs to the television—her mouth slightly agape. She dropped her pen in the book, scrambling to find the remote, lost in the bed.

A catchy riff sounded through the speakers, she couldn't find the remote fast enough. She quickly lost interest, knowing the tv was turned up enough as it was.

Stepping into view from the darkness in front of Fab's drum set, Julian emerged toward the front of the stage. Her face fell at the sight of him. He seemed to have lost his tan; his wardrobe a bit different. His hair remained the same, maybe more layers and somehow darker. But it was his eyes—those dark, innocent-like eyes she knew all too well that held her attention.

He said it—he sang it. "Leave me alone. I'm in control, I'm in control." He sang it with a smug, tilt of the head. He sounded much different than she remembered; the sound of his singing tone not matching his talking voice. It was rough, jagged and scratchy. The words sounding familiar, yet, like something else entirely. She became so lost in Julian's eyes through the television that she had not been listening to the words.

But when the chorus hit, she heard every word—what he sang had taken her back into a memory she had nearly forgotten. "He's gonna let you down. He's gonna break your back, for a chance." Frankie had said those words—her own mother had told her that standing in the kitchen of her childhood home. She was talking about Julian—about Harlow's hopes for a future with him that didn't exist. Hearing those exact words repeated was nothing short of a slap in the face. He seemed so angry, violently thrashing around the small stage that simply held no containment of his energy—Julian was angry.

Harlow shouldn't have been quick to jump the gun, to think that his actions and the way he sang that song was directed towards her. She was worthless, insignificant to Julian now—perhaps she always had been. But, she couldn't help but to think that maybe she was the cause of his hostility in the way he screamed into that microphone.

Then, the most pivotal part of the performance—Julian literally slapped his mic stand to the floor, spinning around in furious fashion, marching back toward the drum set—Albert taking it away with an incredible guitar solo—the guy that had seen her topless.

She'd never seen anything like it. Sure, she was an avid music listener, but as far as live music, it really wasn't her scene. It was usually too loud and always seemed to trigger mild anxiety that made her want to run away. Then there was the crowd—the drunk slew of people that hovered too closely. The mosh pits that she always managed to get entangled in against her will. She preferred the relaxing element of music—wallowing in her own inner emotions of what the song meant, not by the unnecessary loudness that forced her to feel only one way—claustrophobic.

She watched in disbelief as Julian casually knelt down to pick up the mic—this time, without a stand. He started again, singing (screaming) the chorus. Only this time, he seemed to be something other than furious; Julian looked hurt... let down.

Her brows meshed, watching as Julian grabbed the collar of his own shirt, exposing the top of his chest. She wanted to save him, but only from himself. "He's gonna win someday." He took a tumble, but never missed a beat, clambering to rise from the floor.

It hurt to watch—like a train wreck she couldn't look away from. It wasn't the wild thrashing or the unpredictable chaos Julian ensued, it was what he was saying. The words to that song had struck a chord; her worst dream seeming to come true—Julian hated her.

That song, it was about Harlow.

She wasn't stupid—she could read between the lines. It was a kick to the gut, a mockery of what they once were.

But, she couldn't deny it; Harlow had never been much for live music, but by god, she wanted to see them live. It had nothing to do with the fact that the only boy she'd ever been in love with was the face of the band, no. They were actually good—in their own world of liveliness that no one else could touch, but everyone wanted to be apart of—that was The Strokes.

Harlow closed her textbook, releasing a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Is this it.

That was the title of their debut album. She had to hear more—she had to know what else Julian had written about her; what everyone else knew about their "relationship" that she didn't. She didn't want to believe that that song was about her, but the shoe fit.