An Ocean Apart

Am I still Harry, or am I Harry Styles?

“Wait, so explain to me again why you’re doing this?”

“I told you,” I sighed, exacerbated, dabbing a bit of red lip gloss across my lips, “I’m not letting this slide.”

Since returning last night, I’d explained, in impeccable detail, last night’s situation. Not that I could have found any way to avoid it, Pia practically bombarded me as soon I was through the front door. She’d agreed his actions were rather unsettling and slightly fishy but passed it off as it were nothing to be concerned over. She was, in fact, more worried about my overreaction than anything Harry might have done. My mouth hung agape for a few seconds before I could manage to verbalize my disagreement.

Obviously, my different point of view was blamed on my knack for over processing any information given to me, but this was one situation I would not allow any of sort of flexibility. My aunt was not present for any part of the evening therefore was not fully qualified to mentor what I should or should not do. Deep down in my gut, I knew brushing this off would come back to bit me. Not asking questions would be foolish and a fool I am not.

Pia stood, leaning against the bathroom door frame, arms crossed over his busty chest, “Cut the guy some slack. He was probably nervous.”

Pivoting on the heel of black flat, I trucked past her toward my purse and coat, “How many times do I have to explain this wasn’t nerves?” The concept of being wrong must completely escape this woman.

“You’re completely overreacting, you know that right?” I could hear the edge of laughter embedded within her voice.

I slipped my arms through my blue jacket, resisting the urge to turn and face her, “How could I not, you’ve told me about ten times just this morning.”

Rummaging through my purse for my phone I was too busy to notice Pia moving to stand just in my line to the door, “Then why don’t you listen to me.” She was obviously becoming irritated with my resistance.

I pulled the strap of my purse over my shoulder and finally stood to look her directly in the eye, “Because my head is literally screaming at me.” She opened her mouth in protest but my words were quicker, “I let it go last night because I knew it would ruin our evening but I can’t do it anymore. I feel like I’d be ruining everything if I didn’t ask.”

“I told you not to listen to your head,” her hand went immediately to her hip in defiance.

Slipping past her, I paused with my hand on the door handle to twist around and address my aunt again, “Sometimes your brain knows a little more than your heart.”

Pia’s solitary response was an amused chuckle and a dismal wave. I knew I’d have to make amends for this later but right now Harry was my issue. His actions had kept me up half the night. My conscious had never led me completely astray and I couldn’t see ignoring its shouts being of any benefit. Not matter if I’d been advised to let my heart do a portion of the guiding, I wasn’t going to risk it.

I stood in the elevator for a solid thirty seconds before I could remember what floor Harry lived on. I still wasn’t absolutely positive when I tentatively lit up the number four on the panel. My lip continuously gnawed on my lower lip as the elevator rose. I was sure it’d become the color of my brightest shade of red lipstick by the time I’d reached his floor.

My nerves weren’t settled by my ignorance of his room number. All I could recall focusing on when he’d escorted me to his room were his mannerisms and the structure of his face, let own the exact room number. I eyed every room I passed attempting to trigger my memory. But it failed me, I ended up standing inside the hallway looking like an idiot with a confused expression permanently sketched upon her face.