About (Harry Styles)

9.

Success.

It's hard to be successful.

It doesn't come easy but in some cases, there are exceptions.

When Marco called me last night in the middle of dinner, it was hard trying not to put my hopes up.

I mean, it wasn't that hard because you know, it's the country club. That place only harbors the rich and the privileged.

But the moment he told me that I had an interview today, I felt accomplished .. almost.

The feeling of working and earning your own money, spending your own money, it's almost like a boost of confidence. I haven't felt that sense in a long time.

Not since then.

Not since ... Twelve years ago.

...

"Do you have any further questions?" The small, friendly lady in uniform asks. She smiles widely, too widely, from across the desk and I shake my head, offering my widest, yet humblest smile. She obviously comes from money from the abnormally straightness of her teeth.

"Um, no, I think you pretty much answered everything for me," I say, sliding the paperwork towards her once I finish signing my name. She stands from her chair, indicating I do the same.

"Nice to have you on board with us, Elaine."

She reaches an arm over the desk and I take her hand in mine, her shake unexpectedly firm, my fingers almost crushing from her tightened grip.

"Thank you so much for having me."

Exiting the room, my legs and arms do a little bit of their own mini celebration in the hallway as Nicki Minaj and I hit the chorus.

"Boy, you got my heartbeat runnin away, beating like a drum and it's coming your way, can't you hear that --"

"What are you doing?"

I immediately freeze, my arms falling to their sides at once. Turning as slowly as I can manage to the source of Marco's voice, I wear the biggest grin on my face. He's seen me dance so many times that I'm completely nulled to embarrassment with him.

He tells me I'm a horrible dancer but I don't disagree.

I am a horrible dancer.

"You got the job?" Marco asks, raising a brow.

"I got it!" I squeal as I jump up and down, my hands grabbing his. "Thank you so much for this."

"No need to thank me, El, we're friends."

What did I do in my past life to deserve to have a friend like Marco?

Did I save a country from desolation?

Was I some heroic Joan of Arc?

Whatever I did, I'm glad I did it.

"When do you start?" Marco asks, disrupting my thoughts of history.

"Tomorrow. Twelve to three. Basically training and stuff."

"It's really easy. Nothing you can't deal with."

"What is that supposed to mean?" I playfully ask while crossing my arms.

Before he answers, I shush him with a finger against his lips as my ears pick up someone's voice.

Not just any voice.

No, no. A foreign voice, not from around here.

A British voice.