Little Things

Chapter 18

The forecast is nothing but sunny skies in this autumn early September weather. I am rather excited for today, since Monday's are one of my favorite days of the week. Which surprises most people, because it's the complete opposite for a lot of others. But for me, it's the one day where I can actually, potentially, get paid for doing what I love. And nothing makes me more happy than when people actually want to buy my art. Every single painting, sketch, or even scribbles on the back of grocery lists has meaning to me. That's just the way I spread my creativity.

"So where's this farmer's market located?" Niall asks, from where he now sits on the sofa, perpendicular to the couch where I sit, with Harry directly across from me on the other end, sipping away his coffee.

"Downtown," I answer as he nods.

"So do you just volunteer or some'tin?" The butterflies in my stomach flutter at the sweet sound of his accent.

Dammit Allyson. You're way too easy.

"No, well, I just sell some stuff."

"Like what?"

"Paintings."

"Your own?"

"Yes."

"You paint?"

"Didn't I just say that?"

Niall doesn't respond, and Harry's neck keeps snapping back and forth between Niall and I as we chat away. It's less uncomfortable than I expected, talking to Niall. Especially after all the commotion of last night.

"Could I see the paintings?" Niall asks, his eyes pleading. 

If he really wanted to be at least friends, he shouldn't have fucked up so much. 

It's hard enough for me to not want to step forward in this process, let alone him wanting to, too. It defeats my plan of ignoring him and moving on with my life. Anyways, he's a celebrity, which is something I seem to forget too often. Things like this don't happen.

Girls like me don't talk to guys like him.

That's just the way it is.

"Uhm, I don't know...they're not good or anything," I say shyly, avoiding eye contact. I am slightly insecure of showing people my paintings, just straight up. It's different being under a tent in a market full of other venders, than actually showing someone your work. Because then you see their straight away reaction. What if he thinks they're bad? What if he laughs? What if he thinks this is all a joke?

"I bet they're beautiful, just like the artist," he says, and I quickly glance up to see his face flaming. Harry snickers.

"I'm not so sure about that..." I trail off.

"Sure about what? The fact that you are stunning even early this hour, or that your paintings are too? Either way, you're wrong," he says simply, and I am thankful that Morgan starts walking down the stairs, so I can steer away from this conversation. I never do well with compliments. Because half of the time, it's like a charity act. Whether the person feels bad for me because of my brother, my parents, or whatever. It's always people just trying to be nice, not that they actually mean it.

And it's not like I've never seen a mirror before, so I know it's just an act of trying to be kind.

Harry turns his head, and watches Morgan make her way down, wrapped in a Patriots blanket with her fuzzy cheetah pajama pants on. Between the two of us, most of our pajama pants are fuzzy with some type of animal print covering them.

"Patriots, eh?" Harry says, gesturing to her blanket.

"Yup, you a fan British boy?" Morgan smirks.