blue (book one) - h.s. ✔️ watty's 2019

chapter 38

"I can't get this stupid tie to tie," Harry says, throwing his hands up in frustration.

"Here, let me help."

We are half an hour away from the Gala and I literally can't get over how annoying my dad is for mandating this.

It's like you never know what to expect with that man.

"Well, first you have to button up your shirt, silly."

"No, I know that," he says rolling his eyes at my mocking tone.

"I was just practicing on the dummy before I had a rope tied around my neck," he assures me, pointing over to the large mannequin on the other side of the fitting space. Because that's possible.

Closing the distance, I begin to button up his shirt for him, ignoring his white lie, and can feel him staring down at me. Concentrating, I continue the action and then reach behind me to grab the other half of the discarded tie.

"See? It's a lot easier than it looks," I say, tightening the piece of fabric around his neck.

I did a pretty good job.

"Nah, you're just a nerd. Nerds are supposed to be good at things like this," he jokes, admiring himself in the long mirror.

"Harry, listen to what comes out of your mouth. It literally does not make sense," I say in all seriousness. I feel like I'm conversing with a child at times. Sighing, I roll my eyes at his banter.

"You literally do not make sense."

"How old are you, Harold?"

"How old are you, Harold?"

"Wow."

"Wow."

"You're something else," I say, exiting his fitting room to get dressed. I refuse to feed into his childishness. I'm sure he'd get along with Alex swimmingly if he were to give it a chance. The two are honestly a lot more similar than either of them credits.

"I know," he says, opening a bag of Cheetos we had picked up earlier.

"I'll be right back. Have to pop into some other stores real quick," he claims, already out of the store. My anxiety rises slightly at the image of him getting his cheesy residue over everything in the store. He knows absolutely nothing about places like these. He's the one my parent's should've shipped to my grandma's house.

The room is like any other fitting room. I lie different parts of my suit on the hooks provided and begin dressing.

The suit practically conforms to every curve, every inch of my body making it look more than what I was expecting. It's a bit uncomfortable and is chafing in all the wrong places.

My mom must've called in and had it fitted. I wouldn't put a thing passed that woman.

Taking out my phone I set it down while the familiar jingle to FaceTime plays throughout the small white room.

"Hi, sweetie, how are you liking the suits? I had Givenchy detail it to perfection. You should be very content," she says smiling her pearly whites at me.

My mother is seriously a goddess. At over forty years old, she has no more than a few eye and smile wrinkles to show for her age. Always divine in the latest simple, but extremely expensive imported pearl earrings and neck wear. She lived life no other way.

So when I heard that she had the Givenchy custom make a suit that I'll probably never wear again I could only roll my eyes in defeat. Surely, a battle I'll never win.