Beyond Compare (h.e.s)

part two

"Yes, Mom," I say into the phone as I pull off my scarf. I've been standing just inside the entrance of the bar for twenty minutes. In that time, I've said about ten sentences, mostly consisting of 'yes mom' and one 'really mom?' for variety, waiting for a lull in the conversation so I can hang up and get a much needed drink. I have a lot of affection but a low tolerance for my mother, so listening to her drone on about her new boyfriend and how he could be "the One"—and if by "the One", she means "husband", it is actually the Fourth—is less than an ideal way to spend my time. By the time I get off the phone, I'm mentally exhausted and emotionally cynical. Um, more cynical.

I walk into the actual bar and see that Harry's the only one there, nursing a beer, his long legs clad in their usual skinny jeans braced around a bar stool. I take a little longer than I should to hang my coat on the rack near the front, but that may be because I keep missing the hook—which may be because I am still staring at Harry.

"Hey." I take the seat next to him and he motions to the bartender, tapping the lip of his beer bottle with his index finger to signal for one more. He's smooth in that way that can't be taught or learned, and I can't be bothered to deny that I've always found it attractive.

"What's up?" he asks me, left eyebrow arched. Always found that attractive, too.

I look at him. Does he know that I was staring at him a few seconds ago? That I'm thinking about how good he looks? That I may be picturing him shirtless right now?

"What do you mean?"

"Well, let me explain. In America and many other parts of the English speaking world, 'what's up' is a phrase used most commonly by the younger generation that signals greeting or—"

"Shut up. And nothing's up with me," I tell him. It's almost not a lie.

He elbows me gently. "Ask me what's up."

"Alright, I'll bite."

"I know you will," he says, tapping a spot on his collarbone covered by his shirt where I may have left a hickey.

I roll my eyes and say with exaggerated excitement, "What's up, Harry?"

He grins that half smile that charmed the pants off me—literally—two nights ago. "This chick I hooked up with said I was the best she ever had."

I would roll my eyes again, but I'm afraid that I've done it so much today, they might get stuck. "Kiss my ass, Styles."

He smirks. "I did." It's true, he did. "It was very nice."

I can't help but fall into his trap. "My ass or the kiss?"

"Both. It was a nice ass, which made it a nice kiss."

"Well, thank you."

"Do you have anything you want to tell me about my ass?"

It looks really fucking good in those jeans. "No."

"Liar, liar, sexy little pants on fire."

Sexy little pants? I look at him strangely. He has never called anything I've ever worn 'sexy'. Then again, before two days ago, we'd never fallen into bed with each other either, so maybe this is a new world where all the old rules are off.