Chloë and Harry

Chapter 12

I rushed into Rachel's room and pressed a kiss on her forehead – she didn't wake up –, grabbed my bag and shut the door. My heart pounded in my chest as I walked down the stairs.

"Do you want me to help you?", he asked and smiled at me, as I reached the ground floor. He was wearing a pair of black jeans and a white shirt that was slightly unbuttoned, which he, for sure, did on purpose to drive me crazy.

"No, thanks. It's not that heavy."

I squeezed past him and opened the trunk to throw in my bag next to the case of a guitar.

"Why did you take that with you?", I asked pointing at the used leather case.

"The gig's on Sunday," he said. "The band will take the flight tomorrow morning, and the crew will have all the other equipment. But I wanted to take the guitar by myself. I thought about writing a couple of songs or playing something to you if you want me to."

He grinned.

As we got in the car and drove through the early morning, I realised that he was very familiar to me, somehow. And I didn't know how he was so familiar to me. It didn't feel like I'd got to know him, but more than I had remembered who he was. Every smile, every word, everything he did brought me closer to the conclusion that in some other existence, we had already fallen in love. And we happened to stumble upon each other in this universe again – and it felt great.

I wondered if he felt the same. He didn't talk much on the ride but carefully watched the street. Presumably, because he was tired. And I decided to watch him. It all felt surreal. It was no secret that I had never really felt comfortable the way I was, I thought I was too small, too weird, too socially awkward and basically not funny enough, which lead to myself hiding from parties or meetings of any kind. And right now, I was sitting in a car with Mr. Handsome in person driving to a fucking airport, where we'd board a plane to spend a weekend in Paris – not to mention that I had sex with him.

"Chloë?", he said. His voice was kind of husky and deeper than I thought it was.

"Yes?"

"Do you sometimes think about how damn lucky we are?"

"Why?"

"I often find myself philosophizing on car rides, which is not such a good thing to do," he said. "I get really dreamy and forget everything around me. But I was just thinking about the fact that I have you and it makes me very, very happy."

I smiled and lightly touched his hand on the centre console.

"I know it's super cheesy," he said. "But I'm just grateful for that, and I wanted to tell you."

A short silence ensued because I just couldn't find the right words to say. I was overwhelmed and happy and melancholic at the same time, which was a weird feeling to have, especially because there was no reason at all for me to be sad – but maybe it was in the most perfect of moments that I found myself getting sad, because I couldn't cope with how lucky I felt and all of the fucking feelings of happiness and adrenaline in my head.

"I don't often say these things," he wrapped his fingers around my hand. "Because I forget to say them, and because it's always easier to talk to an instrument than to say something out loud to an actual person. And when I miss the chance and look back on something, I find myself being frustrated about the fact that I didn't say it often enough. I should say it whenever I think about it. And I will. I will tell you every time."

The sun rose as we approached the airport. He parked the car in one of these giant parks nearby, where you had to pay massive amounts of money every day to have your car standing outside in a parking lot. He grabbed my bags without paying any attention to the resistance that I voiced. As he turned around to face me, my bag on his shoulder, he squinted into the sunlight: "Are you ready?"