Love Always, Harry

I

February 1, 1985

Thea stared at the flickering red letter on the neon sign outside the diner, silently counting the number of times the S blinked out and turned the Slice of Heaven Diner into the Lice of Heaven Diner.

She knew she should have been helping Sarah out with inventory in the back or checking up on the customers seated in the corner booth, but there were only six minutes left of her shift and she couldn't focus on anything other than getting out of there and opening the envelope that was burning a hole in her pocket.

It was her best friend's twenty-fourth birthday. Though Thea had spent this day with him every year since she was five, the last four years she had been forced to offer birthday wishes through postcards because her shy best friend Harry had somehow managed to become suave Harry Styles, ace journalist for Rolling Stone who now divided his time between touring the world with major bands and writing award-winning pieces about the experiences.

Thea had heard from Harry's mother that tonight he was in New Orleans with Prince's tour, so she anticipated the next postcard to include a million praises for gumbo and a million pleas for her to learn how to make it so he could have some at home too.

As soon as the clock struck 9:00, Thea hastily gathered up her belongings and practically ran home from the diner. Turning the television on and collapsing onto the plushy couch she and Harry had found in an antique shop, Thea stripped off her coat, scarf, and gloves before pulling out the greatly delayed letter dated December 7th from the Netherlands.

Dear Thea,

I know I normally start these off by telling you about the goings-on of the night before, but somehow we wound up in Amsterdam's Red Light District. This'll definitely offend your delicate sensibilities, so suffice it to say that a few lucky Dutch people were thoroughly infused with the pride of Britain by the time I left.

Metallica concert was amazing, but I know we're never going to agree on this subject, so for now I'll just give in and say that of course Wham! is better and of course George Michael is a fox. Hope everything is going well with you. Hope you're actually submitting your writing to publications or going back to school. PLEASE tell me you've made some progress with that, you're too talented to be stuck at that pancake shack. I expect to hear good news about this when you write next.

Also I know I told you I would be home for Christmas, but one of the guys from the tour crew is planning on going to Tokyo and invited me along. I know we wanted to go together, but this just came up and you never seem to want to leave Cheshire either so I hope you'll find it in your great big heart to forgive me. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year in advance, Duckie. I miss you loads.

Love always,

Harry

P.S. Hope the bean-counter is treating you well, or there'll be hell to pay.

Thea smiled to herself, softly shaking her head and looking at the other contents of the envelope. There was the customary postcard displaying one of Amsterdam's tulip gardens, accompanied by a few Polaroids of the Magere Brug drawbridge, the Dutch Canal houses, and Harry grinning ear-to-ear holding a large mug of beer.

She hadn't seen him since September, so she took her time looking at his photo. He'd grown his hair out. The once short thatch had blossomed into unruly swirls of chocolate locks ending just at the nape of his neck, one rebellious strand swooping across his forehead.

His tortoiseshell glasses were pushed up, holding his hair back while he squinted (Thea was convinced it would be a minor miracle if his glasses ever actually gravitated onto the bridge of his nose) and gave the camera a megawatt smile. He wore a black shirt with a thin coffee-colored cardigan that she was sure was doing nothing to keep out the chill at that time of year.