When Harry met Z

GIRL CRUSH

Such a beautiful song. It mirrored perfectly my feelings right now. Thinking about Z and Gi had become a bit masochistic. It sufficed that I saw a photo of them in a magazine, or that I recalled scenes of them fondling together, it made my skin crawl, my blood boil. 

I was used to it, in a way. And I tried not to be selfish, as long as he kept me in the orbit I had some hope. 

I worked the entire day on the song, my band, those amazing guys, they knew. We never talked too much into it, but they knew something was troubling me. 

I got a girl crush
Hate to admit it but
I got a heart rush
Ain't slowing down
I got it real bad
Want everything she has
That smile and that midnight laugh
She's giving you now

Exactly my feelings right now.  Ever since I found out about them. Gi, the top model, one of the most beautiful girls I knew. Why she? It really made me insecure, this time this girl ticked all the boxes, she was from the same background as Z, she was muslim, she is mixed race like Z, and she was rich and famous, and gorgeous, and....determined to keep Z to herself. 

This relationship was unlike the other girls Z got tangled with. It made my heart race, it made me sad. There was another song I had started to write, "Falling" I titled it. In the last months I felt I was losing him for good, and I had started falling, acting like a ridiculous jealous ex.

The lyrics said what I wanted him to know:

What if I'm down?
What if I'm out?
What if I'm someone you won't talk about?
I'm fallin' again
I'm fallin' again
I'm fallin'And I get the feelin' that you'll never need me again

He use to need me. This time I got the feeling that he will never need me again. Ever. 

I decided to leave my house, needed to forget about everything, forget about our conversations, empty my mind. He was coming to LA in a few days, maybe I should tell him to f-k off. I literally could have anyone I wanted, and here I am clinging to him as if I was an old leaf that refuses to fall, to fall to the ground and die forever. I was an old leaf clinging to an old tree... (Gee..Styles, an idea for a song. Enough of the self pity.)

I drove quite far away from the Malibu area, further south, further, I wanted to be somewhere no one would pay attention to me, sometimes I drove to downtown, where regular business people minded their own, it was a contrast from where I lived, filled with fancy houses, cars, show biz stuff.

Downtown LA reminded me of New York, or even London, except, a bit poorer. These places to me were more real, these places grounded me, prevented me to lose myself in my delusions, thinking that I was a powerful almighty, that anything I wished could become reality.

It was late afternoon already, drove to Bunker Hill, an area with parks and old Art Deco buildings. I had been in this part of the town in the past, quite removed from Hollywood, less glamour, more real. I spotted an old coffee shop/bar kind of place, it looked old school, neighbourhood type of place. Typical joint where people who had nine to five jobs went to mingle after work

Parked my car, and entered. A sign said a blues band will be entertaining the night, another one announced Happy Hour and chicken wings from 6pm to 9pm. I loved these small joints where people gathered to vent on their bosses or boring days.

The TV was on, seating at a corner near the bar I pretended to watch the sports channel that was on. It was still early for the blues live show, through the window I could see the street slowly darkening, and emptied. More and more people flowed into the place via the rotating door. 

I drank my beer, trying to see maybe someone recognised me, but, no, to my good fortune, people were busy with their own lives. 

Musicians started to arrive, I recognised them immediately. Musicians had always a god-like allure, they had the composure of magicians. I spotted them and wanted to say hi, not that I knew them, just out of camaraderie. (save that to yourself, Harry, I told myself, you are trying to lay low here)

Was down to my third beer. The band was tuning their equipment, when I was tapped on the shoulder, I turned my head, it was a woman. 

Shit. I said. This is it, I was recognised. An autograph, or maybe she wanted a selfie with me, to say how much she loved me blah blah blah, the usual stuff I could never say no to. 

- Is this seat free?

- Sure, it is...

I glanced at her, waiting for her to drop me the "Harry Styles, Oh My God". The usual reaction. But no, she held her phone on one hand,  and ordered a drink. "Hey, thanks", she mumbled. 

She was probably forty or fifty, hard to say. Nowadays women look much younger than their real age. From the corner of my eye I tried to observe her (it was a distraction from my thoughts), dark hair, glasses, jeans, a jacket, business-type shirt, carried a big bag filled with papers. She kept typing on her phone, barely raising her head. 

She was kind of pretty. On her earlier years she would have been gorgeous. She seemed tired, and ran down. But she had good energy, it didn't bother me to have her sitting next to me. 

-F-k! F-ing editors. I had it with them. 

She looked at me, and said: "the glamorous life of a journalist", while rolling her eyes.

- Barbara Terrick, journalist for the LA times, I work at the building above us. 

She said that while extending her hand to shake mine, her eyes still on her phone. Not completely looking at me. What was I supposed to say? "Hi, Harry Styles?" Haha. Good one. 

-Hi, nice to meet you, Barbara. You come here often?

-Hell yeah. Too often. I work upstairs, we come here to vent. Tonight everyone left on assignment. Have been working non-stop for the last week, I escaped. Can't do more scoops, more exclusives, enough for the day. You know I am a Latina. Ha. Latina, as if an entire continent could be reduced to that description. Anyway. Sorry to rant. 

-No, it's fine. I get you. So, what do you at the LA Times. You have a beat or something?

-Yeah. I am supposed to be the "investigative journalist", but often assigned to do anything the others don't want to do. Am tired of pitching stories to editors who know f-ck about the city, or about just...humans. I mean, I want to do human stories. Sorry. Am bothering you, am I? Sorry.

-No. It's okay. Sounds like an interesting job.

There was an intensity about her. She carried herself with elegance, yet with some sort of masculinity. She was dressed casually, yet, she seemed confident, her eyes always looking at afar, as if she was overseeing the next day, a possible story, or preparing for something that was not there in that bar. She waived at a guy who entered carrying cameras. "Our photographer" she said. Funny they didn't sit together. "We had a fight today" she said, and apologised again. "You are not a journalist, are you?" she asked, pushing her glasses upwards, staring at me for the first time.

I smiled.

-No, I have nothing to do with journalism. But carry on, your stories don't bother me.

-British? What are you, a tourist?

-Kind of. 

************************

To be continued. The usual disclaimers.

************************

Hope you guys like this story, please give me any feedback. XoXO.

Antonella