This Thing Upon Me [Order The eBook] [Harry Styles]

Chapter 37

(DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales,and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. It's important to remember this is all totally fabricated, embellished, and exaggerated for entertainment purposes.)

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This will be my last confession

"I love you" never felt like any blessing...

Florence + The Machine | Heavy In Your Arms

After spending the following afternoon with Rande and Cindy, making sure to keep our lunch date, I found myself cruising around in Malibu alone and trying to string together the events of the previous few days. Each time I tried to recount my ecstasy; I saw her rage. Each time I tried to recount the whispers of his delirious kisses, I felt the scrapes on my arms and my banged-up shin. Each time I tried to remember the sound of his voice, his laughter, the stories we'd shared, the music we imbibed—all I'd hear were her screams, peeling out of the darkness like some ultrasonic war cry that only I could discern. I was mortified by the amount of times I missed something Rande had said while reliving the things she had hollered at me. I'd also missed Cindy telling me about Kaia's botched brand deal and that they were considering litigation.

Now I veered along the PCH; windows down and music off because bits of prospective lyrics kept calling to me. I listened past the roar of the ocean and its briny wind in search of them. I tried piecing the words together like a withered jigsaw; into some semblance of coherence.

The apprehension I felt over my upcoming album (which had gnawed away at me only days ago) had vanished while I was in his care. It never occurred to me once that I hadn't written a single full song, or that I hadn't thought of a new aesthetic—a new sound. That I had no band, no producers, no direction. His presence had given a fraudulent sense of fullness. I had been deceived into believing all was right in my world.

Z just had that way about him. It was rare that he drew anyone in, so if he chose you, you went without hesitation and questioned nothing. Following him down a potential lapse in good judgment—or sound reason and morality—became my only personality trait when we were together. With one touch, with one gaze, he could coerce me into forgetting about anything. Even my gravest and most generalized anxieties.

Now that he was gone, that pit returned to my stomach tenfold. It reformed the minute I entered into discussions of signing a multimillion-dollar record deal with Columbia Records this morning. Jeff didn't waste time...like ever. 'Time is money, Harvey' he'd always say. He knew the success of my solo career hinged precisely on how I optimized the window of opportunity in the immediate aftermath of the disbanding. If I acted too late, the momentum would be squandered and I'd belly flop harder than I could imagine.

Already he'd helped me book a gig in a major motion picture to be released in 2017; and several brand deals were waiting in the wings years in advance. It was his goal to have my debut album land around the same time as the Nolan movie to ensure 'optimum exposure', as his dad would say.

That left me on an impossible timetable for filming and having enough room to foster the creative energy to do music. There were no four other eager mates to rely on, to commiserate with and bounce ideas off of. It was just me. If I didn't create something remarkable, the world would deride me as a talentless hack who'd gotten away with riding the coattails of my four counterparts for several years. I always wondered: was there any truth to that?