oh, anna [-hs]

sim sala bim

a/n HOLY MOLEY 800 READS! WHAT? THANK YOU! (also I didn't realize when I was writing, but this is a BEHEMOTH of a chapter... a very good one too I think... enjoy!)

17.

"Quinn."

How long have I been sitting here? I have no idea. The collar of my shirt is damp, from crying? I suppose I am a little. My brain feels fuzzy. My body feels numb. My breathing is wild. I can only imagine how I look right now, probably rabid. I glance up from my hands, Harry's crouched down next to me, trying to tune out the reporters. They've only gotten louder now that he's out here. I watch Mitch, Sarah, and Charlotte walk down the aisle and out towards the valet. They look back. Mitch gives a little wave.

"Can you walk?" He tries. I slowly stand up, putting my hand up to my face in an attempt to disguise myself. It's too late though, they've seen me. They've seen us together. They just documented what happened. The world knows I'm weird, yay.

I develop the hiccups as we get back to the car. He opens the door for me, his hand guiding me into the passenger seat, and then he runs around the hood and climbs in, starting the vehicle and pulling away from the restaurant as quickly as he can.

And suddenly it's silent. Except for my occasional hiccups and the gentle rumble of the engine.

I try to take deep breaths, closing my eyes and gripping the edge of the passenger seat. His hand brushes over mine and he lifts it up, gently holding it and rubbing circles into my palm. But he doesn't say anything. He keeps his eyes on the road and drives us back to his house. I don't speak up either.

What would I say? I ruined it. I ruined the night. I probably embarrassed him, in front of his friends, in front of the press. And he has no idea why. How could he? Ugh I feel so stupid.

After a while, his hand lets go of mine and reaches for the radio, but then it freezes, and he's changed his mind. Instead it goes back down and grabs my hand again.

Once we pull up into his garage, he turns off the car, and then shifts to face me fully. I rub my fingers under my eyes, trying to clean up whatever mascara has run down my face.

"So," he pauses, mulling over his words. "That Harry Nilsson fellow."

"I'm sorry," I sigh.

"Why would you apologize for something you can't control?" He retorts. I shrug.

"Because that was a lot, and you had no idea what was going on. I ended the night, we were having fun. I'm sorry."

He shakes his head. "If it makes you feel better, I accept your apology. Let's maybe go inside and drink something." I nod and we both climb out of the car. He waits for me by his side, and when I walk over to him, he wraps an arm around me and guides me to the door. Normally, I would complain about it, but honestly I'm just so drained right now. I let him maneuver me around until I'm sitting on his living room couch, shoes off, hair back, wrapped in a throw blanket.

He wanders back over with two mugs and hands me one. I smell it and smile a little, holding the heat in my hands. Hot chocolate.

"There's a little brandy in there too," he warns. I take a sip and let the warmth settle into my stomach and run through my veins. "Alright," he takes a sip of his own and sits down next to me. "Now, I'm going to make you explain."

I nod. "I have a few different triggers," I begin. "A lot of little things, like pda, cooking food for me, staying the night at my place, seeing my tattoos, things like that, that mean intimacy and commitment, can set me off. But you know that, that's what happened that night at my apartment." He nods understandingly and watches me from behind his mug. I take another sip of my own. "One big trigger, that without fail always sends me into panic mode, is listening to Harry Nilsson."