Labels || H.S. [#Wattys2020]

THREE

Reagan had never been afraid of much, it came with the territory. She had to be strong in order to counter the many who made smart remarks and judged her based on her appearance. Being a size 16 in a size 0 world is the most infuriating thing one could ever encounter, but for Reagan, it was a matter of realizing that no matter what you do, you will never be aesthetically pleasing. So she strove to be a good person, an intelligent person, someone with substance and worth. Yet even as you come to terms with that fact, you still try your hardest to convince yourself that there could be some way that you could pass off for normal. That someone somewhere will love you regardless of what you look like. And Reagan still had that hope, that wasn't gone. She knew she wasn't the most beautiful person in the world, but she hoped that someday she would be to someone.

When she came to work at what is now known as Columbia Records, she wasn't very much nervous. She was sure of her capabilities, of what she could do. Before working there she worked at the label her father currently worked at, Big Machine Records, and did a lot of the social media work. Her resume had the experience that college students could only dream of having, and her skills only blossomed because of it. It didn't matter if her colleagues thought her fat, or weird, or stupid. She was sure of who she was and she knew she did a damn good job, so she didn't pay any mind to those people.

So why did this moment have her so incredibly nervous? She couldn't understand it. It was something about meeting him, about meeting all of them. They had her unraveling at the seams. Of course, she had been working for a company that dealt with huge celebrities, but she personally never had to deal with them. She was used to everyone else making snap decisions about her, she truly was. Ultimately Harry was right, famous was just a label, a placeholder. He was no different from her, none of them were. Yet, there she stood, in front of that door, knees trembling and heart racing.

But the door swung open, and before her stood three boys, each minding their own business, looking terribly bored. There was an angry looking man with a cell phone to his ear, and little Lydia perched on a window sill.

There was nothing to be afraid of, at least for her.

"And where the fuck were you!?" Paul asked Harry, moving toward him in large, angry strides.

"The loo?"

"Yeah? We get bruises from the toilets now?" He said angrily poking Harry's forehead, right in the blossoming purple mark the door had left.

"I slipped," Harry said calmly, rubbing his forehead.

"Did you now? Seems to be the fucking story of your life."

"See, I told you," Harry said with a wink towards Reagan.

There was an awkward lull, and as Harry looked at the boys they looked back at him and then at the strange girl beside him.

"Who is this then?" Asked the eldest. His scruffy hair was scruffier than usual, and he held a thick notepad in his hand.

"I'm Reagan."

"Louis," He said with a nod and smile, "It's a pleasure."

"Boys." Lydia said getting up and walking towards the middle of the room, "This is your new campaign manager. She'll be in charge of the PR for your new album."

"Awfully young, isn't she?" Said the boy with the guitar upon his lap. He smiled when he locked eyes with Reagan, "Niall by the way. Not being rude, just saying. Our last campaign person was at least eighty."

Harry shook his head, "She was forty-two, Niall."

"Yeah, okay."

"She didn't look eighty, stop being an ass." Piped up the other one in the corner, he held a notepad identical to Louis', "Oh, I'm Liam." Ever the proper man he rose and walked across the room to give Reagan a handshake, she took it firmly with a smile.