a simple favor (h.s.)

three

Life is split up into a series of befores and afters. There are some obvious markers—for example, high school graduation is the last major event before you officially become an adult (I mean, not that I would know much about high school graduation). Things like graduation, weddings, your twenty-first birthday—these are all things that we plan for, that we know to expect. We know in that moment that our life is about to change. But then there are other times when something happens to you, and you have no idea until much later how much it will come to change your life.

It wasn't until much later that I would understand that me blowing up at my job was the catalyst to my life finally changing.

But right now, I don't think about any of that. Because all I can focus on are six words ringing in my head. None of these words mean much on their own—aside from maybe the latter, depending on who you ask—but put them all together, and you have a question that some people wait their entire lives to hear.

"I think we should get married."

Except it isn't a question for me, it's a statement. And it isn't coming from a place of love, but a place of desperation—marry me so I don't get kicked out of the country. Oh, and just in case the situation isn't fucked up enough, it isn't coming from someone that I'm in love with. Instead, it's coming from someone who I kind-of-sort-of can't stand—especially right now.

Someone is calling my name, and it takes me a minute to realize that it's Harry. He's staring at me with an expression I might call concerned if anyone else was wearing it, but because it's him, it's probably something along the lines of frustration.

"Emilia," he repeats, and I wonder if my name is just as unfamiliar for him to say as it is for me to hear. "I asked you a question."

That brings me back to life. "No," I say slowly, "there was no question. You said..." There's no way I can repeat it. "That was a statement," I finish lamely. "Not a question."

Harry shrugs, like we're discussing something as casual as the weather (actually, we would never discuss that—lesson 1 of working for Harry Styles: he hates small talk). Then, he says, "It's the same thing."

"No! It's not the same thing!" I exclaim, my voice slowly beginning to rise as the magnitude of what he has just suggested dawns upon me. "'Will you marry me?' is a question. Not...not whatever the fuck that was!"

He blinks. "It's really bizarre to hear you swear. You never used to do it."

I can't believe that's the direction his mind is choosing to go in right now. "Maybe that was because I used to work for you." I make sure to emphasize 'used' as firmly as possible, to get the message across that I really am quitting. "And forgive me if I'm a little surprised right now."

Harry sighs, like I'm the one inconveniencing him. Like I'm the one who showed up to his apartment unannounced and asked him to commit marriage fraud, after virtually ignoring him for the last four years. "Listen, I know that I'm asking a lot of you—"

"You're not asking me anything!"

He looks at me strangely. "I didn't think you'd want me to do the whole getting down on one knee thing. If you don't mind, I'd rather not do that."

If Harry was the type of person to make jokes, I one-hundred-percent would think he was playing a prank on me right now. But he is literally the last person to do that, which means that he's being serious about all of this. And he expects me to go along with it, because I've gone along with everything he's asked me to do in the past. But not anymore. And certainly not this.