hey loves i'm just here writing my story half a heart feel free to read it and its predecessor and give me feedback! i'm more active on my style blog if you want to talk <3 have a lovely day! xx
It’s sort of horrifying that we all know what they’re talking about without them really saying it.. that it’s become that much of a norm in our society that we just know.
Give me love pt 2 basically holy wow so I'm like freaking out this is perf I thought you had given the story up omg I really hope you continue it cause you just made a totally juicy chapter can't leave us hanging like that so pretty please write more whenever you can cause your story is the bomb literally it's addicting ok so fan rant done have a great day Meredith :)
you people make me smile so hard thank youuuuuu :) xx
Notes: This ties up the loose ends from GML, so it'll get juicier with the new story from here on out. Rated mature, give me feedback, all that good stuff.
--
December 2012
We were standing on the roof of the Manhattan hotel, and I was sobbing. Snow was beginning to fall, landing in my hair and on the wool of my coat. My fingers were growing numb, but I wasn’t going anywhere.
“Don’t you get it? I can’t do it,” I shook my head, my tears quickly sticking to my face in the cold air.
He sighed, running his fingers through his hair and turning his back to me.
I choked in a freezing breath, “Niall asked me to marry him, Harry. I had to tell him everything and, and, he’s well on his way back to London. Without me. You know what I’m going to think about every time I look at you? His face. He looked so dejected, so disappointed, it killed me, Harry. He might as well have jabbed a knife through my heart. I’d never seen Niall cry before, and it just all came out, and he was right. He was right. I was selfish. I hurt you, too. And I feel trapped, Harry, I feel like I’m suffocating all the time.”
He turned to face me, his cheeks stained with tears. I was right; all I could see was Niall’s face, and my heart broke again every time. My knees gave out and I slid to the floor, cradling my knees to my body, blubbering uncontrollably and leaning against the hard brick wall.
I forced myself to look up, drying my eyes on my sleeve.
“I have to leave. It’s better for everyone if we all go away. You, stay here in New York, Niall in London, and I...well, I don’t know but we can’t hurt each other any more. You’ll be happy again.”
It was silent for what felt like an eternity.
“I love you,” he said quietly, “You make me happy.”
“I can’t keep doing this. We ruin everything for each other. Is this really going to work?”
He started to open his mouth.
“Don’t answer that,” I sighed, slowly standing. I had finally stopped crying and wiped the mascara off of my face. “I’ve made my decision, I’m leaving. I’ll go home, go see my family, and then I’m gone forever. Do you realize how amazing it’s going to be here? Single in New York?”
He seemed to accept that I was serious, despite the quiver in my voice. “Will you stay with me tonight? No fucking, or anything, if you don’t want to. I’ll book you a flight for tomorrow and call you a car.”
“Thank you,” I broke down again, and he pulled me to him, his strong arms holding me tight against his chest and I squeezed him back, “I’m right, you’ll see.”
He simply pressed his lips to my forehead and led me to the stairs, sniffling quietly.
We lay in bed, fully clothed, holding each other all night. Neither of us slept; occasionally we would talk, but for the most part it was quiet. A few stolen kisses, brushing a lock of hair across a forehead, fingers knotted.
“We should have never left Paris,” he whispered in my ear before kissing me on the cheek.
“We should have done a lot of things,” I said, my voice barely audible. Everything was broken beyond repair, and I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t stay with Harry; the guilt would eat me alive. I felt like I was drowning, and I needed to come up for air and could never do that with either of them. I wasn’t worried about Niall. Without me, he would thrive. He would meet someone that deserved him, and all of his goodness.
When the sun rose, Harry ordered room service, and we sat on the bed and ate a massive American breakfast. Gorging ourselves on scrambled eggs, bacon, biscuits and waffles, we chased the food with mimosas and laughed all morning. I couldn’t bear to think about how much I’d miss him.
After I took the last sip of my drink and sat the glass on the nightstand, Harry crawled toward me, slowly lowering me down on the bed and lying on top of me.
“You are perfect,” he said, his voice cracking as he smiled, his eyes beginning to water.
I pressed my lips to his, slowly, and kissed him with as much feeling as I could muster. I tried to tell him everything through that kiss, how sorry I was, why I couldn’t stay with him, how much I hoped he’d find happiness.
After several moments, he withdrew, flicking his tongue across my lips. I giggled and shoved him off of me.
“My flight’s in three hours,” I said, “Time to go.”
He held my hand down the hall, in the elevator, across the lobby and to the street, squeezing it tighter every second.
We stood on the sidewalk behind the hotel, my luggage in a pile next to me, waiting for the car service.
He suddenly burst into tears, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and he tugged me to him, burying his face in my hair.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he sputtered, “Please don’t do this.”
“Harry,” I choked on my words, “Don’t make this harder. I’ll see you someday. When we’re better. If it’s meant to be…”
I didn’t mean it, but I stroked his back, making unkeepable promises and shushing him. It took all of my willpower to keep a straight face.
“I love you, I do. I just can’t do this,” I whispered.
A black Lincoln town car pulled up next to the curb. Harry snatched my hand in desperation. I kissed him hard, pushing my tongue in between his lips, holding him fiercely for several seconds before touching my lips to his one last time.
“You’re it, Emily,” he said, “I don’t know how I’m going to be without you.”
“You’ll be amazing,” I promised, taking my suitcase in my hand. “Try, you’ll see.”
I climbed into the backseat of the car and we pulled away from the hotel, leaving Harry in the dust. He jogged for about ten feet after us, before stopping and putting his hand up. I waved through the back window of the car.
“LaGuardia, please,” I said to the driver.
It was all I could get out before breaking down completely. I was exhausted, yet relieved, and the tears began to flow again.
“It’s over,” I whispered to myself as we drove out of Manhattan.
I pulled out my iPhone, and opened my contacts, scrolling to his name. Biting my lip, I deleted Harry Styles and willed myself to forget that name forever.
--
December 2013
I realized I’d slept late when the winter sun was blistering, reflecting off of my white sheets and stinging my bloodshot eyes. An empty bottle of merlot sat on my nightstand, its contents ravaging my stomach. I rubbed the creases of my forehead as I turned on my phone. It was after ten o’clock, and I’d been holed up inside of my flat alone for the better part of twenty-four hours. The long slumber was much-needed, but not enough to make me forget what I’d seen in the airport.
I’d bolted for a cab, leaving my book behind, still unsure if it was really him. Sighing, I walked across the cold hardwood to my desk, opening my computer. After hesitating for a few moments, I sucked my breath in and typed his name. As expected, several million results appeared, and I narrowed them to local posts only.
“Merde,” I said, chewing on my thumb nail as a I clicked the first link.
“Seulement trois nuits!”
The words were emblazoned at the top of the online flyer, followed by his picture and details of the event. He would be performing at Le Divan du Monde, a venue I knew fairly well, headlining the entire week as a holiday special. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at the thought of Harry’s return to Pigalle, and immediately slammed the silver screen shut.
“You aren’t going.” I said, to no one in particular.
Shaking off my mild hangover, I bundled up to go about my lazy Sunday, solo. After brushing my hair and washing my face, I descended the precarious winding staircase to ground level in search of breakfast. Pausing in the corridor leading to the street, I fumbled for my mailbox key and opened the small, pewter box. There were several envelopes inside, two bills, a Christmas card, and one without a stamp or return address. It was simply adorned with my name, written in a sloppy script and sealed with a sparkling pink star sticker. Puzzled, I tore open the letter.
Inside were three tickets, one to each night of the Harry Styles concert at Le Divan. It was all so typical; he had obviously dropped the envelope off himself, but didn’t bother to ring my doorbell, and only included one ticket for each performance; I wouldn’t be bringing any new boyfriends. Unsure of what to do, I stuffed the papers in the bottom of my purse and locked my mailbox, exiting into the cold air of the sidewalk and deciding to switch my morning cappuccino for a kir royale.
--
The sun had set, and I was pacing around my apartment barefoot. My hair and makeup were fixed, but I was wearing my fleece pajamas and nursing a pot of fondue. The tickets were still hidden in my purse, and I was finding it impossible to deny their existence any longer. Whipping out, my phone, I quickly dialled Julianne’s number.
“Quoi?” she asked, “Je suis avec ma famille, dumbass.”
Julianne had picked up several choice English words while living with me.
I blubbered through the entire situation in French. She didn’t know the entire story of the tragedy that was my encounter with Niall and Harry, but I didn’t know who else to tell.
“Chiez-vous moi? Go! Allez! Be, uh, slut. Slutty,” she said, in a low voice. I could hear children squealing in the background, and Julianne was gone.
I wasn’t sure how to apply her broken English advice, and contemplated calling Eleanor for a moment before deciding against it. She and I hadn’t spoken since the incident, and I didn’t know where to start with her.
Giving in for a moment, I retrieved the cream-colored envelope and stared at my ticket. December fourteenth, twenty-five euros. Doors open at nine o’clock.
“Fuck it,” I proclaimed, again conversing with an empty apartment. I slid off the oak barstool and undressed as I walked into my room, opening the door to my modest closet. Julianne’s advice had a vein of truth to it; I wanted to meet my past love looking my absolute best. After many dresses had been discarded on the floor as unfit, I selected a simple, strappy black shift that just grazed my upper thighs. One look in the mirror, and I knew I was ready to see him. As I called a cab, I pulled on a pair of black ankle boots with a thick heel and took my leather jacket off of its post. My hair cascaded down the slick material in loose waves, and I sprayed perfume on my chest before taking a deep breath and walking out the door.
--
My hand clenched the ticket throughout the car ride, crumbling the cardstock. Paris traffic was typically busy on this Saturday evening and it took nearly an hour to cross the city. I was grateful for this reprieve; I tried to think of something to say to him, but no words came to mind. No sentence could possibly summarize the regret, yet gratitude I felt. In the back corner of my mind, I knew Harry had already formulated an intention for the night, of which I was dubiously clueless. As we passed the Moulin Rouge and the familiar mobs of tourists, I knew we were almost there. One short left turn later, and I was faced with an imposing crowd outside of the venue. Harry was definitely the most prominent artist Le Divan had attracted in months, and Parisian teenagers had taken notice.
So, like the rest of the mob, I waited in the cold night air to pass under the velvet rope. It was approaching ten o’clock, and music drifted outside. When I reached the front of the line, I was shivering mildly, my teeth chattering as I handed the bouncer my ticket. Moderately surprised at my lack of special treatment, I entered the theatre and checked my coat. As usual, the lights inside were tinted warm red and yellow, and a DJ was warming up the crowd on the stage. People were milling around, drinking and chatting or dancing apathetically. A few rabid girls were already lined up at the front of the seated section. Unsure of my next move, I nonchalantly approached the bar and ordered a glass of red wine, hoping my discomfort read as blasé. Leaning against the back wall of the parterre, I lit a cigarette as I anticipated the start of the show, paying close attention to my peripheral vision for venue staff who would prohibit my smoking, and keen younger girls who might recognize my face despite the change in hair color.
As the clock struck ten o’clock, the lights dimmed completely except for the stage. A guitarist and a percussionist were setting up, spotlights making their marks for the musicians and an empty black stool stood in the center.
He entered from stage right, with little fanfare except for applause and a few shouts from the crowd. Most people were still mingling or drinking, unconcerned with the celebrity in the room. I was once again reminded of my great affection for Paris as I took a long drag from my cigarette.
But when the spotlight hit Harry, I nearly dropped it on the carpet. I didn’t even try to hide my gaze and I looked him up and down. If it was possible, he had grown several inches, and his muscles were bulkier than before. Multiple tattoos covered his arms, hands and chest, and his long curls were pushed back behind a solid black bandana. He was wearing three gold necklaces over an army green shirt, and his skin was olive and clear, his eyes as bright as ever. I quickly forced myself to keep a straight face as I gulped my cabernet sauvignon.
“Bonjour!” he smiled into the microphone, taking a seat. His dimples were visible across the room, and I smirked to myself. “I’m going to play lots of different songs for you tonight. Some you’ll recognize as mine, some I’ve stolen, and a few I’ve written just recently.”
As he sang, almost unaccompanied, stripped-down version of pop songs, I was mesmerized. It didn’t feel like Harry, it was like watching television, he wasn’t real. Slightly disappointed at how underwhelmed I felt after the first set, I approached the bar for a second drink, and sipped it as I leaned against the rough wood surface.
After a brief pause for water, Harry resumed his place and began to sing a song I’d never heard before, but as it progressed, I found myself drawn to the stage, sifting through the crowd.
You don't understand, you don't understand
What you do to me when you hold his hand
We were meant to be, but a twist of fate
Made it so we had to walk away
I felt my hand start to tremble and gripped my glass with more force as I wandered into the orchestra, able to see the lines on his arms and face, the beads of sweat gathering on his forehead, the pink of his lips.
I don't care what people say when we're together
You know I wanna be the one to hold you when you sleep
I just want it to be you and I forever
I know you wanna leave, so come on baby be with me so happily
I pictured him in a cafe, jotting down these lyrics as he drank a Kronenbourg, tapping his long fingers on the table. Maybe his jacket still smelled like me, or maybe he knew I was still in bed with Niall, sleeping on a balmy Saturday morning. My feet carried me forward, until I was only a few meters from the front of the stage, able to read the words scrawled in permanent ink across his arms and collar bone.
It's four A.M., and I know that you're with him
I wonder if he knows that I touched your skin
And if he feels my traces in your hair
I'm sorry love, but I don't really care
My face broke into a wide grin as I approached the footlights. As his eyes scanned the crowd, they settled on mine and lingered. He repeated the dirty verse again, a capella, fixed on me and smirked devilishly. I gingerly took a sip of my wine, never breaking eye contact as I swallowed congenially.
The theatre was silent except for a muted round of applause. Harry regained his composure and pulled the mic to his mouth again, still looking at me.
“I’m going to have to take an intermission. Please, drink up!”
My feet were rooted to the floor, my wine glass empty.
Harry, anxious but deliberate, advanced toward the cusp of the stage and kneeled down, extending his huge hand.
I stepped forward, taking it cautiously, his warmth chilling me, my heart rate multiplying. Carefully, I placed my foot on the edge of the floorboards. With surprising strength, he lifted me up, helping me to land softly next to him. The stage light extinguished, as if on cue, and we were bathed in red.
He was taller, considerably. I felt dwarfed even in my heels. His muscles were bigger, his arms tanned and tattooed. A year had turned Harry’s boyish, naughty charm into pure, masculine, poisonous attraction. I could see the outline of his erect nipples through his thin t-shirt, as well as his athletic thighs in his tight, black jeans.
Similarly, he was looking me up and down, a faint gleam in his green eyes.
“Some song,” I croaked, uncomfortable in the silence, as if I was being examined.
He made eye contact again and smiled awkwardly. “You’d never heard it? It was on our last album.”
“I sort of blacklisted you…” I shrugged, itching for a cigarette. “I’m really disappointed.”
“What?” he looked confused and concerned.
“You didn’t even get me a VIP ticket. I had to wait outside for half an hour, then pay twelve euros for two classes of wine.” I crossed my arms over my chest, finding my old spark and dusting it off, “You’d think after how well I fucked you I could’ve at least bypassed the line.”
His eyes lit up like Christmas morning, and he flicked his tongue over his back teeth to prevent himself from smiling. Chuckling to himself, he pulled the bandana from his hair and ruffled his long curls.
“Fuck off, princess,” he laughed, turning on the heel of his black boots and disappearing behind the velour curtain.
Following him meant surrender, but I only lasted a few seconds before acquiescing and pushing away the drape.
He was leaning on the rail of a black, cylindrical staircase, his elbows behind him so his chest was puffed out, accentuating its definition in the shadowy wing.
“Want to go to the roof for a smoke? I saw the ashtrays on your balcony, didn’t realize you’d picked up another bad habit, Em,” he said, standing straight to tower over me again.
“That’s called stalking, Styles, I could have you arrested,” I rolled my eyes, but nonetheless reached for the pack of Marlboro reds in my chain strap clutch.
“Mm, I know you’d love to put me in handcuffs,” he mumbled, passing behind me. I inhaled, the familiar musky scent washing over me and sending my heart racing again. “Ladies first.”
I started up the slender stairs slowly, careful not to lose my footing and gripping the hollow rail. We were ascending three stories, and I could see the roof access door near the ceiling of the theatre.
“Your ass looks fantastic, love,” he called after me, playfully lifting the flowing hem of my skirt, revealing the black lace thong underneath.
“Hey!” I snapped, spinning to face him. He was two or three steps below me, his face at my height. His sizable hands gripping my waist.
“I really thought you wouldn’t come,” he said softly, his eyes fixed on my wine-stained lips.
Leaning in slowly, my mouth barely brushed his before he withdrew, passing me and ascending the stairs two at a time.
By the time we reached the roof, I was panting and my calves were burning. The cold air hit my lungs and I took a deep breath, looking across the foggy cityscape.
We were silent for several minutes, leaning against the concrete wall bordering the roof, shivering in the night wind.
When I reached in my purse for a cigarette, Harry finally turned to me.
“Need a light?” he asked. When he reached in his back pocket, the hem of his shirt lifted just enough to show the taut skin of his stomach.
I nodded, the cigarette between my teeth, as I cupped my hands around it to block the breeze.
Gingerly, he held my trembling fingers steady as he flicked the lighter, his hands strangely warm and easily enveloping mine.
“Why are you here?” I asked, exhaling smoke through my nose.
“I’m an artist, love, I have to tour,” he said calmly, turning away again.
“Last I checked, you hadn’t performed a gig in months. Contemplating a solo career, are we?” I tried to be coy, but Harry’s gaze was fixed in the distance, where the moon reflected off the river and its shadow danced with the current.
He was wordless for a few minutes, as if formulating a response. Running his hand through his waves, he paced away from me. I forced myself to keep my eyes on the sea of rooftops, pushing our last encounter from my mind.
“I knew you wouldn’t see me if I called you first. I had to be here, where you couldn’t resist. And I was right,” I felt heat behind me, and Harry pressed against me, his hands on my waist. His lips touched the top of my shoulder, then the base of my neck. I shut my eyes, feeling myself grow wet, certain my heartbeat was audible.
Whirling around, I felt his strong torso against me, his visage hovering above me.
“Do you want to get out of here?” I was breathless, numb to the cold and completely confused.
Harry beamed, taking my hand and dragging me behind him, ignoring my lack of speed as he led me to the fire escape. Easily lifting me over the wall, he caught me in his arms and tightly gripped my hand as we climbed down four flights of stairs, giggling like children.
Across the street was a cafe I’d visited several times, La Fourmi, full of small round tables and dimly lit. Harry and I ducked inside, defrosting as we made our way across the room with a rustic feel, with dark wood and bottles of whisky and dusty books adorning the shelves behind the stately bar. The lights of Pigalle twinkled in the distance as Harry and I sat in neighboring stools.
“Can I buy you a glass of wine, stranger?” he grinned, signaling the bartender.
“I want you to try something…” I gently pulled his hand down and leaned across the bar to be heard, “Deux shots de tequila, avec Tabasco s’il vous plait.”
Harry raised his eyebrows, “You’re a bit mental.”
I took the bottle of hot sauce from the bartender, and pulled Harry’s hand away from the bar, facing his palm down and opening his fingers. Carefully, I poured a drop of Tabasco between his thumb and index finger.
“Hold still,” I chastised him, his brow still crinkled, “Lick that after you take your shot.”
Passing him the small glass, I dribbled the hot sauce onto my hand.
“Cheers,” he said, raising his cup before downing it in one large swig. Grimacing and uncertain, I watched him lick his hand. After a few seconds, tranquility returned to Harry’s face, then surprise. “Whoah. Life-changing, truly.”
I chuckled as I tossed back the shot, slurping up the Tabasco to cleanse my palate of the cheap tequila taste.
“Gotta keep you on your toes,” I smirked. Harry’s expression was cloudy, but the corners of his mouth were turned slightly up as he looked at me, silent.
When the quiet began to linger, I faced the bartender again, holding up two fingers.
“This is the happiest I’ve been in a really long time,” he smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair out of my eyes. “Why did you...nevermind. It was a long time ago.”
After a moment of contemplation, I shifted my eyes to the coaster in front of me. “I knew the guilt would catch up to me. It would eat me alive.”
“It took me a while to find you,” he smiled sadly, “Then it hit me. It was so obvious. Was it hard coming back?”
“I feel safe here. It’s the closest thing I have to home,” I said, staring out the window at the streets I loved so much.
As the bartender delivered our shots, Harry stood in front of me, pushing my hair to the left side of my head. He shook the bottle of hot sauce over his finger, then rubbed the red liquid on my collarbone.
Never breaking eye contact, he swigged the tequila, then leaned into me, his hot breath on my neck as he dragged his tongue along my shoulder. I smelled liquor and cayenne as he faced me, spinning on my barstool then taking my shot straight without the chaser.
The tensity in the air was palpable. I ordered a glass of vouvray to avoid it.
“I’m sorry about you and Niall. The worst part was being ‘that girl.’” I said sheepishly, crossing my arms, “He’s doing great, though. I knew he would.”
“Honestly, babe, you leaving was one of the best things to happen to him. Even invited me to the wedding,” he lowered his voice, “Can’t say the same is true for me, though.”
I felt a pang of remorse but quickly quelched it.
“Let’s play a game,” I suggested before signaling for another glass of wine, “We ask each other questions. You have to be honest. If you lie, you drink.”
“That makes no sense at all,” he chuckled, accepting the glasses.
“Shh, it’s a game,” I smiled. “You first.”
He acquiesced, biting his lip as he thought. “Do you ever have dreams about me?”
“All the time,” I admitted, hiding behind the wine as I took a voluntary sip. “Okay. How many girls have you been with since me?”
“Like, been with, been with?” he asked nervously and I nodded, “Nine.”
I wasn’t surprised, and my dejection was unwarranted. If he had asked the same question, my answer would have been zero, and I was ashamed.
He contemplated his question, hesitating only an instant, “Why did you come tonight? You blocked my number, my Facebook, everything. What changed?”
“It’s not that I didn’t miss you. I...I ached...” my thoughts weren’t easily translated to words, “I didn’t want to, I had to. I needed to see if you were okay, if you were happy, if you were...you.”
He grinned, “Lie, you drink. You’re here to fuck me and we both know it.”
I tossed back the remnants of my pinot gris and sat the glass on the counter with force, locking eyes with Harry’s gorgeous greens. “Last one. Where are you staying tonight?”
So I just read your sequel and I died mere I'm glad I'm still following you cause I always wanted to know what happened next hopefully you'll continue ? Anyways have a lovely day x
I'm going to try to! I've got over a month of free time to work on it so I might get a short story out of it :) xx
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