#and I’ve been adding big dabs to bowls and then I forgot I didn’t have ice in the bong and it was horrible

[milo-is-rambling]

So much snot. I hate and love you dabs

[nancypullen]

Annnd I’m Back

I may have mentioned that the mister took a quick trip down to visit his mother and siblings, I’m flying down to see my mom in March so I didn’t tag along on this trip.  I still have sticker shock from buying my March ticket.  Granted, I’m flying into a small airport but if I’d left from Nashville the price would have been just under $200, leaving from Baltimore (same carrier)  was almost triple that. Ugh.  I’m still going through Atlanta so it’s not like I was able to book a nifty non-stop. It is what it is. Just seems like a rip-off, and I’m in denial about things like longer trip, added fuel costs,etc.  It’s not that much longer.  Anywayyyyy, enough beefing about that.  While Mickey was out of town I unplugged.  I ignored news, social media (mostly) and even email.  I lost myself in arts and crafts, reading, and watched a lot of Ina Garten.  It was soothing.  I forgot about the crazy world and just existed in my happy bubble.  Sure, I could do a lot of that when my spouse is home - but it’s lovelier to do it with no timetable.  I could skip making meals because if I wasn’t hungry it didn’t matter. I’ve been worrying about everyone’s meal schedule but my own since I was eighteen. Turns out I really only get hungry about once a day. I might be onto something here.  Oh sure, you could say that just because I cooked for someone else doesn’t mean I have to sit down and eat it too.  Get outta’ here with that crazy talk. I could waste away to normal doing that.  Most of my meals looked like this - roasted green beans, brown butter carrots from the crockpot, and a dab of garlic aioli to dip those beans in.  Healthy-ish.

Moving on to the crafty part of my week - some of it was practical and some of it was frivolous. I happen to think that frivolity is a necessary part of life.  The practical side of things had to do with that big ol’ trunk I bought a couple weeks ago. It sits under the double windows in the master bedroom (I’ve been told that’s politically incorrect and it should be primary bedroom).  That’s the perfect spot for it but it blocks a heating/cooling vent.  I figured all it needed was a little lift.  I found some wooden legs, not quite as big and squatty as I wanted, but I’m a fan of using what’s available.  I called upon my old friend spray paint...

and in no time that trunk was raised just to window height (the cats love it) and air was once again flowing freely.

I wonder where that trunk has been and what it has held - wish it could talk! My next project was equally as easy, and involved tea cups. There’s an auction house in Denton, Trice Auctions, and you can buy anything from tea cups to a dump truck there.  I opted for the cups.  Trice is a company that handles mostly estate sales. Every week they post a variety of goods and you can bid from the comfort of your home and pick up your winnings the following day. I tend to get excited over furniture and dishes (McCoy bowls, Fire King Jadeite, etc) and my picks usually close at a higher price than I’m willing to pay.  Nice to know I have good taste though. I’ve purchased some gorgeous frames - a grouping of three for TWO DOLLARS, and some beautiful tea cups and saucers. The cups and saucers came in at about two dollars a set, so I spent something like eight or nine dollars on those.  I’m turning them into pretty bird feeders. Anything is possible with Gorilla Glue.

I’d ordered a set of plant stakes from Amazon - the type that support large plants, I chose some that are 30 inches tall. 

Once again, my BFF showed up to help...

they arrived silver, no thank you.  I would have loved to really dress them up, maybe use something glittery, but I went with a good, solid green so that the stake will actually blend in with the gardens or potted plants where they’ll eventually be placed.  Once the stakes were dry I glued the saucer to that circular part and let it set.  Then I glued the tea cup to the saucer.  When spring arrives my porch plants and a couple of garden spots will offer bird seed in these sweet little cups.

I’ll put them in protected areas, and they’ll be easy enough to rinse out with a hose.  I’m convinced that the birds will appreciate the bit of fancy.  I’d love to see a robin or wren perched on the edge of that cup and enjoying a snack.

I did play with a bit of clay this week as well and made a pair of earrings to celebrate the arrival  of February. I figured it was easier to make hugs and kisses than groundhogs.

And since the grandgirl’s birthday is coming up I made a little bo for her to store the crown jewels.  She loves nothing more than a tiara and to deck herself in glittery, shiny things.  The universe gave her the right Grancy for that.  I try not to give her things that don’t come with a storage container of its own.  Imagine a little girl with two sets of grandparents, some great-grandparents, and a collection of aunts and uncles who love to give her things.  It fills up a room and a house pretty quickly.  That’s why I try to provide storage with the gift.  I found one of those magnetic-close boxes (in pink!) for a couple of bucks. It’s about 8 inches by 11 inches, so perfect!

 I rummaged around in my odds and ends and found some black velvety fabric.  Probably left over from a long ago Halloween.  So I measured a piece of cardboard from the bajillion Amazon packages we get, and made sure it fit the  box.

I had some pillow stuffing, but you could use foam, batting, whatever you have handy.  I glued that down on the cardboard, wrapped the fabric around that and glued it in the back, then glued in the whole she-bang, and now we have a box for her crowns.

I’ll put some smaller boxes inside to hold her clip on earrings and some sparkly necklaces.  Every girl should have a treasure chest, right?   I feel like I need to swipe those inside walls with a hint of glitter.  Maybe not. So there you have it, I was alone for four days and didn’t waste a minute of it.  In my world anything is possible with paint and glue.  I didn’t share the painting that I worked on because it’s in progress - but I’m getting better at florals and I’ll be using some of those pretty frames I picked up at the auction.  I’m thinking of branching out and doing multi-media collages with my dead people.  Why limit them to cards? I’m sure some woman needs this on her wall.

Or maybe this in her office.

On canvas with a combination of paint, fabric, and some doodads - they’d make nice gifts for girlfriends.  Can you tell I’m trying to talk myself into it?  I’m going to give it a whirl.  Why not? And that, my friends, explains my absence for the last few days.  I’ve been knee deep in fun.  Well, my kind of fun.  I hope that you’re doing something that feeds your soul and takes you away from the crazy world from time to time.  We all need it.  My talents are meager but I still find joy in using them. Use up what the universe gave you - your singing voice, your athleticism, your musical talents, your green thumb, your baking skills, whatever it is!  Don’t waste your gift.  You don’t have to be the very best at it, you don’t have to make money from it, if you enjoy it - that’s enough.  Don’t turn pleasure into pressure. On that note, I’ll wrap up this rambling post. Sending out oodles of love and crossing my fingers that the groundhog sees his shadow tomorrow. I know, I know, everyone else is sick of winter.  I just want one blizzard and then I’ll shut up.  We woke up to a dusting of snow today and it was gone by noon. Not good enough.  Come on,  Punxsutawney Phil - throw me a bone!

Hear me out, even if it stays chilly we’re still gaining daylight, right? Win-win! Until tomorrow - stay safe, stay well.

Nancy  

[sunflowervolvimp3]

42 Hours

Content: an enemies to lovers au in which Harry and Y/N are forced into a cross country road trip to make it to their best friends’ wedding on time

Warnings: language, mentions of nsfw content

Pairing: Harry Styles x reader

Word Count: 20k 

A/N: I actually cannot believe that this is finally being posted over almost a month of working on it!! originally, I was going to make this one long stand alone fic, but once I hit 35k with no end in sight, I decided to split it into two parts so that it would be easier to read for you guys.  I’m hoping to have part 2 posted within a week, so keep an eye out for it!! this fic was partially inspired by this post by @avhrodite​ (thank you miss bailey!!) and can I just say that I had so much fun writing it!! I love road trips!! it makes me so sad that I had to split this fic because there are so many fun music scenes in the next part but those will all come in due time!! I would also like to give a big thank you to miss andrea @adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy​ and miss alex @darthstyles​ for putting up with me bouncing ideas off of them and for proof reading for me!! and miss andrea again for editing this stunning header pic!! also everyone I tagged is a wonderful writer and if you’re looking for more to read after reading this then I HIGHLY suggest taking a look through their masterlists. and as always, if you like this fic, please like and reblog it!! and shoot me a message!! feedback is always appreciated, not just by me, but by all content creators <3

{masterlist}

also!! if you want to set the mood for a road trip with Harry, here is a link to the playlist that is mentioned and referenced in this fic!!

When she was a little girl, Y/N’s grandmother had told her about Murphy’s Law.  Grandma Sarah’s favourite activity was staring at her granddaughter over the kitchen counter, a knife in one hand and half an onion that she’d been cutting in the other, spouting various wisdoms at the young girl, who would often be sitting and peeling vegetables for her.  The old lady had hoped that, after being lectured enough times on life’s difficulties, Y/N might be able to avoid making the same mistakes that she had made in her own time.  She always had a list of advice that she’d cycle through, as if she were a record on a loop.

“Always look both ways before crossing the street.  Your great uncle Albert didn’t, and he never regained full function of his left hand.”

“Beauty fades, but there’s no shelf life on your mind.”

“The grass is always greener on the other side, so stop staring at it, and focus on taking care of your own lawn.”

All of the advice was, by any accounts, useful for anyone to know, especially a young girl.  Of course, sometimes the advice would get a little scrambled after Grandma Sarah had had a few glasses of wine, but even her tipsy thoughts were useful to Y/N in her later years.  To this day, Y/N still sets a glass of water on her nightstand before going out to a bar, and her hungover self is always grateful the next morning.  And Y/N had yet to find anything that smelled as sweet as a vanilla dabbed behind her ears and on her wrists when she runs out of perfume.  However, perhaps the most important piece of advice Grandma Sarah ever gave her came one afternoon when Y/N was eleven years old, and her older cousin Grace was due to get married the next week.

Grandma Sarah had cracked egg after egg into her mixing bowl, always without getting any unwanted pieces of shell in the egg whites, and gave her granddaughter a long look across the kitchen counter.

“When you get married, Y/N,” She had said, voice firm. “Remember Murphy’s Law.  Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong, and at the worst possible moment.  When Murphy’s Law comes into play, there’s nothing you can do except roll with the punches.”

Eleven year old Y/N had nodded her head seriously, as she always did when her grandmother told her seemingly important things.  The advice, despite its usefulness, however, didn’t stick around in her head, and Murphy’s Law didn’t cross Y/N’s mind for fourteen years.

It takes fourteen years for Y/N, who is standing in front of a flight check-in at LAX, two large suitcases next to her, one of which contains two gold wedding bands, passport in hand, and a distressed look on her face, to remember the law her grandmother had once told her about.

“When you get married, Y/N…anything that can go wrong, will go wrong, and at the worst possible moment.”

Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Y/N pushes the echoing words of her grandmother out of her head. “I’m sorry, just—” She gives a pained smile to the lady working the check in. “Can you explain that to me again, please?”

The lady also takes a deep breath, the smile on her ruby tinted lips just as pained as Y/N’s. “There’s a storm system moving through Utah and Colorado.  These systems have the potential to become tornadoes, and because of that, the conditions for flying are too dangerous right now, so all flights through that area are grounded until further notice.”

“So my flight is cancelled?” Y/N holds up the ticket in her hand that’s stamped with LAX – JFK. “This flight, this flight to New York, which is nowhere near Utah—that’s cancelled?”

The check-in lady, whose name tag reads Brynn, gives another tight smile. “Yes, ma’am.  It’s cancelled.”

“Okay, no, I’m sorry, Brynn, but that doesn’t work for me.” Y/N shakes her head fiercely as the manic rush of emotions through her begins to set in.  The denial, she finds, keeps the oncoming panic at bay, and so she decides to focus on that to ground herself. “My best friend is getting married in the Catskills in one week.” Y/N holds up one finger, as if her words are hard for Brynn to understand. “That’s one week from today.  I’m the maid of honour.  I have to be there to help organize, keep her calm, and make sure she actually makes it down the aisle, because—between you and me—she’s got some commitment issues—” The more Y/N speaks, the more her panic begins to spill out in her words, like a dam with a leak that’s about to burst. “And she forgot the goddamn wedding rings, so I have those too, and I just—I really need to get to New York, like, now. Right now.”

Y/N finally pauses to take a sharp breath, and Brynn, who had been waiting for her to finish, speaks again, her voice flatter than before.

“I’m very sorry to hear that, ma’am, but as I said, all flights are grounded right now.”

Pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers, Y/N takes another deep breath.  Roll with the punches, her grandmother had told her.  What else is there to do? “Okay.” Y/N is careful to keep her voice in check when she speaks again. “Alright.  Do you know when they’ll be ungrounded?”

“As I’ve said,” Brynn’s smile is more of a grimace now, and Y/N knows that she’s treading on thin ice. “All flights are grounded until further notice.  We’re not sure when we’ll be able to open them again.  It could be a day, or it could be five.  If you’d like, I can put you down on a list to be called when flights are available again, but I’m afraid that’s the best I can do.”

“Let’s do that, then.” Y/N relents in a tired voice, already making plans to pick up a coffee on her way back to her apartment.  In the back of her mind, she begins to wonder if she has any Baileys Irish cream liqueur left in her kitchen cabinet—and if 8:30 A.M. is too early to be drinking Baileys with her coffee.

…

It takes Y/N two cups of coffee with Baileys (it had been 10 A.M. by the time she arrived home, thanks to L.A. traffic, and she had decided that 10 A.M. was a fine time to drink when one’s flight gets cancelled indefinitely) to work up the courage to call Jo and tell her that she isn’t sure if she’ll be able to make it to the wedding.

Josephine Waters, or Jo to anyone who doesn’t want to get punched in the arm, has been Y/N’s best friend since the girls were five years old.  They became fast friends on the first day of kindergarten, as Jo liked how Y/N could already colour inside the lines, and Y/N liked how Jo tackled a boy who tugged on Y/N’s pigtails.  From the very beginning, the two were a perfect match for each other; where Y/N was reserved, Jo was wild.  Where Jo was disorganized, Y/N was focused.  Each girl balanced the other in the most natural way, and it’s this fact that Y/N and Jo credit for the two of them staying friends for twenty years. As they grew up together, they grew together, taking the very best traits from the other and using it to help themselves develop.  Y/N had been the first person that Jo came out to, confessing to her best friend during an eighth grade sleepover in a quiet and nervous voice.  To Jo’s pleasure, Y/N had been completely supportive, and returned the favour from the first day of kindergarten by punching a boy in the nose for calling Jo a homophobic slur.  Jo helped Y/N through her parent’s divorce.  Y/N helped Jo manage her ADHD.  Jo talked Y/N through discovering her bisexuality in university. Y/N answered every 3 A.M. phone call to comfort Jo after a panic attack.  In every sense of the word, the two girls had been there for each other.

And now Y/N is going to miss Jo’s wedding.

The harsh realization digs a pit in her stomach as she opens her phone and clicks on Jo’s name.  It’s noon in L.A., which means it’s 3 P.M. in New York time, and Y/N knows Jo will answer.  She always does.

Sure enough, after three short rings, Jo’s voice chirps through the phone. “Hey, Y/N!  Has your flight landed already?”

“No, there’s—there’s been an issue.” Y/N downs another gulp of her coffee, wishing she had added more Baileys when she had the chance, and clears her throat before continuing. “There’s, um, a storm in Utah, and apparently it’s bad, and so all flights from L.A. to New York are grounded until further notice.”

Jo makes a scoffing noise, and Y/N can practically picture the indignant look on her face that she’s seen so many times before. “That’s ridiculous.  Did you tell them that New York is nowhere near Utah?”

“Uh huh.”

“What about that my wedding is in one week?”

“I told them that, too. Brynn didn’t seem to care.”

“Bitch.” Jo mutters under her breath. “Okay, just wait a second, Laure just walked through the door, so I’m putting you on speakerphone—”

Y/N hears rustling on the speaker, as well as muttering in the background as Jo speaks to her fiancée, and then Jo’s voice is back, sounding slightly more distant.

“Okay, so I told Laure what happened—”

“That’s awful, Y/N.” Laure’s voice is laced with stress, and Y/N can only imagine how much anxiety this information is adding to her already full plate. “They won’t tell you when flights will be leaving again?”

“Nope.” Y/N pulls her knees to her chest and wraps her free arm around them, leaning her head against the back of her couch.

“Okay, well, planes aren’t the only way to get here.” Laure says, always the more rational out of the two. “Maybe a car—?”

“Y/N doesn’t have one.” Jo chimes in, a hint of teasing in her voice, despite the serious problem that’s in discussion. “She’s scared of driving—”

Y/N sits up, an indignant look on her face. “I’m not scared of driving!” She says hotly, setting her empty coffee mug on the table with a thud. “I just hate L.A. traffic, and honestly, there’s no point!  I can walk to work, and Uber anywhere else I need to go!  A car would be completely useless to me!”

“Except now, when you’re about to miss your best friend’s wedding.” Jo points out. “What about renting one?”

Y/N sighs, her moment of indignation already fizzled out. “I tried that already.  There’s nothing available for a cross country trip.”

“And the drive is so long.” Laure murmurs, and Y/N knows it’s more for Jo’s benefit than hers. “It’s over forty hours.  She can’t do that by herself; it’s not safe.”

“But—”

“Look, Jo, don’t worry about this, alright?” Y/N cuts across her best friend’s anxious voice, assuming her usual role of protector. “I’ll figure this out.  I promise you; I will make it to your wedding on time, looking pretty in my dress, and with your wedding bands.  I promise.”

“We’ll keep thinking about it and see what we can come up with.” Laure promises through the phone, her voice sounding further and further away. “This is just—it’s a bump in the road, but it’s fine.  We can work around this.  We’ll find a way.”

…

The way that Laure finds for Y/N pounds on her door at 7:30 A.M. the next morning.

Y/N, like any exhausted and stressed out adult who has already begun her ten days of vacation time that she booked off for the wedding, is fast asleep in her bed when she hears the knocking.  The loud noise pulls her out from her dreams abruptly, and she cracks one eye open, squinting through the sunlight that’s lighting up her room.  When the knock echoes through her apartment again, she pulls herself from her sheets with a groan, grabbing her robe from the back of her door and tying it around herself as she makes her way to the front hallway to yell at whoever has the audacity to wake her up.

When she opens the door, Harry Styles is peering down at her with an irritated look on his face.

“Took you long enough, Y/N.” He rolls his eyes as he speaks, finally stepping back from the door that he had been pounding on a moment ago. “Are you ready to go?”

Y/N rubs her eyes, suppressing a yawn as she does so. “Styles, I have no idea what you’re talking about.  What are you doing here?” She demands.  She doesn’t have the energy to deal with him right now, she thinks, let alone the mental capacity to listen to anything he has to say.

Harry crosses his arms across his chest, and it’s then that Y/N notices the duffel bag strewn over his shoulder. “It’s a forty-two hour drive from L.A. to the Catskills.” Harry’s eyes scan over Y/N’s appearance, the very corner of his strawberry pink lips twitching, and Y/N tightens her robe around herself with a glare.

“A drive?” Y/N asks, uncertainty growing in her voice as she crosses her arm over her chest. “What are you talking about?”

“Your flight was cancelled, right?” Harry’s voice grows more impatient as Y/N’s half asleep brain struggles to piece together what’s happening. “So was mine, so I decided to drive to the wedding, and then Laure called me last night, begging me to take you with me.” He shrugs a bit, fixing his sunglasses on top of his head as his jade eyes scan over her appearance one more time. “Not my first choice of road trip partner, but I don’t think the best man can say no to bringing the maid of honour.  And splitting the cost of gas will be nice.”

“Okay, wait, I…” Y/N’s finally coming out of her fog of exhaustion, and the newfound clarity of her mind is causing a newfound pit to develop in her stomach. “Laure and Jo didn’t tell me any of this.”

“Well, I expect they’re a bit busy, given that they’re getting married in a week.” Harry adjusts the strap of his duffel bag on his shoulder with a sharp sigh. “Look, are you ready to go or not?  It’s over a five day drive, so we need to leave as soon as possible.”

“I—yeah—” Y/N nods before taking a hesitant step back from the doorway, positioning herself to the side so that Harry can get by her. “I just have to get dressed and grab a couple last minute things, so…come in, I guess.”

Harry flashes an insincere smile to Y/N as he steps into her apartment, his eyes darting around at the furniture and home decor.  Y/N watches as his gaze lingers on her library of books, her yellow bicycle leaning against the wall, and every other little touch of herself that she likes her home to have, and she can see the judgement that’s clearly apparent in his eyes.

“You can sit, if you want.” She mutters, turning on her heel to go back to her bedroom. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

The first thing Y/N does when she shuts her bedroom door behind herself is assess the situation in the analytical way that usually calms her.  Alright.  So a road trip across the country isn’t exactly ideal, and a road trip across the country with Harry Styles is even less ideal.  But, at the present moment, being stuck in a car with Harry seems to be the only sure way that she’ll be able to make it to Jo’s wedding on time. And for Jo, Y/N would put up with anything.  Even Harry.

As she rummages through her drawers for some leggings and a tank top, Y/N wonders what she could have possibly done to bring this much bad karma into her life.  While she gets dressed, her mind flickers back to Murphy’s Law, how everything that can go wrong will go wrong, in the worst possible way, and then she thinks about being in a confined space with Harry for five days, and—yeah.  That seems to be the worst possible thing she can think of.

Y/N remembers the first moment she’d met Harry seven years ago, and the unfortunate circumstances under which that meeting had happened.  Jo and Laure had just barely met back then, and Jo had begged Y/N to come out on a double date with her and “this really hot girl from my women studies class who I’m, like, 83% sure swings my way.”

Y/N had groaned at that comment, flopping back on her bed in the tiny dorm that she and Jo shared. “No! I have an essay due in three days that I haven’t even started!”

Jo rolled her eyes as she flopped down on Y/N’s bed as well, ignoring her own half-made bunk that was across the small room, favouring her best friend’s bed like she always did. “We both know you’re not starting that essay until the day before it’s due, and that it’s just an excuse because you don’t want to go!”

“I don’t want to go.” Y/N had agreed with a sharp and fervent nod.  She shut her laptop and pushed it to the side of her bed, knowing from experience that she wasn’t going to be able to focus and argue at the same time. “Why would I want to hang out with a complete stranger while you make googly eyes at a girl from your class?”

“Okay, first, I don’t make googly eyes.” Jo made a face at that comment, nudging Y/N’s calf with her own foot. “And second, he’s her best friend from high school, and he’s coming to visit all the way from London!”

“So?  He’s still a stranger!” Y/N pointed out, her eyes drifting to the sticky note covered novel beside her.  She picks it up and begins to flip through the marked pages as she speaks. “Knowing where he’s from doesn’t change that!”

“It should, because he’s only going to be here for a week, and Laure almost cancelled the date because she doesn’t want to miss spending time with him—” Jo grabbed one of Y/N’s pillows and tossed it at her arm, knocking the book from her hands. “Focus! So I said that he could come, but she said that she didn’t want him to be left out, so I said that I happen to have an incredibly beautiful and witty best friend who would be able to entertain Harry while we all hang out together.”

Y/N inhaled deeply as she gave Jo a withering look. “Did you already tell her I’m going?”

Jo, in return, gave Y/N her most dazzling smile. “Yes.  We’re meeting them for dinner at 7.”

Y/N shakes herself from her memories as she runs to her bathroom to toss her toiletries back into the bag she’d taken them out of the day before, working as quickly as she can. It does her no good to think of Harry in the past, she thinks, because the present Harry is currently sitting in her living room, probably snooping through her stuff, and the longer she takes to get ready to go, the more he’ll go through.  Not that there’s anything incriminating in her apartment, really—or at least, nothing incriminating in her living room.  When Y/N makes it back to her bedroom, however, to quickly zip up her suitcase, she does make sure she grabs her favourite vibrator from the box under her bed, tucking it between her half-folded underwear.  If she’s going to be gone for a week, she’ll need something to help her relax.

Within a few more minutes, Y/N is repacked and ready to go.  Her hunter green bridesmaid dress is carefully arranged on the very top of her clothes in her suitcase, all of her makeup and toiletries are packed inside, and Jo and Laure’s wedding rings are secured in little velvet boxes stashed between her socks.  As far as physical preparedness goes, Y/N is ready to go on a coast to coast road trip. As far as mental preparedness goes, however…that’s the thing that Y/N’s not quite sure about.

…

“What are you doing?”

Y/N glances at Harry from the corner of her eye, her hand still half stretched out to the radio dials in his car.  Although Harry’s green eyes are hidden behind his sunglasses, and his face is turned towards the long road in front of them, he still somehow manages to catch her motions, and it irritates her to no end.

“I’m changing the radio station?” Y/N answers after a moment, giving him a puzzled look. “I don’t know why you listen to this weird oldies station, but—”

“First of all—” Harry’s hands turn the steering wheel slightly to guide his car over the curve of the road, his jaw twitching as a smirk works its way onto his pink lips. “This isn’t a radio station, it’s my Spotify playlist.  I put a Bluetooth connection in Stevie a year ago. Secondly—”

“Stevie?” Y/N repeats incredulously, twisting her whole body as best she can to look at Harry straight on. “You named your car?  You’re one of those guys?”

Harry finally gives Y/N a flicker of a glance, the glare obvious in his eyes even behind his dark sunglasses.  He turns his attention back to the road before replying. “Secondly—” He continues from before, ignoring her comment as his right hand readjusts the gear shift. “Driver picks the music.”

Y/N makes a face, the corners of her lips pulling down into a grimace as she settles back into the passenger seat with her arms crossed. “So we’re just going to listen to ‘Tiny Dancer’ for the entire drive, are we?”

“Not the entire drive, no.” Harry flicks on his turn signal with a ringed hand before shoulder checking to change lanes.  Y/N glances at him, her eyes training on the strained muscles in his neck as Harry continues. “We’ll listen to ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart,’ too.”

“Great.” Y/N exhales slowly and presses her head back into the seat’s headrest, closing her eyes as Elton John’s voice continues to float through the speakers. “Really looking forward to it.”

“You know, maybe you should try to sleep.” Harry says, his voice prickled with irritation as Elton John bleeds into The Zombies. “I think you’ll be in a better mood after you take a nap.”

Y/N readjusts her crossed arms as she mutters a short reply. “Don’t tell me what to do.” Still, she shuts her eyes again, twisting her body towards the window in an attempt to get comfortable enough to sleep.  Being in the car with Harry is already giving her a throbbing migraine, and they’ve only been on the road for less than two hours.  Sleeping through most of the trip will probably be the only way she’ll be able to survive it.

Despite that realization, however, her phone vibrates in her lap three minutes later, pulling her away from her thoughts.  Y/N glances down at the now lit screen, catching her bottom lip between her teeth when she registers the name on the message.  Opening her phone quickly, she reads over the reply as a guilty feeling begins to build in her stomach.

BRANT: Hey, what are you doing tonight?  Want to grab some dinner?

“What’s wrong?”

“Hm?” Y/N’s head snaps back up, her eyes jerking in Harry’s direction.  Like before, he’s watching her from the corner of his eye, catching every one of her movements, and the constant surveillance is annoying to no end.

Harry, it seems, is either oblivious to her annoyance, or is choosing to ignore it. “I asked what’s wrong. You have a weird look on your face.” Harry’s blunt words are accompanied by the sound of him tapping his ring covered fingers against the gear shift. “Everything alright?  Is it Laure and Jo?”

“No, it’s just—” Y/N glances down at her phone again, fingers poised over her keyboard as she crafts a reply in her head. “It’s no one.”

Harry snorts once, a short and harsh sound that grates against Y/N’s nerves like nails on a chalkboard. “I don’t buy that for a second.”

“It’s no one to you.” Y/N updates her retort, turning her full attention back to her phone. “My personal life is none of your business.”

Y/N: I’m sorry, I can’t!! Caught a last minute ride to New York with somebody.  Maybe once I’m back?

“Personal life, huh?” Harry clicks his tongue once, and the childish noise is even more irritating than his snort. “What, you can’t talk to me about whoever you’re shagging?”

The blunt remark hits Y/N like a shot to the chest, and she sputters for a moment as she struggles to form a response. “I—we’re not—” Taking a moment to gather herself and clear her throat quickly, Y/N avoids Harry’s gaze as her cheeks begin to burn. “We’re not like that. We’ve just…had a few dates, that’s all. There’s nothing…official.”

“You don’t need to be official to have a shag, now, do you?” Harry lifts his hand from the gear shift to fix his sunglasses, settling it back down on his jean covered thigh once he’s done. “If you don’t want to date the bloke—”

“I didn’t say that.” Y/N cuts over him, pulling herself from her embarrassment enough to give him a cold glare. “He’s very nice—”

“Boring, you mean—”

“And I—this is none of your business!” Feeling the flush of embarrassment rise back to her cheeks, Y/N once again turns her attention to her passenger seat window, avoiding Harry’s pressing gaze. “I’m done talking about this.”

Harry gives an indifferent shrug. “Whatever.” He says casually, tapping his finger against his thigh as his shoulders once again lift slightly beneath his fitted black t-shirt. “I just feel bad for the guy, that’s all.”

The comment is bait. And the thing is, Y/N knows it’s bait.  She knows that the only reason Harry is saying it is to get under her skin and keep her talking about Brant, further embarrassing herself in the process. She’s been around Harry enough to know how he works, and she knows that the only reason he would say that is to bait her.  She knows she shouldn’t take it.  And yet—

“There’s no reason to feel bad for him.” Y/N scoffs as she fidgets with the position of her seatbelt, trying to stop the strap from cutting into her chest. “We’ve been talking for a month, and there’s nothing official happening.  Just because you can’t go that long without trying to stick your dick in someone—”

“You have no idea what I can do, Y/N.  Don’t pretend that you do.” Harry’s tone of voice is just as scoffing as hers, his eyes still set on the road in front of them intently as he gives his sharp response. Y/N watches as he shifts the gears of the car and speeds up, just enough to make the engine roar, but not enough to lose control of the car.  Part of Y/N wistfully wishes that he would just slip up and crash the car, just so she wouldn’t have to continue this conversation.

“All I meant,” Harry continues, unaware of the dark daydreams running through Y/N’s head. “Is that I feel bad that you’re clearly not interested in him, which is proven by the fact that you haven’t wanted him in your bed.”

Irritation flares through Y/N’s body again, stronger than the embarrassment of discussing her sex life (or lack thereof) with Harry, and she half considers just grabbing the steering wheel and yanking it into a passing cliff so she can finish them off herself. “For Christ’s sake, Harry, sex isn’t the only way to—”

“I don’t mean actually having it, that’s not a given.” Harry rolls his eyes from behind his sunglasses as he slows down for a curve in the road, his practiced hands once again changing gears with ease. “You don’t have to fuck him.  But you should want to, especially if you’ve had a month of dates, and you clearly don’t want to.”

Y/N doesn’t hide the incredulous stare of disbelief on her face as she turns to look at him. Harry’s face, though turned towards the road still, has a look of amusement mixed with contemplation on it, and it takes all of Y/N’s self control not to smack the expression off of him. Although there’s the ghost of a smirk on his strawberry coloured lips, his brow is furrowed behind his sunglasses, as if he’s thinking hard about the conversation between them.  Normally, Y/N would be amazed that Harry is thinking hard about anything.  However, given that their conversation is apparently turning into whether or not she wants to have sex with someone, Y/N’s not too thrilled about his sudden investment and serious contemplation of the topic.

Shaking her head decidedly, Y/N finally spits out a finishing phrase. “You don’t know what I want.” She says decidedly, reaching into the backseat to grab the sweater she stashed back there.  She clumsily pulls it over her body without taking off her seatbelt.  Harry keeps the AC cranked as high as he can, and she knows that he’ll kill her if she tries to change it. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know more than you think.” Harry counters, the tip of his tongue running along his bottom lip. “And I’m pretty good at reading body language.  You don’t really want him.  He—what’s his name?”

Despite her better judgement, Y/N answers in a flat voice. “Brant.”

The corners of Harry’s cherry lip twitches. “Brant.  Yeah. It’s clear you don’t really want him, and you’re wasting your time.  You’re wasting his time, too.  Poor Brant.”

“Poor—you’re such an ass, you know that?” Y/N’s irritation bubbles over as she gives Harry a nasty look, her hand squeezing her thigh hard in an attempt to ground herself in their conversation. “You can try to pretend otherwise, but you don’t know anything about me, or him, so—”

“You think I’ve been friends with Laure and Jo this long and haven’t learned anything about you?” Harry cocks an eyebrow, risking a glance at her as he presses a heavier foot onto the gas. “I told you, I know more than you think, and that includes your type.”

An incredulous scoff leaves Y/N’s mouth, and she shakes her head in obvious disbelief before responding. “My type.  Right. What is my type, then?  What’s Brant like, exactly, since you seem to know everything?”

Harry goes quiet then, his brow furrowing again as he returns his full attention to the road.  With his incessant chatter gone, the only sounds in the car being “Maps” playing quietly in the background and Harry’s ringed index and forefinger tap on the steering wheel.  Y/N breathes out a long sigh of satisfaction as she relaxes back in her seat, her attention turned back to the blurred landscapes speeding by her window.  Finally, she’s managed to get Harry to stop with his ridiculous assumptions—

“You like someone that’s stable and secure, so he probably works in some corporation, or an office job. Majored in business, I’d think, but has a minor in something like mathematics.” The side profile of Harry’s nose wrinkles in disgust at the thought. “He wants to work his way up in the company, but never wants to actually start anything on his own.  He likes the stability of a blueprint. You’re obsessed with punctuality, so he’s probably always on time to pick you up for dates—and he has to pick you up, because you don’t drive—and your dates are never really dates. Dinners, or movies, or something like that, but they never really have that spark.” Harry’s shoulder lift slightly as he continues to make his conclusions. “Which, honestly, is probably a big reason in why you don’t want to fuck him, because as much as you like stability and safety, you also like the idea of a grand gesture, or something like that.  And you probably split the bill a lot at dinner, right?  Because it just seems fair, but really it’s because you know it’s not a real date.  But it passes the time, and he’s nice, so it’s fine.  But it’s only fine.” Harry licks his lips once more as he collects his next thoughts, his teeth catching his bottom lip just barely as his tongue retreats back into his mouth. “And he’s probably already talking about you coming to meet his family for some holiday.  Not in a romantic way, but just because he likes to plan everything in advance to every minute detail.  Just like you.”

Halfway through Harry’s speech, a flush had begun to creep up Y/N’s neck, continuing to warm her jaw and ears before settling on the apples of her cheeks.  She keeps her eyes trained on her window and her mouth pressed into a tight line, refusing to look at Harry and give him any hint of just how shocked she is that he’s guessed so much.

Harry, however, doesn’t plan on letting her get away from his inquisition. “Well?” He impatiently prompts after a moment, and even though she’s not looking at him, she can feel him looking at her, his emerald irises burning into the back of her head. “Am I right?”

“I—” Y/N clears her throat quickly, but her voice is still strained and tight when she replies. “No.”

Harry hums low in his throat, and his voice is laced with curiosity with he replies. “Really?” The irritating tap of his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the music continues. “What did I get wrong?”

“He—” Y/N hates the way her skin is burning from his interrogation, how her voice shrinks smaller and smaller the more she speaks.  If Harry knows her so well, then he knows how much she loves being in control, and in this situation, with Harry managing to pull every one of her most secret inner thoughts and feelings out of her without trouble, she feels anything but in control. “He has a minor in accounting, not mathematics.”

The laugh that leaves Harry’s mouth is loud and bombastic, and his whole body curves over the steering wheel as the sound rolls out of him, his eyes just barely managing to stay on the road while his sunglasses slide down his nose. “Right.” Harry says between belly laughs, his voice stretched out in amusement. “But everything else was spot on?”

Y/N keeps her stiff body turned towards the window, refusing to engage in the conversation any further. That doesn’t stop Harry, however, who fixes his sunglasses as chuckles continue to roll out of him.

“I take it back. Maybe he’s the one wasting your time.” His hand runs through his hair lazily, fixing the curled strands that had fallen into his eyes as he laughed. “I don’t blame you for not wanting to sleep with your bore of a boyfriend—”

“He’s stable!” Y/N breaks her silence to protest Harry’s words, her voice heated. “And he’s not my boyfriend.  We’ve been seeing each other, but we’re not—it’s not exclusive, or—nothing serious—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.  It’s fine.” Harry waves off her arguments with a flick of his tattooed hand. “Besides, like you said, it’s none of my business, right?”

Y/N can practically picture what Harry looks like in this moment.  His chestnut curls are probably a mess from fidgeting with them, and his cheeks are most likely rosy beneath his stubble from the peels of laughter that left his equally red lips a moment ago.  Most infuriatingly of all, his dimples are probably present, making little indentations in his cheeks to show how entertaining he’s found embarrassing her. Bastard, she thinks, clenching her fists so hard that her nails dig into her palms, pressing them into her sides beneath her makeshift blanket.

She refuses to let herself confirm if her suspicions about Harry’s appearance are correct, and instead keeps her gaze on the blurred trees whipping by outside her window. “Right.” She mutters, leaning her head against the headrest as she closes her eyes. “It’s none of your business.”

…

As soon as the paint-peeled door to the motel room swings open, Y/N knows that she’s not going to be sleeping soundly tonight.

She’s not sure what her first hint should have been.  Perhaps it was the half-flickering blue and red light of the Motel 6 sign that should have tipped her off, or the front-desk attendant who looked as though he was hiding a few secrets himself.  When Y/N and Harry had first approached the front desk of the tiny, vaguely mildew-smelling lobby, their clothes rumpled from the drive and their attitudes just as bothered, the employee in the Motel 6 uniform had barely raised an eye at them, not bothering to look up from his computer until Y/N and Harry were directly in front of him.

“Hi.” Harry had said, his voice taking on a cautious but polite tone that, Y/N remembers thinking, she would have appreciated hearing throughout their eight hour drive that day. “We’d like two rooms, please—”

“Here.” The attendant’s gum snapped in his mouth as he reached behind himself and grabbed an old key with a flimsy blue plastic tag from a wall of empty pegs. “Queen sized bed, the first door on the left.  It’ll do you two nicely.”

“Um, no.” Harry cleared his throat loudly as he gave a slight shake of his head. “We need two rooms.”

Finally, the attendant looked towards them, his eyes scanning Harry before Y/N.  The latter had self consciously pulled her sweater around her, as there was something in the attendant’s eyes that had bothered her. “Don’t have two rooms.  I got one room left.  Everything else is booked.”

Harry had glanced at Y/N then, and she knew that his thoughts mirrored hers: there was no way that they’d share a queen bed together.  No way in hell.  They’d barely survived eight hours in the same cramped car without one of them driving them off a cliff.  If Y/N had to share a bed with Harry, even for just one night, she’d probably end up smothering him in his sleep before the first snore left his obnoxious mouth.

“That’s really not an option.” Y/N had stepped forward then, crossing her arms around herself as the attendant’s eyes canvassed her again. “Isn’t there something—”

“Look, lady, I’m telling you what’s available.” The attendant’s eyes continued to flicker between her face and her chest, making Y/N’s skin crawl more and more with every word that fell from his gum-filled mouth. “The room might have a pull out chair—some do, but I couldn’t tell you which.  Now do you want to share the room with him or not?  If you don’t want to share, then I could try to find something else for just you—”

Before Y/N had the opportunity to respond to the lewd suggestion, Harry was already stepping forward, his body angling protectively in front of her own.  She watched from behind as his broad shoulders squared beneath his black t-shirt, his shoulder blades flexing as he straightened up to his full height.  When Harry answered, his voice was just as firm as it was dark, lacking its previous polite tone.

“We’ll take the room.” He had said coldly, reaching into his back pocket to pull out his wallet before tossing a few bills on the front desk. “Thanks for the help.”

Yes, Y/N thinks, all of that should have been a sign for the state of the motel room that they now find themselves standing inside.

The same mildew smell from the lobby surrounds them, permeating through every inch of air that Y/N breathes in. Dust seems to coat every surface as well, with thick layers of it covering the decades old TV and stand, the small coffee table, and the ledge of the window to her right.  To her relief, there is a small arm chair in the corner, which must be the pull out that the attendant had mentioned.  However, her relief is short lived when she sees the ratty beige comforter on the bed, and wonders if maybe sleeping in Harry’s car, which she had sworn to him that she didn’t want to do, might have been the better choice.

Harry shuts the door behind them with a firm thud, turning the deadbolt lock before attaching the chain from the door to the door frame. “Let’s keep that locked, yeah?” He mutters, walking to the window and making sure the beige curtains—everything in the room is a sea of beige, like some sort of khaki coloured nightmare—are pulled closed tightly. “I don’t trust that front-desk prick not to sneak in here.”

Y/N nods, fixing the strap of her duffel bag with her overnight clothes on her shoulder.  She’s not quite sure where to set it down, as everything around them seems to have been sitting stagnant and uncleaned for a while. “Yeah. Thanks, by the way.  For that.”

Harry acknowledges her thanks with a small grunt, barely lifting his head to look at her. “You don’t need to thank me.”

Despite her gratitude for his actions, Y/N can’t stop herself from rolling her eyes at his gruff response. “Jesus, can you not just say you’re welcome?”

Harry chooses to ignore her comment, and instead sets his bag down on the arm chair, unzipping it roughly. “You can take the bed.” He says simply, tossing his sunglasses into his bag before pulling out a small bag filled with what Y/N assumes are toiletries. “I’ll take the pullout.”

“Fine.” Y/N reluctantly sets her own bag down on the creaking bed, pulling back the covers to check for anything unsightly.  To her relief, the interior of the bed looks cleaner than the exterior, and she returns the covers to their previous position before grabbing her phone charger from her duffel.

Harry glances at her as she gingerly sits on the bed and plugs her phone into the wall. “I’m going to shower.” He says slowly, as if gauging her reaction to the simple phrase. “Do you, um, need in there, or—?”

“Nope.” Y/N shakes her head, her cheeks flushing slightly as she checks her messages. “You’re good.” She keeps her eyes glued to her phone until she hears the click of the bathroom door behind Harry, signalling that she’s alone.

Taking advantage of what she knows will be a rare moment of solitude over the next week, Y/N changes from her tank top and leggings into her pajamas, wishing that her past self had realized how likely it would be that she’d be sharing a room with Harry. She’d brought exactly two pairs of pajamas with her on the trip, and neither pairs were something she wanted Harry to see her in.  The first pair, a baby pink silk set she’d bought on a whim from her favourite lingerie shop, is eliminated before Y/N even considers them, leaving her with just her usual casual pajamas.  Unfortunately, Y/N’s usual casual pajamas consist of an old sports bra that she’d had since moving to L.A., and a pair of men’s boxers that she stole from an ex in college.  Still, despite her hesitancy, she knows that plaid boxers and a faded grey sports bra are better than pink silk and lace, and she changes into them quickly before sitting cross-legged on the bed and dialing Jo’s number.

Jo, like she usually does, answers on the third ring, her voice extra chipper to compensate for the verbal lecture that she knows is coming. “Hey, Y/N!  How was driving today?”

“It would have been better if I’d known Harry was driving.” Y/N sighs, rubbing her palm over the cold skin of her exposed thigh. “Shouldn’t I have been informed of that decision?”

“It completely slipped my mind, actually.” Jo says casually, and Y/N can just picture her leaning her chin into her palm. “How was the first day?  Are you calling to ask me to help bury his body in the desert?  Because, like, you know I would in a heart beat, but I think it may put a damper on mine and Laure’s nuptials if my best friend murders her best friend.”

“No one’s been murdered. Yet.” Y/N glances at the bathroom door, the sound of the shower echoing through the vents and into the bedroom. “Although a ‘help me hide the body’ phone call may be coming soon.”

“Uh oh.” Y/N hears something crackling against the speaker, and pictures Jo shifting the phone from one ear to the other. “Is it that bad?”

Y/N pinches the bridge of her nose as she contemplates the easiest way to answer Jo’s question. “He’s such an irritating ass.  He really is.” She lowers her voice, but only slightly.  If Harry’s eavesdropping, she thinks, then let him hear.  It would serve him right. “He wanted to pick a fight over every little thing, and he’s so particular about his car—did you know he named it?  He named it, Jo.  He talks about it like it’s a person!”

A loud sigh echoes through the speaker. “That’s really not that weird, you know.” Jo replies in her best peace keeping voice. “And, by the way, did you know that you’re really the only person who finds Harry irritating?  Laure adores him, and I really like him, and everyone who meets him thinks he’s very thoughtful!”

“Then they haven’t been trapped in a car with him and his playlists for eight hours.” Y/N begins to tap her fingers against her knee in a quick staccato pattern. “He practically interrogated me about Brant today, as if he has any clue about the people I date.”

“Did he?” There’s a trace of curiosity in Jo’s voice now, and Y/N can imagine her leaning forward in interest. “What did he say?”

“He said he thinks he’s boring.” Twisting a lock of her hair behind her ear as she speaks, Y/N leaves her hand resting against her cheek. “He was rude about it, too.  I didn’t ask for his opinion.”

“Well, honestly, Y/N…” Jo’s curiosity twists into hesitation. “Brant isn’t exactly the most thrilling person.  You know that.”

Y/N tugs her bottom lip between her teeth, her cheeks flushing for what seems to be the millionth time that day. “I’m aware of that.  But he didn’t need to be so smug about it!”

“Okay, well, what’s done is done.” Jo says as she takes on her mediator persona once again. “So there’s nothing else to do now except go to sleep, get back in the car tomorrow, and continue driving.”

The sound of the shower stream cuts off, leaving just the pitter patter of rain beginning to hit the roof of the motel as ambiant noise. “I guess.” Y/N mumbles, fidgeting with the waistband of her bra. “I’ll talk to you later.  Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

After the line clicks dead, Y/N flops back on the squeaking mattress and begins to scroll through her phone, opening her work email to check if everything is running okay back home while she’s gone.  On top of all this, the last thing she needs is for her work to completely blow up in her absence.  Within minutes, Y/N becomes so engrossed in her phone that she doesn’t even notice the bathroom door creaking open and Harry walking out with just a towel around his waist.

Until she looks up, and then her mind goes completely blank.

Immediately, Y/N feels overstimulated.  There’s just…so much going on that she doesn’t even know where to look first, let alone have the ability to remind herself that she shouldn’t even be looking at Harry like this in the first place.  

Harry’s curls are soaking wet, curling down around his flushed cheeks in a way that, if it were anyone else, she’d immediately describe as attractive.  Droplets of water are clinging to every inch of his skin, his toned and tanned and tattooed skin, that seems to continue forever as her eyes travel down his bare chest, noticing every curve of his muscle.  His jade cross, which is almost the exact shade of his eyes, sits between his pronounced pectoral muscles, moving ever so slightly with each step he takes.  Y/N notices tattoos she’s never seen before, like the giant butterfly across his toned stomach, and—her mind goes blank for just a moment—two vines that are tattooed over his prominent pelvic muscles, which just barely dip beneath the white towel that’s wrapped loosely around his hips.

As Y/N’s eyes glue themselves to the way Harry’s towel is moving as he walks, arousal begins to pool in her stomach, travelling all the way down to her core and back again.  For a split second, she thinks that maybe Harry is right.  Maybe she doesn’t want to fuck Brant, because she knows for certain that she’s never thought about him the way she’s thinking about Harry in this moment.

But it’s Harry, she reminds herself, as she tries to force herself to snap her gaping mouth closed. Underneath all those muscles and tattoos—and there are a lot of muscles and tattoos—it’s Harry, who annoys her to no end, who is one of the most self-absorbed individuals she’s ever met, and who has had it out for her since the day they met.

“Sorry.” Harry’s low accent snaps Y/N from her thoughts and pulls her wandering eyes back to his face. “Forgot my clothes out here.”

“It’s—” Y/N’s voice cracks in the middle of the word, still hyper-focused on just how it’s possible for one person to be as attractive as they are irritating, and she clears her throat before trying to speak again. “It’s fine.”

If Harry notices the slip in Y/N’s voice, he doesn’t say anything.  Instead, he just walks to his open bag, locking one hand firmly over his towel as the other searches through his clothes.  He pulls out a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, examining them for just a moment before nodding in satisfaction and heading back to the bathroom. Y/N almost swears that she sees him glance at her one last time before he shuts the door, but then she gets lost in the taut muscles of his back, and forgets what she’s thinking entirely.

She’s only just begun to contemplate that maybe she should pull herself together when the door opens again, and Harry exits the bathroom in a way that’s a little more presentable.  His hair is still damp, but his body is dry, proven by the faded Rolling Stones t-shirt that’s now clinging to his arms and the boxers that are hanging low on his hips. His tattooed hips.  His incredibly sexy tattooed hips that could probably—

“What are you wearing?” Harry asks, raising an eyebrow at her as he moves his bag from the chair to the ground.  He begins to unfold the bed from the armchair cushions to reveal a creaking twin bed, carefully stretching it out as he waits for an answer.

“I—pajamas.” Y/N glances down at herself self consciously, fixing the strap of her sports bra as she does so. “I just—I didn’t think we’d be sharing a room, so…”

Harry nods tersely as he finishes setting up the bed, his expression unreadable while he walks to the closet and grabs a set of sheets and a blanket. “Cute boxers.” He says casually. “Are they Brant’s?”

Within a flash, the intense rush of attraction and desire Y/N had been feeling is gone, and is instead replaced by the familiar irritation as she watches a smirk grow in the very corner of Harry’s mouth. “No.” She says flatly, turning her attention back to her phone.

“Interesting.” Harry says slowly, laying the sheets and blanket on the bed in a haphazard manner. “Whose are they, then?”

Y/N gets up from the bed and grabs her toiletry bag from her duffel before answering. “An ex.” She says shortly, tucking the patterned bag under her arm. “And why does it matter to you?”

The sound of the rain against the roof and windows gets louder and louder as they speak, and Harry raises his voice to be heard over the precipitation. “It doesn’t.” He shrugs as he maneuvers his lanky body under the blanket without causing the bed to fold in on itself. “Just curious, that’s all.”

“Well, you don’t need to be curious.” Y/N opens the bathroom door, sparing one last withering glance at Harry over her shoulder.  He’s sitting up on the bed with one leg hanging out from beneath the covers as one hand plays with his hair, the other fiddles with a ring on his finger, and the way he looks at her from the corner of his eye lights a fire in Y/N’s chest.  Except she can’t tell if it’s a fire of anger or arousal.  

When she slams the door behind her, it’s her own confusion over that distinction that frustrates her more than anything else.

…

“Took you long enough.” Harry scoffs while leaning against the side of his car, his white t-shirt a contrast to the dust covered body of the black Chevy Impala.  His dark sunglasses are perched on top of his head, keeping his unruly curls out of his eyes, while his arms are crossed over his chest impatiently as he waits for an answer. “I dropped off the keys ten minutes ago.”

By way of explanation, Y/N holds up the cardboard drink tray in her hands, a brown bag balancing in between the two coffee cups. “I was getting us breakfast, Styles.  Calm down.” She walks to the passenger side of the car, opening the door and climbing in one handed. “I figured you’d be even crabbier hungry.”

“You mean you’d be crabbier without caffeine.” Harry retorts, climbing into the driver’s side in one smooth motion. “Here—” He takes the tray from her so she can buckle her seatbelt, carefully removing the two coffees and setting them in the cup holders between them. “Just be careful not to spill anything.”

Y/N rolls her eyes as she picks up the coffee closest to her (she’d gotten them both black). “Why? Worried about me ruining Stevie?”

Harry reaches into his pocket, pulling out his keys as he gives her an irritated look. “Yes, actually. I’ve put a lot of work into her.” The car roars to life as Harry turns the key in the ignition, buckling his own seat as the motor warms up. “Adding on two thousand miles to her in five days is already worrisome enough, and that’s not even counting the other two thousand she’ll get on the way back.”

Y/N doesn’t respond to the comment, and instead lets the sound of Harry’s playlist fill the silence of the car as Harry peels out of the Motel 6 parking lot.  She’ll be glad to leave that place behind, she thinks, and focus on finding something better—and more private—for tonight, wherever they end up.

Harry, however, doesn’t seem content with letting silence fall between them. “How did you sleep last night?” He asks after a few moments, one hand on the steering wheel as he takes a sip of his coffee.

Glancing at him from the corner of her eye suspiciously, Y/N reaches into the paper bag and grabs her Danish, taking a small bite before answering. “Not great.”

“Was the bed bad?” Harry asks curiously, his brow furrowing while his eyes stay glued to the road, moving only to glance at the occasion sign directing him back to the highway. “The pull out wasn’t great, but I’ve slept on worse.  I would’ve thought the bed would be better than that.”

“No, it—I mean, the bed wasn’t amazing, but it—” Y/N clears her throat and swallows the bite of pastry in her mouth. “I, uh, I don’t sleep well when it’s raining.”

At this new information, Harry’s eyebrow quirks up, and he risks a look in her direction to attempt to read her face.  Y/N’s own eyes are focused on the Danish in her hands, refusing to meet his gaze as she lifts the pastry to her mouth to take another bite.

“You don’t?” Harry asks after a moment, the confusion in his voice almost visible within the space between them. “But it’s like white noise, isn’t it?  Supposed to be relaxing, and all that.”

Y/N gives a half shrug of her shoulders. “It’s—well, it’s not the rain, exactly, just—what it’s usually paired with.” Y/N hopes that her clear hesitancy to answer will be enough of a signal to Harry for him to drop the subject.  Harry, however, doesn’t seem to pick up on the reluctance in Y/N’s voice; or, at least, he doesn’t care enough to acknowledge it.

“What do you mean, what it’s paired with?” Harry takes a small sip of his own coffee, careful of the temperature of the liquid. “Like…wind, or—?”

Y/N debates back and forth with herself internally, but she knows that Harry won’t drop the subject without getting a satisfying answer. “Thunder.” She answers finally, setting her coffee down in her cup holder before turning her gaze towards her window. “I don’t like thunderstorms, ever since I was a little kid, and when it’s raining, it always feels like thunder is around the corner.  Puts me on edge, like I’m waiting for it.  And I can’t sleep.”

“So you never sleep when it rains?” Harry asks slowly, and the tone of incredulous disbelief in Harry’s voice is enough for Y/N to be able to imagine the expression on his face. His forest green eyes wide, strawberry pink lips agape, brow furrowed in confusion, his jaw slack as he contemplates a response to a grown woman admitting that she’s afraid of thunder. The image in her head is enough to make the back of her neck flush.

There’s a tightness in the back of her throat, and Y/N attempts to clear it again before answering. “Never.”

“Huh.” Harry taps his fingers against the gear shift in succession three times. “You’d hate London, then.”

The casual comment catches Y/N by surprise, but she doesn’t allow herself to lower her guard. “That’s why I don’t live in London.” She mumbles the words as her fingers pick at the napkin wrapped around her Danish. “I picked L.A. for a reason.  It has lots of heat, barely any rain, and I’m reasonably close to Disneyland whenever I feel like I need something magical.” The last part slips out without Y/N thinking, and the flush creeps further up her neck as a surprised laugh leaves Harry’s mouth.

“Something magical?” Harry repeats, new crinkles appearing next to his eyes as he laughs, as if the dimples that crease his cheeks aren’t proof of his amusement enough. “Do you frequently feel like you need something magical?”

It’s Y/N’s turn to give an incredulous look now, her body half twisting towards Harry to observe his confusing reactions. “How did I just admit that I’m afraid of thunder, and the thing you’re focusing on is that I like Disney?”

Harry shrugs at her words, flicking on his turn signal to exit towards the highway. “I don’t know.” He says as he peers over his shoulder to check for oncoming cars. “I mean, everyone has fears.  Not liking thunder isn’t exactly uncommon, you know.  However, hearing that Ms. Serious Type A Perfectionist likes magic—” His grin grows bigger by the second. “Now that’s surprising.”

“Oh, shut up.” Y/N mutters, finishing her Danish in a few more bites.  She waits until she’s entirely finished chewing before continuing the conversation over the voice of Billy Joel coming through the speakers. “Since I’ve admitted something I’m afraid of…” She starts, glancing at Harry from the corner of her eye. “I think it’s only fair that you admit something, too.”

Harry snorts in response, his hand freezing its movement with his coffee cup still half lifted to his lips. “Is that so?”

“Mhmm.” Y/N hums as she slips off her shoes in order to pull her legs beneath her to fold into a cross-legged position on the car seat. “Not so much fun when it’s your turn, huh? C’mon, what’s the Brit scared of? Not enough biscuits for afternoon tea?”

A short and harsh breath of air leaves Harry’s nose, half a snort as he sets his coffee down in his cupholder. “No, actually, diminishing biscuit levels are a low level fear for me.”

“Then what’s a higher one?” Y/N prods, watching as Harry’s neck muscles tense as he shoulder checks to change lanes.  There’s something about the movement that catches her eye, but she can’t quite figure out why—or rather, she can, but she’d rather pretend that she’s unaware.

“Uh…” Harry’s fingers nimbly switch on his turn signal before he transitions to the left lane, his right hand moving the gear shift to its desired place. “Crowds.  I’m not a fan of big crowds, really.  Like when everyone’s pressed together, so tight that you can’t breathe, and you can’t hear yourself think because it’s so loud…yeah. I don’t like that.”

The simple answer surprises Y/N as much as she imagines her answer surprised Harry. “Crowds?” She repeats back to him, a forgotten memory of long gone conversations coming to the forefront of her mind. “But what about, like, concerts and stuff?  Laure always told me when she’d go to shows with you…”

“That’s different.” Harry shrugs as one of his ringed hands comes to his lips, rubbing over them slowly as he contemplates his next words. “I…When I’m at concerts, I always go with someone, and if we’re in the general seating area, where there’s a lot of people, I always stick with them.  Like, sometimes, if it’s getting crowded, or people are pushing, Laure will hold my hand, so…” Redness begins to creep up Harry’s pale neck, staining the tops of his ears a deep berry colour as he trails off.

Not for the first time since their conversation began, Y/N is surprised at how candid they’re being with each other.  As she watches Harry’s blush grow, she feels her own diminish, a physical representation of her trading her embarrassment for something more empathetic.

“I get it.” Y/N says after a moment, once it’s clear that Harry isn’t going to continue. “When there’s thunderstorms, um, I feel better when I’m with someone, or talking to someone. It makes me feel less…”

“Alone?” Harry finishes for her, his eyes flickering from the road to her profile.  His green irises capture hers for longer than they should, his focus completely gone from the stretch of highway for at least five seconds before Harry’s attention turns back to driving. “Yeah.” He says slowly, pulling his sunglasses down from his hair to hide his eyes. “Yeah, less alone. It helps.”

Y/N nods slowly, unable to look away from Harry’s side profile.  It’s apparent that he’s on edge after their conversation, and she knows her body language is the same.  Tight in the shoulders, hands clenched, back rigidly straight.  And yet, seeing her own body language reflected in front of her bothers her.  Part of her wants to reach out and take Harry’s hand, soothe him like Laure does in the crowd of a concert, but she knows that’s ridiculous.  It’s ridiculous, and it’s Harry, and Harry, of all people, does not need her comfort.  Not in the slightest.

She watches as Harry clenches his fist on top of his thigh.

…

“Is this really necessary?” Y/N asks, slamming her car door shut as Harry does the same on the other side of the vehicle.  She leans over the roof of the car, crossing her arms on the cool metal as she tilts her head to the side in an inquisitive manner.  The clouds in the sky are getting darker by the minute, signalling the beginning of the storm that canceled her flight, and the angry black colour above their heads is making Y/N anxious.

Harry, however, seems unbothered by the gathering storm, and nods tersely as he pushes his sunglasses up onto his head before opening the door to the backseat and grabbing his army green jacket. “Of course it’s necessary.” He says, slipping the jacket over his broad shoulders before slamming the door shut and locking the car. “I’ve never been to Utah before.  I want a souvenir.”

“Okay, but—” Y/N follows Harry as he walks towards the dilapidated building in front of them. “Here? Really?  Does this seem like the best place?”

Harry glances at her over his shoulder at her, pausing his long strides to look up at the building he spotted from the highway.  If the chipped grey paint that was once pastel blue and dust-coated windows are any sign, the structure is probably older than Harry and Y/N combined, with a splintered front porch wrapping around its small perimeter.  The building has one faded sign above the door that reads “SOUVENIRS/SNACKS” in hand-painted capital letters, and seems to be hanging onto the outside façade by three small bolts and sheer willpower.  Y/N’s almost certain that she’s seen this exact building in a horror movie before someone gets murdered, and while getting back into the car with Harry isn’t at the top of her list of wants, it’s certainly preferable to getting stabbed to death by a serial killer.

“It’s fine, Y/N.” Harry waves off her concern without a second thought about the appearance of the shop. “If you’re really bothered, you can wait in the car.”

Y/N considers it for a moment, but decides against it.  She needs to stretch her legs, and honestly, Harry seems too trusting.  He probably wouldn’t be able to tell if someone was sketchy until their knife was in his back.  And, seeing as how he has the keys to the only getaway car available, Y/N kind of needs him around without a stab wound carved into his flesh.

“Let’s just get this over with.” She sighs, pulling her own jacket around her tighter as she steps over the worn wooden steps to the door. “We’re on a schedule.”

When Harry pushes open the door, the smell of stale air hits Y/N before anything else.  Despite one open window and a fan in the corner of the shop that’s being used in a weak attempt to circulate the air, it feels like nothing fresh has been in the shop for a while.  Y/N shoots a glance at Harry, caution and warning written all over her face.

While Harry sees her glance, he waves off her concern, turning his attention to the few shelves and wire racks around the small shop that are lined with inventory.  Within a few moments, he’s entertaining himself in the post card section, comparing different photos of the Utah landscape to each other with great care and concern.  Y/N observes him for a few moments before wandering off on her own towards the snack section of the shop.  Although there are a few items that she thinks about picking up, the thick layer of dust over the packaging puts her off from purchasing them.  She grimaces as she continues walking, stopping in front of a tower of silver key chains in the back corner of the shop.  Most of them, she finds, are crosses and bible verses, and all of them give her an ominous feeling in her stomach.  Y/N runs her finger over a miniature silver version of the Ten Commandments, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth as she does so.

“I think we should go, Harry.” She calls to him without turning around, setting the key chain back down on the rack carefully. “Just pick your post card and—Harry?”

When Y/N turns around, Harry’s broad figure is nowhere to be seen.  She walks back over to the post card section slowly, her brow furrowed with confusion as a knot tightens in her stomach.  Where could he be? She wonders, running her hand along the dusty wire rack in front of her.  It’s not like there’s anywhere for him to go in the small shop, and she would have heard if he left, or if he drove away.

“Harry?” She calls again, her steps slower now as worry fills her voice. “Where did you—fuck—!” Y/N screams as something grabs her from behind, its fingers digging into her sides harshly.  She whips around to find Harry standing over her, loud outbursts of laughter spilling from his strawberry pink mouth at the look on her face.

An indignant flush rushes over Y/N’s face. “You’re such an ass!” She hisses, gripping his shoulders and shoving his laughing frame away from her. “I swear, you’re like a five year old—”

“Did I worry you?” Harry snickers between his words, a wicked look of mischief alight in his dark green eyes. “Were you afraid something happened to me?”

Y/N’s cheeks burn with anger as she turns away from him, crossing her arms defiantly. “No.  I wish something had happened to you.  Then I wouldn’t have to deal with your immature antics.”

Harry’s lips stay quirked up in a smirk as he follows her, his voice falling into a singsong tone. “You were worried.” He insists, chuckles still rolling out of him every few moments. “I could tell.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Y/N snaps at him in an irritated voice. “Just pay for your stupid post card and let’s go.”

“I already did. There’s a sign on the desk saying the clerk is out for lunch, so I left some money.” Harry nods to the small desk in the corner with a few dollars left tucked under the dusty service bell. “I think that’ll cover it, yeah?”

“Whatever.” Y/N can’t resist shoving Harry one last time before walking towards the shop door. “That’s enough.  Let’s go. I want to make it to the motel before the storm hits.”

…

The nice thing about Grand Junction, Colorado, Y/N realizes, is that their motels have multiple single rooms available on short notice.  While she didn’t realize the importance of this fact before this trip started, having an evening of solitude and her own stable space away from Harry for the first time in two days is nothing short of a blessing.

When she gets inside her private motel room, which, while still shabby, is leagues above their previous motel, Y/N locks the door before breathing a sigh of relief.  Just the silence in the room is wonderful, and even though she knows Harry is right next door, having a wall between them is a luxury that she doesn’t take for granted.  When she showers, she doesn’t have to worry about being quick, or toweling off as fast as she can so she can get dressed inside the bathroom without Harry seeing. There’s no need to worry about anyone hearing Y/N sing quietly to herself under the (albeit weak) stream of the shower, nor is there an uncomfortable stick of her sports bra to her back caused by water droplets that she couldn’t reach in her hurry to dry off. And after her shower, with some of the knots from her back finally worked out, Y/N is able to stretch out on the double bed in the center of the room, her phone in her hand as she reaches for the takeout menus stacked on the bedside table.  She peruses the menus available before settling on Chinese takeout, and within five minutes, her order of a two entrée plate and fried rice is on its way.

Y/N sighs gently as she leans back on the pillows, wishing that she and Harry had stopped at a liquor store before coming to the motel.  She knows she could probably walk to one, but now that she’s showered and comfortable, the last thing she wants to do is wander around Grand Junction until she finds a bottle of Moscato.  Instead, Y/N flicks on the TV with a click of the ancient remote, and begins scrolling through the channels until she finds a rerun of Dirty Dancing that’s just starting.

An amused yet wry smile appears on Y/N’s lips.  It’s this movie’s fault that she and Harry are on an impromptu road trip, really. Jo and Laure both loved it, and were insistent that they had to get married at a resort in the Catskills similar to one from the film.  As her two friends cross her mind, Y/N settles into the sheets as Baby begins her narration, contemplating whether or not she should call Jo to check in.  Just as the thought pops into her head, however, the phone rings.

Y/N answers within a moment, not bothering to check the caller ID.  She and Jo had a strange habit of calling each other the moment the other thought of it, and when she raises her phone to her ear, she expects to hear her best friend’s familiar voice reply. “Hello?”

What voice she actually hears, however, surprises her. “Hey, Y/N.  I’m glad I got through.” Brant says easily, his voice crackling slightly through the speaker. “How are you?”

“Brant!” Y/N jerks up in bed in surprise, the remote falling from its perch on her stomach onto the sheets. “I—I’m fine.  How are you?”

“Oh, alright.  Just busy with work, but that’s the usual.” Y/N can practically picture the neutral expression on his face, and how he’d shrug his shoulders as he speaks. “How’s the road trip?  I can’t imagine driving for as long as you have to drive.”

“It’s…it’s alright, yeah.” Y/N speaks slowly as she puts her phone on speaker, balancing it on her knee while her hands begin to fidget with her rings. “Long, but not too bad.”

“Well, that’s good.” Brant clears his throat thickly, as if what he’s about to say makes him uncomfortable. “I miss you, though.  And our weekly dinners.”

A feeling of guilt washes over Y/N.  Truthfully, besides Harry’s inquisition on the first day of driving, Brant has barely crossed her mind.  Granted, he isn’t usually at the forefront of her mind while she’s in L.A., either, but for the last few days, her thoughts have been constantly consumed by the stress of making it to the wedding and her annoyance and frustration with Harry.  

“Y/N?” Brant’s voice crackles through her speaker again. “Are you there?

“I—yeah.” She says quickly, pulling herself from her thoughts. “Sorry, just—long day.  I’m tired.”

“I can imagine.” Brant says sympathetically, but there’s something in his tone that almost sounds patronizing. “Who are you driving with?  Have you been taking turns?”

Y/N pauses the fidgeting of her rings before snatching her phone from its balanced place on her knee. She quickly opens her messages and scrolls to her thread with Brant, searching through the text bubbles for a reminder of what she’d said to him.  Had she not told him that she was traveling with Harry?

Within a moment, Y/N confirms that she hadn’t.  All she had said was that she was getting a ride with someone.  Why had she done that, she wonders?  She’s sure she’s mentioned Harry in passing to Brant at least once.  When she talked about the wedding, probably.  As she thinks about it more, however…what had she told Brant about the wedding?  About Jo? How much does he actually know about her personal life?  Most of their dinner conversations revolve around work, or some book both of them have read.  Had the topic ever come up in detail?

“I’m, um, I’m driving with one of Laure’s friends.” Y/N brings the phone closer to her mouth as her other hand works its way to her mouth.  She begins to chew on a hangnail absentmindedly between her words, something she always does when her nerves begin to get to her.  She can’t count the number of times Jo has grasped her wrist and pulled her hand from her mouth to chastise her about the habit. “We’re…we’re in Colorado now.”

“Oh, Colorado.  That’s nice.” Brant says over the rustling of papers. “Listen, Y/N, I’ve got some work to get back to, but I’m glad we had this talk. I’ll call you again soon.”

“Uh, yeah.  Sure.  I’ll talk to you later.” Y/N nods, and then the line goes dead.  Out of curiosity, Y/N checks the length of the call.  The time 3:09 blinks back at her.

Tossing her phone back down on the covers, Y/N resumes her relaxed position in bed, despite being anything but relaxed after that phone call.  She should feel guilty, she thinks, for not telling Brant about Harry. But then again, what’s there to tell? She said she was getting a ride with one of Laure’s friends, and that’s true.  She hadn’t lied.  And even if Brant did know that the friend is Harry, why would he care?  It’s just Harry.  There’s no reason for Brant to be alarmed, because there’s nothing going on. And she and Brant…Y/N glances down at the call time again.  Things are different between them.  There’s…they’re comfortable as they are, she thinks.  They’re not dating, and they’re comfortable like that.  So there’s no reason to tell him about Harry, because there’s nothing to tell.  Nothing at all.

Y/N refocuses on the TV screen, where Patrick Swayze is dancing in a tight black tank top. Right.  Nothing to tell.

…

When Y/N leaves her motel room the next morning with her bag over her shoulder, Harry is already waiting by his car, leaning against the dusty black body with two coffee cups in his hands.  He’s dressed in another black t-shirt (Y/N wonders just how many identical copies of the same shirt Harry has) with usual jeans covering his long legs.  His curls are tied out of his face with a dark green bandana, and Y/N knows that if his eyes weren’t covered with his black sunglasses, the bandana would make them even brighter than they usually are.

“Hey.” Harry calls to her, extending a ringed hand that holds a coffee cup towards her as she walks over. “I got the coffee this morning.  You drink it black, right?”

Y/N nods as she takes the cup from him, careful not to brush over his fingers with her own. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“No problem.” Harry crosses around to the back of the car, opening the trunk with a turn of his key. “Here.” Harry holds out his free hand for Y/N’s bag, taking it from her and setting it down on top of the suitcases in the back. “I got it.”

Y/N regards Harry with a bemused look as she wraps both hands around her coffee cup. “Thanks?” She says again, more questioning this time as she looks at him strangely. “I can do that myself, you know.”

“I know.  I’m just trying to be polite.” Harry’s voice takes on its usual bite like he’s flipping a switch. “Is that alright with you, princess?”

Within a second, the familiar irritation with Harry returns to Y/N, and it’s almost comforting to snap back at him in a testy voice. “Don’t call me that.”

Harry snickers under his breath, and although the sound makes Y/N’s annoyance grow, she detects a different tone in it than a few days before.  Before she can place a finger on why it sounds different, however, Harry is climbing into the driver’s side of the car and starting the engine.

The two of them are silent as Harry finds his way back to the highway, and they stay in that silence for the first few hours of that day’s leg of the trip.  As the third hour begins to pass, Y/N is content listening to the throaty and captivating voice of Stevie Nicks fill the cab of the car. By the second chorus of the song, Y/N is humming along quietly, her foot tapping to the same beat that Harry’s fingers are spelling out against the steering wheel.  It’s comfortable, she thinks after a moment.  The silence between them.  It feels different than it did on their first day, when Y/N was questioning her choice to get into a car with Harry and commit to a 42 hour drive. The silence seems to be fueled more by comfort than tension.  It’s…refreshing.

A memory from the first day ignites in the back of her mind, a spark so bright and obvious that she can’t believe it took her so long to see it. “Stevie.” Y/N says suddenly, turning to Harry as a smile spreads over her face. “You named your car Stevie, as in Stevie Nicks?”

Harry laughs, his shoulders moving up and down beneath his black t-shirt from the motion.  One hand lifts from the steering wheel and points a finger gun at her. “Took you long enough.  I was wondering how many days you’d have to listen to my music to get it.”

Y/N gives his hand a light shove. “I was too distracted by the fact that you named your car.” She rolls her eyes, bringing her bottle of water to her lips for a short sip. “I still think it’s weird.”

“It gives her character.” Harry defends himself as he rubs a hand over the steering wheel absentmindedly. Y/N can see the mirth swirling around in his light irises. “A bit of personality.  Just because you don’t value personalities doesn’t mean anyone else doesn’t.”

“I don’t value personalities?” Turning in her seat to stare at Harry head on, Y/N raises an eyebrow in question. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just your taste in men, that’s all.” Harry says it casually, like it really can just be a “that’s all” type of sentence.

Within a heart beat, the comfortable atmosphere in the car turns to ice as Y/N straightens in her seat, her spine tense, tightening every nerve in her body along with it. “What the fuck does that mean?”

When Harry glances at her again, his eyes darken, his guard going up as he senses the shift in Y/N’s tone. “Nothing, just…motel rooms have thin walls.” Harry mumbles, having the decency to keep his eyes on the road as his ears redden slightly. “And from what I overheard, Brant doesn’t exactly seem…stimulating.”

Y/N sputters indignantly for a moment, unable to form a coherent response as anger rises in her chest. “You—” She sucks in a quick breath that hits the back of her throat harshly. “You eavesdropped on me?”

Harry licks his lips once, clearing his throat once before answering.  The tapping of his fingers against the steering wheel has resumed, his nervousness apparent in his movements as well as his facial expressions. “Not on purpose.  I told you, the walls were thin.”

“So put in head phones!” Y/N exclaims, gripping her water bottle so tight that her fingers begin to strain in protest against the metal exterior.  She has half a mind to throw the bottle at Harry in her anger, barely able to talk herself down from the ledge of the idea.

Harry’s posture shifts in his seat as his shoulders square, and Y/N can practically see his defensive side emerge from within his chest. “It’s not like you two were having phone sex.” He rolls his eyes at the idea. “It was the most boring conversation in the world, and lasted, what, three minutes?  Makes you wonder how long he lasts in other ways, doesn’t it?”

“Stop the car.” Y/N’s voice is low and void of emotion as she replies, her body turned back forward in her seat.

“Am I wrong?  It’s not like you know for sure—”

Anger bubbles over in Y/N’s chest, cancelling out any rational thought she has inside her and leaving pure, unadulterated fury. “Stop the car, Harry!  Now!”

Harry half jumps in his seat when Y/N yells, and he quickly jerks the car to the side of the highway without so much as a turn signal.  Pulling her seatbelt off as he pulls over, Y/N is out the door before Harry can so much as put the car into neutral.  While her more rational mind would tell her that she has nowhere to walk to along a highway in Colorado as the sky darkens to an angry black above them, the only thing she’s thinking of is getting away from Harry.  Stupid, self-absorbed, ignorant, and rude Harry.

“Y/N—” The sound of Harry scrambling out of the car and slamming the door behind him pushes her to walk faster. “Y/N, come back—”

Y/N turns around on her heel fast and hard, heart pounding so fast that she thinks it might break through her ribs. “What is your problem?” She hisses, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Why do you insist on being so—so nasty about him?  You don’t even know him!”

Harry freezes where he is as the wind whips his hair around his face, his bandana barely keeping the messy curls in place. “I don’t—” His speech falters, and he sucks in a sharp breath before continuing. “I don’t think I’m being…nasty.”

“Well, you are!” Y/N takes a deep breath in, placing her hands over her stomach as it expands with air.  It’s a trick that Jo taught her back in high school, as a way to ground herself to her body. Feeling the movement of air in and out of her lungs helps calm her, even if by just a fraction. “Brant is just—he’s someone I’m talking to.  We’ve gone on dates, but we’re not dating, and even though we’re not dating, that doesn’t mean that you can insinuate things about him, or eavesdrop on our private conversations!”

Harry’s jaw tenses as he listens to Y/N speak, waiting until she’s finished her speech to respond in a harsh and clipped tone. “I already told you, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. And I’m teasing you.  It’s supposed to be a joke.  Isn’t that what friends do?”

“But we’re not friends, Harry.” Y/N’s voice is flat, the fury in her tone replaced with a hollow emptiness. “We’re not friends.  I don’t need you teasing me about a boy like we’re buddies, or whatever, because we’re not.”

Although Harry opens his mouth to respond, no words cross over the edges of his pink lips.  His jaw tightens even more as he closes his mouth again, and Y/N can see a million things flitting through his green irises, which are getting darker by the moment.  Y/N’s not certain if the darkness is from her words, or the black sky rolling above them that’s sapping the light of day from the atmosphere, and she’s not sure if she can take the answer either way.  Part of her knows that maybe—just maybe—she’s blown this whole thing out of proportion, and maybe she should examine why Harry making fun of Brant bothers her like it does.  It’s not like she’s unaware of his shortcomings, she thinks, but then she wonders why she’s now seeing them as shortcomings, when a week ago, she saw them as positives.  Y/N never has to worry about Brant being too much for her, or forgetful, or scatterbrained—he’s organized, and secure, and stable, and that’s what she likes.  It’s always been what she likes.

Harry’s delayed response tears Y/N from her thoughts. “Not friends.  Got it.” He mutters, rubbing his hand over his stubbled and taut cheeks. “Just get back in the car, then.  Let’s go.”

…

“Hello!  My name is Gracie, I’ll be your server today.” The waitress in the tiny diner smiles at Harry and Y/N, a notepad in one hand and a half filled coffee pot in the other. “Can I get you guys anything to start?”

“Coffee.” Harry and Y/N speak at the same time, each person’s eyes flickering to the other before looking away.  Y/N keeps her eyes focused on her off-white ceramic coffee cup as Gracie fills it, refusing to make eye contact with Harry again.

The last hour has been almost unbearable.  After they got back in the car, Harry had turned off his playlist, and for the first time since the road trip had begun, true silence had fallen between them. Y/N had thought she would like it, but truthfully, it had been the worst thing she’d ever heard.  Every few minutes, she’d hear Harry shift, or sigh, or tap a tense finger against the gear shift, and she wished that she could say something, but she didn’t.  She couldn’t.  She’d been grateful when he wordlessly exited the highway and parked in front of a diner, as the conversations of stopped truck drivers and the clatter of a kitchen was a good distraction from their argument.

A movement in the corner of her eye catches her attention, and Y/N glances up just enough to watch Harry slip a pat of butter into his coffee, stirring the contents of the cup with his spoon until it’s melted together.  She wrinkles her nose in disgust, and almost opens her mouth to make a comment (“Really, Harry?  Just add milk like a regular person, instead of drinking a cup of grease.”), but bites it back before it can fall off her tongue.  They’re not exactly in the position to make quips to each other, she thinks, especially after she told him that they weren’t friends.

Which they’re not. They’ve never been friends; that fact isn’t exactly news.  Not getting along has been Harry and Y/N’s signature since the day they first met. So why is there a pit in Y/N’s stomach that gets deeper every time Harry looks away from her?

The click of heels alerts Y/N of Gracie’s returned presence before her voice does. “Have you two decided what you’d like to eat?”

“I’ll have a turkey club, please, on whole wheat bread.” Harry folds up his plastic menu carefully. “And a glass of water on the side.”

Gracie nods, taking the menu from him before turning her eyes to Y/N. “And for yourself?”

“Um—” Y/N had barely glanced at the menu, too lost in her thoughts to think about it. “I’ll just have a burger, please.  And a water, as well.”

Gracie nods as she writes down the order, taking Y/N’s menu and giving the pair one last smile before disappearing to the kitchen.  A fresh wave of silence falls between Harry and Y/N as each of them sips their coffee, both of them doing their best not to look at the person sitting across from them.

Y/N’s best, however, is not up to her usual standard, as she can’t stop herself from stealing a few quick glances while Harry looks out the window.  He hasn’t shaved in a couple days, she notices, as the stubble on his cheeks and chin is even darker than it was the day before.  There’s a permanent crease between his eyebrows, his face as tense as she’s ever seen it, and a darkness over his whole expression overall. It’s like there’s a new wall up between the two of them, and Y/N’s never felt more detached from him.  Which, honestly, is saying something.

She’s looking back down at her own half empty coffee when Harry finally speaks a few minutes later, his voice just as tense as his expression.

“Shit.” He says in a low voice, and then the next sound Y/N hears is that of someone ruffling through pockets.  

She looks up to see Harry doing just that, his hands digging through the outer pockets of his army green jacket. “What?” She asks, her curiosity outweighing her need to continue the silent treatment. “What is it?”

“I had the vows in my—my pocket, but they’re—” Harry jams his hands inside a pocket sewn into the lining of his jacket, and Y/N watches as his face visibly relaxes. “Oh, thank God. I thought they fell out.”

Harry removes his hand from his pocket, two folded up notes clutched within his hand.  Each one is labeled carefully, one with Jo written in Laure’s neat penmanship, and the other with Laure scribbled in Jo’s quick writing.  

Y/N recognizes the papers immediately.  It’s easy, really, considering the amount of time she spent helping Jo rewrite draft after draft of the same sentiments. “You have Jo and Laure’s vows?” She questions, her eyebrows raising in surprise. “Why?”

“The same reason you have their wedding bands.” Harry shrugs as he turns the papers over in his careful fingers, making sure not to crease them. “They forgot them.”

A small smile plays on the edge of Y/N’s lips at the memory of her forgetful friends. “Right.  Of course.”

Harry’s eyes flicker to Y/N’s mouth at the sign of movement, and he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth before responding. “Want to take a look?”

“At their vows?” Y/N looks around, as if someone could be watching and monitoring them. “I—that doesn’t seem right.”

“Fine.  Then don’t look at them.” Harry says easily, setting the note labeled Laure on the table between them.  His nimble fingers unfold the paper labeled with Jo’s name as his green irises begin to scan across the sheet. “I’ll read them.”

It only takes a few seconds of watching Harry read over the words for Y/N to crack. “Wait.” She brings her thumb to her mouth, chewing anxiously on her cuticle as Harry quirks an eyebrow at her. “Will you read them to me?”

When she asks, Harry spends so long staring at her that Y/N thinks he’ll refuse.  His jade eyes meet hers with an intensity that almost makes her flinch, but Y/N holds his stare, refusing to be the first to back down. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, Harry gives a sharp nod, looking down at the note before he starts to read from the beginning.

“‘My darling Jo’,” He begins, his voice soft and low, his accent thick. “‘It seems so strange that this day is finally here.  I feel like we’ve been building up to it ever since the day we first met, and yet it’s always seemed so far away.  When I was a little girl, I always’…” Harry trails off as his eyes continue to move across the words, and he clears his throat before attempting to continue to read aloud. “‘I always thought that there was something wrong with me.  I thought that the things that I felt, and the way that I loved, was dirty.  I thought it was wrong.  I thought that—that I was going against God, and against nature, and that I was going to be punished for it.  And then I met you’.”

Harry pauses to take a sip of his coffee, and Y/N does the same.  There’s a shine beginning to appear in his eyes, and Y/N recognizes it as the beginning of tears because she feels the same thing brimming in her own eyes. She feels a bit guilty for reading the vows, but reasons that it’s for the best.  If she were to hear them for the first time at the wedding, she doesn’t think she’d be able to keep it together.

“‘The moment I met you, I knew that the way I loved could never be wrong, or be dirty, because I was loving you’.” Harry’s accent grows thicker the more he reads, and although Y/N hasn’t seem Harry in many different emotional states, she can tell that this is a sign of how the vows are affecting him. “‘Being with you could never be wrong, and God could never get mad at me for it, because only God could create someone as perfect as you.  I promise to love you when you wake me up at 3 A.M. because you’ve stolen all the blankets, and I promise to love you at 6 P.M. when you almost burn down our apartment while trying to cook for me.  I promise to support you through everything, listen to your stories, and watch in wonder as you make a difference in this world.  I promise to never let my anger get the best of me, and to always give you the benefit of the doubt.  I promise to love every version of yourself that you grow into, just as I’ve loved all the versions you once were.  I promise to love you in every way humanly possible, and even in ways that aren’t humanly possible.  I promise to love, period.  I’—” Harry’s voice cracks, and he glances up at Y/N as he clears his throat to continue. “‘I love you’.”

Y/N doesn’t realize just how emotional listening to Harry read Laure’s vows has made her until the first tear wells over the corner of her eye.  She turns her head towards the window to wipe it away as quickly and inconspicuously as possible, but from the way Harry is looking at her when she turns back around, she knows that he caught what she was doing.

“That, um—” Now it’s Y/N’s turn to attempt to clear the emotion from her throat. “Wow.”

Harry carefully folds Laure’s vows back up, taking extra care to re-crease the paper exactly how it had been folded. “I didn’t know she…felt like that.” Harry says after a moment, his voice quiet. “Like she was…wrong.”

Y/N, unsure of what to say, just nods while reaching for Jo’s vows in front of her.  Like Harry, she takes great care when unfolding the paper, smoothing it gently between her hands. “I’ll read Jo’s, then?”

Harry nods as he takes a sip of his water. “Sure.”

Y/N licks her lips once, wetting them with what little saliva she has in her mouth before beginning. “‘Laure’,” She starts, emotion already rising up to form a lump in her throat. “‘I don’t even know where to begin.  I’ve tried to write down all the ways I love you a million different times, but I can never seem to find the right words.  The problem is, I don’t think that there is a big enough word to describe what I feel for you.  ‘Love’ is only four letters, and four letters is just not enough to contain everything I feel.  ‘Adoration’ is nine letters, but even that doesn’t come close.  I think the best way I can describe it is ‘permanent’.” Y/N pauses her reading to take a long gulp of water, the coolness soothing the dry and parched feeling in her mouth and throat. “‘Anyone who knows me knows that I have trouble committing.  The idea of having something forever, of being in one place, normally terrifies me. But the idea of having you forever, and being in one place with you forever…that’s all I want.  I want us to be permanent to each other.  Even when we struggle, and we will struggle, I know that we won’t fall apart.  Committing to you isn’t any trouble.  It’s as easy as breathing.  I’m sure of you, and I’m sure of us.  I love you, permanently.  I’ll love you when you’re sick and gross, and I’ll love you when you’re old with a bad hip.” A small laugh falls out of Y/N’s mouth before she continues. “I’ll love you when you haggle at flea markets for the best prices, and I’ll love you when you do something so stupid that it makes me want to tear my hair out.  I love you permanently, and I want all of our family and friends to witness me saying that.  I’ll never back out, or bail, or run away from you.  You’re the one thing in my life that’s never felt hard. You’re my home base, and my north star, and you bring me back down to Earth whenever I need it.  I love you permanently, Laure.  I’ll never stop’.”

As she finishes reading, Y/N folds the paper back up, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand before grabbing the other note sitting on the table.  She pushes them towards Harry, her misty eyes unable to meet his. “Here. Put these away again, somewhere safe.”

Harry takes the vows from her, slipping them back inside his inner jacket pocket for safekeeping. “It’s probably—” He clears his throat once more, and Y/N knows that the vows have caught him in his chest just as they’ve caught her. “It’s probably good that we read them now, so that we’re…prepared for the ceremony.”

“Yeah.” Y/N wraps her hands around her coffee mug, the warm ceramic surface heating her cold fingers. “You’re right.  They really…love each other.”

Harry taps his fingers against the table top, a concentrative and thoughtful expression on his face.  His eyebrows are knit together above his stormy green eyes, and his pink tongue swipes over his pinker lips once before he speaks. “You know, Laure is my closest friend.  I don’t want her to get hurt.”

Immediately registering the tone of Harry’s voice, Y/N’s head snaps up, her own eyes becoming stormy as they meet his own. “Jo would never hurt Laure.” Y/N says defensively, the hairs on the back of her neck pricking up at even the suggestion of her friend hurting someone. “Didn’t you hear her vows?  I’ve never heard her sound so sure of something in her entire life.”

Harry’s jaw flexes at the cadence of Y/N’s voice, and his is just as agitated when he responds. “I’m just saying, if anything ever happened—”

“And I’m just saying, it won’t.” The tension between them doubles as Y/N shoots Harry an icy glare. “Do you just look for the worst in people?  Is that all you do?”

“You think I look for the worst in people?  Really?” Harry barks out a harsh laugh, pressing one hand flat against the table as the other fixes his bandana. “Christ, if that’s what you think of me—”

“Why would I think anything else?” Y/N asks incredulously, tilting her head to the side as she regards him. “All you’ve shown me is—”

“Alright, I have the turkey club on whole wheat, and the burger here.” Gracie appears suddenly to Y/N’s right, her tray loaded with food. “Here you guys are…” She sets the plates down in front of Harry and Y/N, her gaze darting between them nervously as she reads the tension in the booth. “Is…there anything else I can get you two?”

“No.” Harry’s voice is hard. “We don’t need anything else.”

…

By the time Harry pulls the car into a motel just off the highway in Lexington, Nebraska, all Y/N wants is a moment alone.  The strained atmosphere during that day’s drive had been unbearable, and between the anxiety from her confrontation with Harry and the sound of thunder beginning in the distance, Y/N just needs some space to herself to relax and calm down.

Of course, just because that’s what she needs, doesn’t mean that she’s going to get it.  When Harry returns back to the car with a single key in his hand and a sour look on his face, Y/N knows for sure that the universe is against her.

This room, at least, she’s pleased to find, has two actual beds, which are pushed up against the wall perpendicular to the door with a small night table between them.  However, that’s where her pleasure stops, as the click of Harry turning the lock behind her just reminds her that she’s trapped in here, with no chance to get away from Harry, the oncoming storm, or any one of her problems that have developed over the last four days.  The reality of the situation hits her all at once, and it takes all of Y/N’s self control to toss her bag on the bed and walk brusquely to the bathroom, slamming the door and locking it behind her before she allows herself to show a sign of her emotions.

The rest of the evening passes in silence.  She showers before changing into her sports bra and boxers, but the amount of exposed skin sends a vulnerable shiver down her spine.  Y/N opts for pulling a sweatshirt over her body, and then sets herself the task of braiding her hair to distract herself.  After that’s done, she busies herself with her skincare routine, taking up as much time as she can in the bathroom before she absolutely has to leave its private interior.

Harry, however, seems to want to see as little of Y/N as she wants to see of him, and pushes past her to enter the bathroom the moment that she steps out of it.  His routine, it seems, is designed to take up just as much time as hers was, because by the time Harry exits the bathroom, the scent of his shampoo trailing behind him, Y/N is already tucked under the covers of her bed, although she’s far from asleep.

In the time it took for her to shower and get ready for bed, the storm had picked up, and the only thing audible in the room was the sound of rain pelting against the roof and window, the wind howling through the trees, and Y/N’s shallow, uneven breaths. She wraps the sheets tightly around herself, pulling them taut to her chin with clenched fists that tighten every time a clap of thunder echoes through the room.  Although she’s turned to face the wall, away from Harry, she can hear his footsteps pause as he gets a glimpse of her shivering form beneath the blankets, and she does her best to will herself to appear asleep.  Breathing in as deeply as her tight chest will allow her, Y/N attempts to even her breathing, forcing her shoulders rise and fall in a way that appears natural and normal.  But all it takes is one clap of thunder for the controlled motion to go out the window.

“Y/N…” Harry’s voice is low, but despite its raspy cadence, it lacks the rough edge that it had earlier. The bed behind her squeaks, signalling that Harry’s taken a seat on the edge of it. “Are you—?”

“I-I’m fine.” Y/N says quickly, pulling the sheets tighter to her chin as another shiver rolls through her body. “Go to sleep.”

There’s another creak of Harry’s bed, and Y/N imagines him climbing under the starched linen covers, his damp curls flopping into his eyes as he lays back on the lumpy motel pillow. The image is almost enough to distract her until there’s another clap of thunder.  The sound seems to shake the motel room, and Y/N can’t stop the small whimper that leaves her lips as her body jumps in response.

“When I was a little kid, my mum took my sister and I to the fair every year.”

Harry’s deep voice cuts over the rain, and Y/N shifts in her bed, turning over to face him.  She keeps the covers pulled up to her chin, but readjusts herself so that she can keep her head on her pillow while looking Harry in the eye. “What?” She asks, confusion audible in her quiet tone.

Harry shifts himself as she does, continuing to move down until he’s completely horizontal, with one hand tucked under his pillow as he speaks. “My mum took my sister and I to the fair.  It came to Holmes Chapel every spring, and there were always rides, and games to play, and so many things to see.  It drew crowds from nearby villages every year, really big crowds, and my mum always held my hand tightly so I wouldn’t get lost.”

“I don’t understand, what—” Another clap of thunder shakes the room, making Y/N flinch halfway through her sentence.

“You’re okay.” Harry says immediately, his calm jade eyes focused on her as the reassurance slips from his mouth.  He waits a moment, gauging Y/N’s body language and waiting for his examination to be positive before resuming his story. “So…my mum always told me not to wander off, but when I was six, I did.  I saw some older kids playing games that I wanted to play, and Gemma was busy playing some sort of game with a ball—I can’t really remember what—and when my mum turned her back, I ran off.”

Y/N’s about to open her mouth to ask why he’s telling her the story when the answer clicks into place in her head.  She thinks back to the conversation in the car the day before, how she told Harry that it helps when someone talks to her to distract her from the thunder.  That’s what he’s doing, she realizes, as she forces herself to focus on his quiet and level voice.  He’s trying to keep her calm, even after everything she said and did today.

“I don’t look like it now,” A small smile flits across Harry’s blushed lips. “But I was pretty scrawny back then.  And all the people around me were so tall, my eyes were barely level with their hips. Everyone was rushing around, going in all directions, and I kept calling for my mum, but she couldn’t hear me.  No one stopped to help me.  I felt like I was…trapped.  Like it was a huge forest of legs, running all around me, circling me, and I couldn’t get out.  I was probably only gone for five minutes, but to a six year old, it felt like an eternity.  And just something about it…I don’t know.  It changed me.  I still don’t like crowds because of that day.”

Y/N’s shoulders unclench the slightest bit as another gust of wind blows against the window. “That must have been scary.”

Harry’s own shoulders lift in a slight shrug as he shifts the sheet to cover him more. “It was. But I can’t change it.  I just have to deal with the repercussions of it. That’s all a fear is, really.  A side effect.  We just have to deal with them as best we can.”

More thunder booms loudly outside, but Y/N manages to keep her flinch to a minimum, despite her hands curling into fists again under the covers. “Harry…” She whispers his name into the darkness between them, his outline barely visible save for his green eyes. “I’m—I’m sorry about today.”

Harry shakes his head, his damp hair rubbing against his pillow. “You don’t have to apologize.” He whispers back, his tone as gentle as she’s ever heard it. “I was an arse.  I shouldn’t have pushed the topic.”

“I shouldn’t have been so uptight about it.” Rubbing her eyes with one fist, Y/N lets out a low sigh. “I felt so shitty all day because of our fight.  I’ve never…none of our fights have ever made me feel like that.”

“Maybe it’s because…” Harry’s tentative voice trails off, his eyes flickering to the ground for a brief moment before staring back at Y/N nervously. “I don’t know.  I thought we were getting along better.  For a moment, at least.”

“We were.” Y/N’s teeth tug on her bottom lip, and she feels a sudden shyness overcome her at the admission. “I’m sorry I said that we…weren’t friends.  I think…I don’t know.  I’ve been stubborn for so long, but I can see now that you’re different than I thought you were.”

“Yeah.  Me too.  I was wrong, too.” Harry runs a hand through his damp curls, a soft laugh leaving his mouth. “How did we even end up like this?  I barely remember what made us hate each other so much in the beginning.”

“Seriously?” Y/N raises an eyebrow, barely peaking out from beneath the sheets as another clap of thunder sounds. “You don’t remember?”

Harry mimics her expression. “Do you?”

“Yes!  It was the very first night we met.  We had that double date with Laure and Jo.” Shifting beneath her covers, Y/N moves herself into a better position on her side, so she can be more comfortable while still maintaining eye contact with Harry. “And you were rude, and made inappropriate jokes, and you left in the middle of the date to go chat up a sorority girl!”

“Wait a minute, no!” Harry protests the memory, half sitting up in his bed as he speaks. “That’s not what happened!”

“Yes, it is!” A small laugh falls off Y/N’s lips at his indignant reaction. “I remember it perfectly!”

“No, you remember it wrong!” Although a flush creeps up Harry’s neck, there’s an amused smile playing on his lips, a tiny hint of a dimple just barely appearing in his visible cheek. “I was making jokes to try and break the ice, which didn’t work on the Ice Queen, it seems—” Harry motions to Y/N teasingly. “And you’re the one who started talking to some bloke before I started talking to that girl!”

Another clap of thunder echoes through the room, but Y/N hardly notices as she thinks back to the night they met, and who Harry could possibly be referring to. “A bloke—?  He was a classmate of mine!  I had to talk to him!”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t have to enjoy it so much.” Harry grumbles, crossing his muscled arms over his sheets. “I had been so excited when Laure said she had an American girl for me, and then—”

“You were excited?” Y/N asks, her voice laced with surprise. “Really?”

The flush on Harry’s neck works its way to the apples of his cheeks. “Well, yeah.” He mumbles the words as his eyes drop from Y/N’s, slipping both hands beneath his head. “She said that you were funny, intelligent, witty, beautiful—”

“And then you met me, and realized that it was all a lie?” Y/N finishes for him, rolling her eyes in the darkness.

“No.” Harry gives a small shake of his head as his body shifts, the motel bed creaking under his weight. “No, she wasn’t wrong.  You were all of those things.  But I wasn’t, and it seemed like…I don’t know.  Like you didn’t think I was good enough for you.  I couldn’t keep your attention.”

The teasing smile slips from Y/N’s face as she registers Harry’s words. “You thought that I thought you weren’t…good enough?”

The nervousness is clear in Harry’s voice now, even over the pounding of rain against the window. “That’s what it seemed like, yeah.”

“I never—I didn’t think that.” Y/N says slowly, managing to relax her body beneath the sheets as she keeps her focus on the memory of meeting Harry. “I wasn’t exactly thrilled to be there, but that’s because Jo set the date up without telling me.  I thought you were handsome, and I liked your accent, but then you started to act weird, and you started flirting with that girl, so I thought you were an ass.”

“You still think I’m an arse, princess, be honest.” The teasing tone replaces the nerves, and for once, Harry’s joke has the intended affect on Y/N.  When she rolls her eyes again, it’s more playful, and the same tone is in her voice when she responds.

“I told you, don’t call me princess.” She replies, running her teeth over her lip gently. “So…I guess we both kind of fucked up that day.”

“Yeah.” Harry nods, a sheepish smile playing over his red lips. “I guess so.”

“Can we just restart?” Y/N’s voice is small when she asks the question, barely audible over the sounds of the storm raging outside. “Like, all the way from the beginning. No more grudges, no more yelling. Even if it’s just for this trip, for Jo and Laure—”

“It doesn’t have to be just for this trip.” Harry cuts in, his eyes catching Y/N’s again. “We’re going to have to be around each other for a long time.  It’ll be a lot easer if we get along.”

Y/N nods in agreement, tugging down her covers to extend one arm towards Harry.  She makes a fist, holding out just her pinkie finger to him with half a grin on her face. “Truce?”

The space between their beds is small, and Harry’s long arm easily makes it across the no man’s land to meet Y/N’s pinkie with his own.  He loops it together with a smile that matches hers, tired and content and just at the edge of a humble new beginning.  Harry’s response is almost inaudible as thunder booms loudly outside the room, but Y/N can still pick out the cadence of his accent under the noise.

“Truce.”

(pt II)

[cookingmywaythroughcarryon]

SAMOSAS AND CURRY

Welcome to another episode of Cooking My Way Through Carry On. Today I tackle one of the iconic meals in the book--Simon’s dinner the night he and Baz go after the vampires and the night where everything changes between them. 

I made these samosas and this curry for dinner the other night and it was a rousing success. I’ll share the samosa recipe here and a link for the keema curry recipe I used!

“I’ve finished my curry and two orders of samosas, and I’m watching him read–I swear he sucks on his fangs when he’s thinking–when he snaps the book shut with one hand and stands up. ‘Come on, Snow. Let’s go find a vampire.’” 

Carry On, Chapter 60.

These are baked samosas, since I didn’t want to deal with deep frying anything. They’re also vegan. I am a big fan of Isa Chandra Moskowitz and this recipe is from her book Vegan with a Vengeance, one of my favorite vegan cookbooks. 

The keema curry recipe is one I got from a friend and it is so close to the one my father-in-law used to make for me that it brought back a lot of memories for us. 

Samosas

Ingredients: 

Dough Ingredients:

3/4 cup rice or soy milk (I used coconut milk--any of them work)

1/4 cup vegetable oil

1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar (any mild vinegar is fine, really)

1/4 teaspoon ground turmeric

1/4 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

about 3 cups of flour

Filling Ingredients: (sorry forgot to get photo)

3-4 medium size russet potatoes, peeled and cut into one inch chunks 

2 tablespoons vegetable oil plus extra for brushing the samosas before baking

3/4 teaspoon ground cumin (the recipe called for cumin seeds which I didn't have and this worked fine)

1 teaspoon mustard powder (the recipe called for mustard seeds which I didn't have and this worked fine)

1 medium sized onion, very finely chopped

2 cloves garlic (or two teaspoons chopped garlic if that’s what you have)

1 tablespoon fresh ginger

! teaspoon ground coriander

1.2 teaspoon ground turmeric

pinch of cayenne pepper

1 teaspoon salt

juice of 1 lemon (or whatever equivalent is if you have lemon juice and not a lemon--it usually will say on the bottle)

3/4 cup frozen green peas

Method: 

In a large saucepan, boil the potatoes for about 20-25 minutes, until they are tender (use a fork to poke them to check). When they are done drain them and set them aside.

Po-tay-toes (boil ‘em, mash ‘em, stick ‘em in a stew) In this case they are to be mashed! 

Make the dough:

Pour the wet dough ingredients into a mixing bowl. 

Add 2 cups flour and the turmeric, baking powder, and salt. Knead the mixture until well mixed, adding the rest of the flour bit by bit until a smooth but not sticky dough is formed, Maybe 10 minutes by hand? 

I cheated and used the dough attachment on my KitchenAid so it was a bit under that time. (I kneaded it a bit by hand when the mixer was done too.) (Something something about the gluten, per Paul Hollywood and GBBO.) 

set the dough aside, cover with a damp cloth or plastic wrap and begin working on the filling.

Preheat over to 400F somewhere in here

Filling:

Saute the onions with oil in the skillet on medium high for about 7-8 minutes or until the onions begin to brown.

add the garlic, cumin, mustard powder, ginger, coriander, turmeric, cayenne, salt, and lemon juice, and saute a minute more. 

Add the potatoes (honestly it pains me to not type ‘po-tay-toes’ in true LOTR style)

Mash the potatoes with a spatula or potato masher until it’s all a big mash of potatoes and spices (taters, precious)

When the potatoes are well mashed and the whole mixture is warm then add the frozen peas to the mix. Mix well.

Back to the dough:

divide the dough in half and roll one half of it out on a floured surface until thin (I use a big silo pat as my surface)

Now cut out circles of dough. I used a 4 inch round cookie cutter ( 4 inch circumference not diameter). 

Have a small bowl of water nearby

Cut out 8 circles 

I rolled them out a bit once I cut them out, because they tended contract a bit when I cut them. Keep the shape circular.

Place 1 1/2 tablespoons of potato mixture into the centre of the dough circle, the dab the edges of the circle with water, fold over the edges to form a triangle shaped wedge and seal with your fingers. 

Repeat until you have 8 roughly symmetrical samosas 

Repeat process with second half of dough

Place filled samosas on a baking sheet that has been sprayed with non-stick cooking spray or use a silo pat on the baking sheet and then brush each side of the samosa with vegetable oil

Bake at 400F for 15 minutes. Flip the samosas over and then bake them for 10 more minutes or until lightly browned. 

Take out of the oven and let them sit for about 5-7 minutes to cool. 

These may be frozen and reheated in the oven. They never had a chance at our house because the family descended on them like a ravenous pack of wolves. 

Tumlbr is being stupid about letting me put photos between the steps today so here are all the photos in a row. 

We had chutney in the fridge to go with the samosas. If you don’t have chutney here’s a quick recipe from the same cookbook:

chutney

1/2 cup coconut milk

1/3 cup finely chopped fresh mint or rehydrated dried mint in these times of pandemic

1/3 cup finely chopped fresh coriander. I don't know what to sub for this other than perhaps some ground coriander to taste

1 clove mince garlic

1 teaspoon maple syrup

1 teaspoon fresh lime juice

1/4 tsp salt

These were some work but the result was definitely worth the effort! Highly recommended. We also had curry along with the samosas, to really recreate the meal Simon had that night with Baz. The curry recipe is here and it is EXCELLENT! 

And here is the recipe without the photos:

Samosas

Ingredients:

Dough Ingredients:

3/4 cup rice or soy milk (I used coconut milk--any of them work)

1/4 cup vegetable oil

1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar (any mild vinegar is fine, really)

1/4 teaspoon ground turmeric

1/4 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

about 3 cups of flour

Filling Ingredients:

3-4 medium size russet potatoes, peeled and cut into one inch chunks

2 tablespoons vegetable oil plus extra for brushing the samosas before baking

3/4 teaspoon ground cumin (the recipe called for cumin seeds which I didn't have and this worked fine)

1 teaspoon mustard powder (the recipe called for mustard seeds which I didn't have and this worked fine)

1 medium sized onion, very finely chopped

2 cloves garlic (or two teaspoons chopped garlic if that’s what you have)

1 tablespoon fresh ginger

! teaspoon ground coriander

1.2 teaspoon ground turmeric

pinch of cayenne pepper

1 teaspoon salt

juice of 1 lemon (or whatever equivalent is if you have lemon juice and not a lemon--it usually will say on the bottle)

3/4 cup frozen green peas

Method:

Pour the wet dough ingredients into a mixing bowl.

Add 2 cups flour and the turmeric, baking powder, and salt. Knead the mixture until well mixed, adding the rest of the flour bit by bit until a smooth but not sticky dough is formed, Maybe 10 minutes by hand?

I cheated and used the dough attachment on my KitchenAid so it was a bit under that time. (I kneaded it a bit by hand when the mixer was done too.) (Something something about the gluten, per Paul Hollywood and GBBO.)

set the dough aside, cover with a damp cloth or plastic wrap and begin working on the filling.

Preheat over to 400F somewhere in here

Saute the onions with oil in the skillet on medium high for about 7-8 minutes or until the onions begin to brown.

add the garlic, cumin, mustard powder, ginger, coriander, turmeric, cayenne, salt, and lemon juice, and saute a minute more.

Add the potatoes (honestly it pains me to not type ‘po-tay-toes’ in true LOTR style)

Mash the potatoes with a spatula or potato masher until it’s all a big mash of potatoes and spices (taters, precious)

When the potatoes are well mashed and the whole mixture is warm then add the frozen peas to the mix. Mix well.

divide the dough in half and roll one half of it out on a floured surface until thin (I use a big silo pat as my surface)

Now cut out circles of dough. I used a 4 inch round cookie cutter ( 4 inch circumference not diameter).

Have a small bowl of water nearby

Cut out 8 circles

Place 1 1/2 tablespoons of potato mixture into the centre of the dough circle, the dab the edges of the circle with water, fold over the edges to form a triangle shaped wedge and seal with your fingers.

Repeat until you have 8 roughly symmetrical samosas

Repeat process with second half of dough

Place filled samosas on a baking sheet that has been sprayed with non-stick cooking spray or use a silo pat on the baking sheet and then brush each side of the samosa with vegetable oil

Bake at 400F for 15 minutes. Flip the samosas over and then bake them for 10 more minutes or until lightly browned.

Take out of the oven and let them sit for about 5-7 minutes to cool.

These may be frozen and reheated in the oven. They never had a chance at our house because the family descended on them like a ravenous pack of wolves.

We had chutney in the fridge and it goes so well with the samosas but if you don’t here is a quick recipe:

1/2 cup coconut milk

1/3 cup finely chopped fresh mint or rehydrated dried mint in these times of pandemic

1/3 cup finely chopped fresh coriander. I don't know what to sub for this other than perhaps some ground coriander to taste

1 clove mince garlic

1 teaspoon maple syrup

1 teaspoon fresh lime juice

1/4 tsp salt

These were some work but the result was definitely worth the effort! Highly recommended. We also had curry along with the samosas, to really recreate the meal Simon had that night with Baz. The curry recipe is here and it is EXCELLENT!

[little-ligi]

Febuwhump - No.23

No.23 - “Don’t Look” Fandom - BBC Merlin Wordcount - 1908 @febuwhump​

Leon dropped his sword with a short yelp as Percival’s blade bit into his arm. A fraction of a second later Percival had dropped his own sword as well and had a firm grip on Leon’s non-injured arm.

“I’m sorry, Leon!”

His face looked stricken and he ever so gently pulled Leon’s arm towards himself to look at the cut.

“No, Percival, it was my fault,” Leon told him, looking down at the blood seeping through his grey shirt.

It was his fault; he’d raised his arm into Percival’s swing, trying to catch the flat of the blade with his elbow and force it away from his face. It was a move he had performed many a time and it worked exceedingly well when his elbow was protected by couter and chainmail.

But today was a rather hot day however, so the knights had been training in just shirts. And where Percival’s sword would have slid off of Leon’s chainmail, without the armour it instead sliced into his bicep.

He hissed as Percival rolled his sleeve up.

Continue reading on Ao3, FF.net or below! 👇

“Oh, it looks deep,” the big knight said in distress.

The others had all noticed now and hurried over. Arthur pulled Leon closer to have a look and Lancelot put a hand under his elbow to support him.

“It’ll need stitches,” Arthur said grimly. “You’ll have to go up to Gaius.”

Leon sighed; he hated stitches. But Arthur was right; it was too deep to leave it untended. Elyan handed over a wad of cloth and Arthur pressed it firmly to the wound.

“I’ll take you to Gaius’s,” Lancelot offered.

“No, I’m fine. I can manage,” Leon protested, not wanting to be fussed over like an invalid. He pulled the cloth from Arthur’s hand and held it himself against his arm. “You all carry on, I’ll be back down as soon as Gaius has sewn me up.” He attempted a grin but it was probably more of a grimace.

“Are you sure, Leon?” Arthur asked sincerely, his blue eyes boring into Leon’s.

“Yes, Sire, I’ll manage. Seriously, Lancelot, I’m fine,” he added when the other knight made to argue. “Thank you, but I’ll be alright.”

Percival didn’t seem to want to let go of his arm but after clapping Leon on the back, Arthur called them back to training. Gwaine threw an arm around Percival’s waist, tugging him into his side.

“Come on, big man, see if we can get through the rest of the day without you mutilating anyone else,” he joked. Percival frowned, watching Leon even as Gwaine dragged him away.

“I’m really sorry,” he said again.

“Don’t worry, Percival, I’m fine.”

“I’ll come up and find you after practice,” Lancelot promised.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Leon huffed and ignored the way Lancelot raised his eyebrow in scepticism.

Lancelot gave his other arm a squeeze then Leon turned and began making his way back up to the palace. Once he was in the courtyard and out of sight of the other knights, he pulled the cloth away from his arm and had a better look at the wound. It was deep, and still bleeding profusely, but the edges were clean and straight and it looked like it would be simple enough to sew.

He staggered a little as he got to the steps up to the physician’s chambers, but just about made it up without falling over. He had to stop and lean against the wall once he was at the top of the stairs, his head swimming. Trying to get control of his feet, even though his dizzy head was not making it any easier, he stumbled towards Gaius’s door and knocked, lifting the latch and wobbling through when he heard a shout of “yeah?” from inside.

Merlin jumped up from the desk where he’d been sitting reading, slamming his book shut and stuffing it underneath a pile of parchment.

“Leon? What happened?”

“I forgot I wasn’t wearing my mail,” he said wryly, swaying slightly and leaning back against the door. “I don’t suppose Gaius is around?”

“He’s tending to the king,” Merlin said with a hopeless sort of twist to his lips.

“Ah…”

He tried to concentrate on the room in front of him, but it seemed to be spinning.

“Whoa, are you alright?” Merlin hurried over, putting a steadying hand on Leon’s back and guiding him over to the little cot Gaius had set up for patients. “I’m surprised Arthur didn’t send someone up with you to make sure you got here without falling flat on your face.”

He pushed him down and Leon sat with a bump, shaking his head to try and rid it of the woozy feeling. Sitting down was certainly helping.

“I didn’t need help; I managed.”

Merlin had obviously been practicing the look he gave Leon; he looked just like Gaius with that one eyebrow raised. And he tutted just like the old physician as well.

“Here, let me look.”

Kneeling beside the cot and taking the cloth from Leon’s hand, Merlin peeled it away from his arm. He hissed when he saw the wound, dabbing carefully at it with the cloth.

“That will need stitching back up,” he said, biting his lip.

“’S’what Arthur said.” Leon nodded.

“Oh,” Merlin said with a chuckle. “He does know some things then.” He bit his lip again. “I can go and fetch Gaius?”

“Not if he is with the king. The king needs him more than I do.” Uther hadn’t been the same since Lady Morgana had turned on them. He hadn’t said anything about what had happened when he’d been chained up in his own dungeons, but Gaius suspected he had been tortured. Tortured so severely his mind had been damaged.

“Can you…?” Leon asked, gesturing to Merlin and then to his wounded arm.

Merlin shrugged, but jumped up and started collecting things from Gaius’s bench.

“I’ve never – Gaius has showed me how and I’ve watched him do it so many times – but I’ve never done it…”

As he spoke he put a needle, silk thread, a pair of scissors, bowl of water, and a clean cloth down on the stool beside the cot. So far, he seemed proficient enough in his knowledge. He also passed Leon a cup of something that smelt rather like rose bathwater, indicating that he drink it, while he washed his hands in a basin by the window.

“I think you would do it well, Merlin,” Leon said, looking up at the servant over the rim of the cup. It tasted very like rose bathwater as well, but the dizziness seemed to ease a little.

“I am quite good at sewing,” Merlin said with a smile, kneeling down again and beginning to thread the needle. “You’ve seen my needlework on Arthur’s shirts! Did you notice there was a mended rip all the way down the side of his shirt today?”

“No?” Leon screwed his eyes up, trying to make his foggy mind remember what Arthur was wearing.

“Aha, that’s because of my fine stitching!” Merlin grinned at him. Leon smiled back, not wanting to tell Merlin that he probably wouldn’t have noticed anyway. “I was taught by the best.”

“Gwen?” Leon guessed, as she was certainly the best seamstress he knew of.

“Exactly.” Merlin dipped the cloth in the water he had brought over, wiping the blood from around the wound on Leon’s arm. “Now, are you sure you don’t want me to get Gaius instead?”

“I trust you.”

Merlin beamed. “Alright. Look away and just try to keep as still as possible.”

Leon gritted his teeth and turned his head away, watching a bunch of lavender that was hanging from the ceiling slowly swaying in the breeze from the window. A sharp stab made him wince and squint down at his arm; Merlin had begun stitching, the needle and thread tugging at the edge of the wound. With a hiss of pain, he looked away again, muttering curses under his breath.

“Sorry,” Merlin whispered, intent on his work.

A few more painful stabs and tugs later, Leon turned to look again. He was impressed with the efficiency of Merlin’s work, the steady care he was taking reminding Leon of a real physician. The stitches were tiny and very neat.

“Leon.” Merlin looked up at him then gently pushed Leon’s cheek to turn his head away. “Don’t look.”

“But –” Leon started to protest, trying to see his arm again but Merlin cut him off with a raised hand.

“No, I can’t concentrate if you’re looking. You’re putting me off my embroidery.” He gave him a silly smile before his face settled back into the determined expression, a little crease between his eyebrows. “Don’t look.”

Leon let his gaze roam over the bookshelf as Merlin continued, resisting the urge to look back every time he felt the slack on the thread as Merlin stopped pulling each stitch. He almost wished he was still dizzy, as at least then he would be focussing all of his attention on trying to stay upright rather than on the stinging aching pain of his arm.

After what felt like hours, but surely hadn’t been, Merlin gave one final tug that made Leon gasp, and snipped the end of the thread off.

“There we are!” Merlin said proudly. “You can look now.”

Leon lifted his elbow to get a better look at the wound. It was closed up with the nicest stitches Leon had ever seen – dare he say even better than Gaius’s.

“Thank you, Merlin.” He gave him a clap on the back before letting his hand catch in Merlin’s hair to ruffle it.

“You’re welcome. Let me just get some honey and I’ll bandage it.”

He got back to his feet, a bounce in his step as he went over to Gaius’s workbench again. He had a satisfied grin on his face, and Leon found himself mirroring it with a proud smile of his own.

There was a knock at the door as Merlin came back over with the honey and then Lancelot poked his head around the door.

“You got here alright, then?” he asked, coming in, followed by Percival who was still looking guilty and sheepish.

“Only just,” Merlin said, rolling his eyes. “Nearly fell on his face when he got here.”

Lancelot gave Leon a look, which Leon chose to ignore.

“Is Gaius not here?” Percival asked quietly, worry breaking over his face.

“No, but Merlin stitched it.”

He held his arm up to show off the neat stitches.

“Not too bad, is it?” Merlin said, wiping the edge of the wound with the cloth again, catching a small bead of blood. “I was tempted to embroider my name so everyone would know who stitched him up so beautifully.”

Lancelot laughed. “Save that for when you need to sew up Arthur.”

Merlin grinned wickedly. He spread honey over the top of the stitches then wrapped a bandage around Leon’s bicep, Lancelot holding it so he could tie the ends.

“All done,” he said, patting Leon’s hand.

“Thank you, Merlin.”

Leon stood and was immediately pulled into a tight hug by Percival.

“I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t worry, Percival, it happens,” he said after returning the tight hug, his hand coming up to cup the back of Percival’s neck briefly. “And luckily, we’ve got a very talented embroiderer here to take care of us.”

Merlin beamed.

[geirskogull]

Empty Mirror and Empty Grave 

+ Notes: A Short Vampire the Masquerade AU for Danica and Alex, This is Chapter 1 of 4 for this series, from the point of view of the newly embraced Lasombra Alexander Voss for this first chapter. 

Chapter 1 - The Same Deep Water as You

Archive Link

Icy water splashed hard against an even cooler face, a shaky exhale followed as the water pooled a tepid rusty pink in the ceramic bowl of the sink. Strange, what living habits clung to a dead man’s body, like memories fused to him with glue that spurned him to tears, yet twisted the salty brine that would have flowed from his eyes to a sickly vital red. 

Alexander thought then that  he should be laughing. That he should be cackling in victory over those who attempted to see him for their own personal gain, his father, his grandfather, this new vampiric patron who called himself sire. Yet his mind recognized in this end he was once again the true victim, but neither his mind nor his heart could contort the man’s memories to make them spell that out for him. Stubborn as always. Just like his sister. 

If he hadn’t known of the particularities of this curse, his curse, he may have tried to rationalize the ashy smudge that greeted him instead of his own tired, gauntface in the mirror. It would have been in vain, as  he knew better, he knew mirrors didn’t break like that. Hell he probably would have spent hours trying to scrub clean imaginary grime just to see his dead mossy green eyes. He always thought the color of rot suited him. Beyond that mournful rumination though, he also knew without his reflection, he looked a right mess if his sire, that figure of ruthlessness and shadows he met only a handful of times, counting his own death, saw him like this his new eternity would be over before it even began. 

So he returned to those empty habits he had once relied upon so much, inhaled deeply, straightened his shoulders, and ran cold hands across his face to remove the bloody tears tracks that dug their way there as best as he could with a smudgy mess as his guide. Another splash of water just in case, and another for good measure, and then a third till the pool was clear and he was sure the relics of his weakness swirled  down the drain, relics of shame he would never share. If he is to live forever, he would not allow it to be in vain.

“What do you want with me?” Terse words from an estranged sister echoed through his memory as he dried his face. “Arn’t you afraid dear old dad’ll axe you too, Alex?” She had hissed across a tiny café table that was more splinters held together with gorilla glue than actual wood then. Cross legged, angry and closed off, as he expected, but with sharp green eyes and new scars he didn’t remember being there last time he saw her. Those five years had changed them both so much. Then, he wondered if there was still anything left to save, left to salvage of their friendship. 

He laughed then, a bitter biting thing that painted fear across his twin sister’s face, only to be replaced with  sadness once its teeth were fully in her skin. A heavy silence hung around them in it’s wake, as if his cooling tea and her hot chocolate turned glorified chocolate milk were iron weights around their legs, dragging them to the ocean floor. 

He threw a clean black dress shirt over his shoulders and began to button it. Blinking away fresh bloody tears that threatened to spill over his still damp cheeks and the bittersweet memory in equal measure. As the visage of her hand reaching across that rough wooden sea to grasp his own terrified digits swelled in his minds, he paused.

“I’ve missed you so much, Dee.” Whispered words repeated from those recollections to nothing but the cold empty air around him. He dug his teeth into his lips, for he feared he was on the verge of sobbing once more. Once was more than enough for a night, thank you.

Oh if only he hadn’t traveled to this damn city on the guise of looking for school,only to actually be looking for her. If only he had taken the token acceptances thrown his way by those big name medical schools, all thanks to their father’s well placed donations and not in any way thanks to the intellect he believed he had. If only he hadn’t spent every cent he earned  on his own looking for his best friend that had been chased from their childhood by the bastard that sired them both, guilty only of the crime of dreaming. 

Perhaps then, they would still be truly alive. 

And not one unbreathing corpse masquerading as a living man, and the other... 

He dabbed a cold hand against his eyes, fearing the weakness of his resolve. Now is not the time to reflect, Alexander. He chastised himself bitterly, his own tone harsh. And even if it was, what would she think, seeing you now? Seeing you like this? A broken shell of a broken shell, huddling in his home not even willing to try this new gift out.

She’d tell him to relax, to lighten up. She’d ask about his class work and bring one of the animals she was fostering to sit on his lap. That’s how he ended up with Minet, wasn’t it? A loud meow near his feet confirmed his idle musings. Red eyes looking down into one cat-like yellow one, upon  a sea of black fur interrupted only by a terribly gaudy red collar and its pretty little bell. 

The vampire sniffled, kneeling down and giving the kitten a faint but honest grin. Ah his dear little constant. He found himself drawing his cold hands through soft fur and humming gently as the small cat began to purr. 

“Ah, so deep in my melancholy I forgot the most important job in my days!” A chuckle echoed in the cool air, and was answered by another dignified meow.  “Yes, yes, I know. Food is late, let’s go my dear one.”

“He’s friendly Alex, I promise.” Danica chuckled, her sing songy voice not exactly inspiring confidence, as she held a  small black bundle of fur and claws close to her chest. He hadn’t even looked up then, far too stressed out over his classwork, a med student more anxiety and coffee than flesh and blood at the present. He had more in common with the scattered cups of the stuff over his sisters home that he did her at the moment. \

“Last time I checked, tiny felines were not a requirement for me to pass my finals.” He had snipped up at her then, only to be met in turn with a very loud, very squeaky, and most definitely disappointed meow. Thankfully it was jarring enough to force the crooked man to right his posture and gaze at the single defiant eye of the feline now held ungracefully out towards him. 

"It's not, but it'll be good for what remains of you after said finals big brother"

"I'm only like two minutes older , Dee."

"And that's the first time you haven't lorded it over me, now hold the damn cat and relax Alex."

The loud, metallic jingle of kibble into a custom red bowl, the same shade as that tacky collar,  rescued the dead man from the clutches of his memories once more. Following suit was a very content and loud purr from the aforementioned Minet, King of the Flat, as he completely forgot about Alexander, Owner of the Flat, and dove straight into his food with a vigor he showed little else. Another shakey, yet unneeded, exhale left the vampire. This time at least sounding something akin to a weak  wheezy chuckle and not a barely restrained sob. 

Good kitty. 

Very good kitty.

Alexander Voss gave the fluffy menace a few polite yet ignored pats before standing and facing his evening once again. He did have orders after all, and what else had he been his entire life but a loyal, dutiful, gopher for his father and his father’s goals. Why would that change in death? 

The comedy was not lost on him, given the orders this time were “Go, enjoy yourself for a night.” As if he even knew where to start! A bitter laugh erupted from him, consuming the silence of the apartment like a mad hungry flame. Lingering in the expanse of once pleasant memories, turning them to ash in his mouth, was definitely not a good start.

But he would not fail, not again. Not at any task.

So even with the added “difficulty” of not being able to see himself in the mirror, he silently swore to his reflection that he would forge himself anew of black shadowy steel. He would be a tool for himself, not for this new vampiric father he found himself beholden to, not for the visible ghosts of his  first victims and the invisible ghost of his sister, but for himself. A revolutionary statement in his mind that would take some getting used to, and a great deal of planning to accomplish.

With the weight of his memory as the ink upon the paper of his oath, and the cold wind beyond his door the dust sprinkled upon it, he now just needed to find the wax and the stamp and it would be eternal.. As he twisted the polished silver door handle of the apartment, he closed his eyes. A stillness taking him as he silently considered this new plan brewing in the blackness in his mind. 

He shoots a careful glance back at Minet over his shoulder as the cold winter wind knocked at his coat and mussed his long, unkempt ponytail. The one eyed feline, for his part, licked at his paws absently, full from his regal meal and oblivious to his servants troubles.

“I’ll be back.”

His words were largely ignored, but the flittering familiar shades at the edge of his vision seemed to nod, almost in approval. Strange from such stern faces, barely perceivable in the messed watercolor of their forms, but still uniquely themselves. 

Facing forward, he inhaled, the last act of his old dying world, and faced a new beginning.. A pang of thirst in his gut forced a strange wolfish smile upon his face, sharp toothed and hungry. First goal of the evening, of his first free night, find a drink.

He would need the energy for what he had planned.

[welcometophu]

Missed Fortunes: Beneath 3

Twinned Book 2: Missed Fortunes

Beneath 3

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“You got that last time,” Serina says, gesturing at Carolyn’s bowl as she slides onto the bench next to her, blocking any exit from the booth. They are tucked in the back, in the last empty space in the entire shop. Every other table and booth at Sweet Scoops has been claimed by couples, and there are more outside, eating and cuddling for warmth in the Valentine’s night chill. Carolyn isn’t sure what magic happened to get this space, but she’s grateful not to be outside as well.

“That’s what Carolyn likes for ice cream,” Cass says dryly, taking the other bench. “We have a big bag of gummy bears in the pantry, and she and Heather are the only ones who eat them. Carolyn puts them in ice cream. I’ve seen Heather drown them in vodka. I think once they put the ice cream in the vodka with the gummy bears.”

“We made a vodka caramel sauce for the ice cream, then added the gummy bears on top,” Carolyn admits. “It was actually really good. And I like vanilla ice cream like this. Did you get something complicated again?” She leans closer to Serina, peering at her bowl; she can’t see the ice cream under the fruit.

“Mixed berries and hot fudge on top of double fudge chocolate and double peanut butter swirl ice creams, and my cinnamon whipped cream’s on the side like a dip,” Serina says. She dips her finger in the whipped cream, holds it out to Carolyn. “Try this. It’s better than plain whip.”

Carolyn stares uncertainly at her finger.

“Go on,” Serina says, wiggling the tip.

Cass coughs. When Carolyn looks at her, Cass waves her spoon. “Chocolate with bananas and cacao nibs for me,” she says. She gestures at where Serina’s finger still waits. “Aren’t you going to try it? Now I’m wondering if it lives up to the hype.”

Carolyn nods and Serina reaches out as Carolyn opens her mouth. The spice of the cinnamon explodes on her tongue, backed by vanilla and cream. She licks it from Serina’s finger, savors it as Serina withdraws, her cheeks warm and flushed. It leaves Carolyn’s tongue tingling. “It’s good,” she says, even though that doesn’t seem like enough.

“It’s the best,” Serina corrects her softly, licking the last bits of cream from her fingertip before she picks up her spoon and digging in.

Cass coughs. “Sorry. Something in my throat.”

“You’ve had a rough night,” Serina says, smiling down at her ice cream.

“And you think ice cream’s going to make everything better.” Cass pokes at her own, laughs dryly. “You sound like my sister.”

“You have a sister?” Serina asks.

A flicker of something crosses Cass’s expression, as if she didn’t mean to say that. “One sibling, and she’s older,” she says, tone curt.

She means to shut the conversation down. Carolyn’s fairly certain Serina won’t let that happen.

“How much older?” Serina asks. “I’m the oldest in my family. I have two younger sisters; one’s a freshman in high school right now, and the other just started middle school.”

Cass lowers her spoon, stares at Serina, who just keeps eating. “Older,” she says slowly. Softly. “Her name’s Minerva—yes, our parents like mythology. She graduated from high school when I was eleven, and she went away to college and never came home again.”

“I didn’t know,” Carolyn says. It feels like a huge omission, like she should know this about her sister. Family is important. But then, Cass, as outgoing as she can seem, is hard to get to know.

“I don’t talk about her much,” Cass says. Her spoon clinks against the side of her bowl, the sound sharp in Carolyn’s ears. “I did tell Allison.” At Carolyn’s silence, Cass says slowly, “Allison Maven. My big, remember? She graduated last year.”

“You have an abandonment complex,” Serina states quietly.

Cass huffs. “I do not. I don’t care that Minerva left; I knew she wanted out of our town. I thought she’d at least come home for Christmas, but she and Dad fought through the end of high school so I wasn’t exactly surprised. She got scholarships; she could afford to leave. Whereas I’m Daddy’s little girl, and he pays for anything I want. Personally, I think I’ve got it easier than she must. I’d hate to have the kind of loans that come with this education if my parents weren’t paying for it.”

“You realize that makes you sound just as selfish as everyone thinks you are.” Carolyn meets Cass’s sharp gaze, refusing to back down.

Cass smiles slowly, thin and sharp. “I’m pragmatic, yes. I’ve chosen to trade familial stress for a lack of debt. She chose otherwise.”

“Did you ever think about trying to find her?” Serina asks. She digs into her ice cream, scooping out a big spoonful. While Cass has stopped eating, her spoon resting against the side of her bowl, sliding in slowly melting ice cream, Serina is now half done.

Nothing gets in the way of Serina and ice cream. Carolyn makes a mental note of that fact.

“Would you?” Cass props her elbows on the table, chin on her hands as she regards Serina. Her gaze is even, her mouth a careful line. “Think about it. You’re just starting middle school, and your big sister decides that she’s never coming home again. She doesn’t care that you have questions about growing up, that you want someone to lean on. She just disappears. Why should I bother caring about her? She didn’t care about me.”

Serina looks down, but Carolyn swears she whispers, “Abandonment complex” under her breath.

Silence for a moment, and Cass picks up her spoon. She digs out a bite, has it raised to her lips when Serina comments, “I’d probably still look.”

Cass drops the spoon. “Really.”

“Really.” Serina quickly eats the last two bites, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand when she finishes. She gestures at Carolyn. “Like. I don’t have a twin, and that has to be both pretty amazing and pretty frustrating at the same time. Just like having little sisters. I love them both, but oh my God, it can just be drama all the time sometimes. When I packed to leave this year, they both told me they hated me. They told me they were taking my room, that they didn’t care if I came home.” She smiles then, bright and big. “And when I got home for Christmas, they wouldn’t let go of me.”

“Are you Talented?” Cass asks abruptly.

Serina shakes her head. “No. None of my family is.”

“I am. Emergent. It complicates things,” Cass says curtly. “So don’t assume that just because your little sibling story has a fluffy, happy ending that mine would too. I don’t miss Minerva like you miss your little sisters. My life has enough pressure in it without trying to drag her back into it as well.”

Serina cocks her head, brow furrowed. Carolyn’s not sure why she seems so interested in what Cass has said, but she can see the wheels turning as Serina processes. Then Serina shakes her head, smiles as she turns to Carolyn.

“Do you have any epic twin sibling stories?” Serina gestures at her, fingers falling against Carolyn’s forearm when she settles. It’s warm, and Carolyn feels as if she’s suddenly be reconnected to the conversation, included rather than just observing.

“Kit ran away when he was seven, but I went with him,” Carolyn says easily.

Cass picks up her spoon, stirs the melted ice cream before scooping some up to eat.

Carolyn keeps speaking, tries to keep Serina’s attention on herself and give Cass a break. “He’d had a fight with our mom, I don’t remember about what, exactly, but I can guess it had something to do with his name or his clothes. There were a lot of fights until we all had words and a better understanding of who Kit was. But at that point, all I knew was he was throwing things into a backpack, and yelling that he was never coming home. And I couldn’t let him go alone, so I packed really quickly and followed him out the door.”

“Where did you go?” Serina asks.

“We made it all the way to the train station,” Carolyn says quietly. “There was a bus that stopped at the corner of our street—it went down the main street of our town, and we live down one of the twisty roads from it. So we walked down to the bus stop, and when we got on the bus, Kit paid because he was the only one who thought of bringing money. I think the driver thought we were with the woman who got on ahead of us, although we snuck off again when he stopped at the station. We were arguing with the ticket person, trying to buy our tickets, when security asked us to sit down on the bench to the side.”

She licks her lips, fingers flexing; Serina covers her fingers and squeezes lightly. Cass’s spoon clinks against her bowl.

“Kit and I sat there and held hands. Our feet didn’t hit the floor, and I felt so small, and I thought security was the same as police and we were going to be arrested. When we got bored, we started going through our backpacks to see what we’d brought. Kit had all the money from his piggybank, as well as all the money from mine. He had three t-shirts, a pair of jeans, and a second pair of sneakers. I’d been rushing, so I had a backpack full of underwear and six books to read on the way.” Carolyn smiles slightly. “And we both had our Tarot decks. He tried to give me his while we sat there, but Mom arrived and convinced him to put it back in his bag.”

“You must have gotten in trouble.” Cass drops her spoon again, dabs delicately at her mouth with a napkin. Her lips purse, and Carolyn wonders just what kinds of trouble she’s remembering.

“We didn’t. There are only the two of us, and Mom was just so grateful to have found us. We had a lot of chaos when we were little, but that’s one of the ones I really remember.” Carolyn makes a face. “What’s funny is that Kit forgot. I mentioned it to him last year, and he didn’t even remember the bus ride, or the way he got angry at me for being the one to be practical enough to remember to pack underwear. Or the way he laughed when he realized I hadn’t packed anything else.”

“My parents are really strict,” Serina says quietly. Her fingers stay atop Carolyn’s, holding on lightly, while she gestures with her other hand. “I’m supposed to do well. There are a lot of expectations, because I’m the eldest. I had to get good grades, do at least three extra-curricular activities in high school—one sport, one art, and one to prove I’m smart—and I had to help with my little sisters. They’re paying for college because they think I shouldn’t have any debt, and my dad’s working two jobs to do it. I hate that they won’t let me get loans because they think it’s their job to pay for where I want to go. I did get scholarships, but not enough to really help as much as I’d like. I’m worried that by the time my littlest sister gets to college, my parents will be bankrupt.”

“I’m angry at Minnie.” Cass’s words are sharp, blunt. They don’t match up with what Serina has said, but at the same time, they lay her just as bare as Serina did. And the name has shifted, Carolyn realizes. Cass refused to think about Minerva, but Minnie’s loss upsets her.

Serina makes a soft noise, motions with her free hand for Cass to go on, as if she hasn’t been interrupted.

“She had a boyfriend,” Cass says, her jaw tight. She stares down at the table, shoulders tense, fingers twisted together. “She got pregnant her freshman year, and my dad told her she couldn’t come home if she kept it. She never actually told me about it. I mean. I knew she and Drew were together; they’d met in high school and went to school together on purpose. Dad hated him, and hated that Minnie picked her school partly because Drew was going there. But I overheard Mom and Dad talking about them, and I pieced it together. I don’t know if Minnie tried to talk to me and Dad blocked her somehow, or if she just walked away from all of us because of what he said. I have a niece or a nephew, I think, and I’ve never seen them. Or maybe Minnie’s dead and Dad’s just been lying. But I have to be the good girl. The nice one. The one that does everything right and lives up to every family expectation, because Minnie wasn’t. And I’m pretty sure he still doesn’t love me as much as he loved her.”

“Oh.” Serina’s mouth makes a perfect oval, tongue peeking out when she licks her lips. “Oh. Cass. He loves you.”

Cass smiles tightly, makes a small huff of a sound. “No. He doesn’t. But he needs me, and I’ll take that for now.”

It leaves Carolyn with all kinds of questions. Whether Cass is so clingy with Dax because she is afraid of him leaving, or if she’s so clingy because she needs proof that Dax loves her? Whether Cass’s dad needs her because she’s different and Emergent, and whether that’s why he doesn’t treat her the same? Where Minnie is, and whether she’s safe and whole, and whether finding her would be helpful for Cass or hurtful?

“I bet if there’s any trace of Minnie online, or her boyfriend, Sera could find her.” Serina wiggles her fingers next to her temple, her other hand squeezing Carolyn’s. “If you really wanted to, that is.”

Carolyn can understand the difference between wanting to know and needing to know. And that sometimes it’s easier just to let the past stay safely in the past. Cass glances up, and for a moment she looks vulnerable, achingly so, then she blinks and the shutters slide back into place and her expression is politely blank.

“Maybe,” Cass says.

Carolyn looks down at her almost empty bowl, fishes the last remaining gummy bear free from the melted ice cream. She pops it in her mouth, then carefully cleans her fingers. “We’ve had dessert,” she announces, “and I don’t know about you, but I’m in the mood for more comfort food. Cass, order one of those big containers of mac & cheese from Gepetto’s, and I’m going to order wings from Fire and Fry. We can pick both up on the way back to the house, then eat ourself into oblivion.”

For a moment she thinks that Cass is going to resist, that she’ll walk away after momentarily laying her soul bare. Then Cass fishes out her phone and starts tapping on the screen. “Okay.”

Serina lets go of Carolyn, leaving her hand cold but free to pick up her phone. Serina starts doing something as well, waves her phone as she says, “Cannoli from Minnisale’s because we are going to need a second dessert when we’re done eating.”

Carolyn can’t argue with that, and Cass doesn’t, so she orders the wings as promised. It seems like a good kind of night to sit around with friends and gorge on comfort food until they’re finally sated.

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EXCLUSIVE BOOK EXCERPT: 'From the Campaign Trail or Thereabouts' ~ Buy It Today!

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“You Mean the American Election?”

January 5, 2016

  “Is this quail?” Harold asked in a whisper, leaning in close to examine the contents of the chafing dish in front of him.

Pattie glanced over at the tray. “Cornish game hen.” She spooned some fingerling potatoes onto her plate.

“I thought they were hiring waiter service for the evening. They could have at least served quail.” Harold prodded at his dish. “Or lobster tail.”

Pattie looked around the room as she waited for Harold to dress his salad. “The Apfelbaums went all out for Natalie’s fortieth.”

“Forty,” Harold groaned. Thin and neither tall nor short, he had crow’s feet forming around his eyes, slightly thinning blond hair, and an easy indifference to his surroundings. “Only three more years. I always figured I’d own a brownstone by the time I was forty.”

“That was my hope, too.” Pattie fidgeted impatiently. “Come on Harold, you’re not frosting a cake. Just ladle it on and go.”

“Pattie, I think this is Paul Newman dressing!” Harold hissed contemptuously. He twirled the dressing with the ladle. “We could buy this!” Pattie gently took the handle out of his hands and dripped a judicious amount of vinaigrette onto her field greens. The pair took their seats around an oblong mahogany table lined with a finely-woven red cloth. Slightly worn pewter candlesticks with the letters “MA” embossed at the base sat on either side of a small glass bowl filled with tangerines and pine cones.

“Natalie, I love these candlesticks,” Pattie said cheerily, leaning down the table. Apple-cheeked with wavy black hair, she had a wry smile and probing, dark brown eyes.

“Oh, thank you!” Natalie, who was dressed in a tight-fitting ensemble of black pants, blouse, and sweater, replied. “Those are my grandmother’s. She brought them with her out of Germany in 1933.”

“Pattie, your grandmother didn’t happen to bring in anything like that, did she?” Harold asked through a mouthful of game hen. “We could have it appraised.”

“Ignore him,” Pattie said, attempting a laugh.

“Oh, speaking of, did anyone happen to read that article in The New Yorker last week on antique forgeries?” a slim man with an Aquiline nose and a crop of carefully unkempt hair asked, looking up from a wine label he was examining.

“No, I didn’t, but Pattie! You must be so proud!” Natalie exclaimed from the head of the table. 

Pattie blushed. “I didn’t even know I was up for—”

“Oh, don’t be modest, Pattie,” Harold said, washing down his food with a sip of wine. “For crying out loud, you just won a Peabody!”

“Pulitzer.” Pattie rolled her eyes and attempted a look of comic exasperation.

“Right, right, a Pulitzer.” Harold dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “They are such engaging little blurbs she writes, the television summaries.” He prodded the hen. Natalie coughed uncomfortably. 

“Well, it was an exploration of Julia Louis-Dreyfus, the cult of celebrity, and second acts in American life, but yes, I certainly had no idea it would be this big.”

“And how’s your work going, Harold?” the slim man asked. “Are you still covering the metro desk?”

“Harold’s covering the entire tri-state area now,” Pattie interjected before Harold could swallow his mouthful of bread. “If you have a tip about a sewage crisis in New Jersey, you can tell him directly, these days.”

“Actually, Harold, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d love to pick your brain about that,” said a short, rotund older woman sitting across the table. She wore a purple pantsuit and a hat topped with a large arrangement of flowers. A small pair of square, transition-lens glasses were perched halfway down her nose. “When I first ran for the New York State Assembly, I championed a platform to revamp the sewer systems of our towns upstate,” she added proudly. “‘Drain the Septic Tanks!’ was our slogan,” she chuckled. 

“Oh, sure, perhaps later this week?” Harold asked brightly, sensing the spotlight. “I’m off the clock now.”

“That was the McCornish Bill, right?” Pattie asked.

The woman’s face dropped. “Well, that was a piece of very compromised legislation that was ultimately adopted after popular pressure forced them to do something.”

“This hen is dry,” Harold whispered to his wife. “Really, how much are lobster tails for eight? If I were heir to a toothpaste fortune—” Pattie nudged him under the table.

“While we’re eating, can we perhaps change the subject from such matters as sewage or New Jersey?” an implausibly young-looking man with impassive hazel eyes, stubble, and a prematurely bald head interjected. “I don’t know if any of you saw the 36 Hours on the Cyclades. Anthony, did you?” he asked, nodding his head in the direction of the slim man. “You and Natalie were there two years ago, right? I couldn’t believe they omitted Paros in favor of Mykonos. It’s like, am I reading Frommer’s?” The table laughed.

“Oh, Greece,” Natalie said wistfully, looking over at her husband. “Can we go back?”

“When would you like to go?” Anthony asked.

“Yesterday,” Natalie replied with a smile. “The Elounda Beach Hotel was heaven on Earth.”

“Did they go back to the drachma?” Harold interjected. “I have to imagine, since the economic crisis there, it must be a tourist’s paradise.” 

“Still on the Euro, actually,” Anthony replied without making eye-contact.

“If you go back, you need to charter a craft,” the rotund woman declared. “After my city council run, I spent three months sailing the wine-dark seas. It was such a healing voyage.”

“Do you think they’d still take my drachmas if I brought them to one of those exchange kiosks at the airport?” Harold asked, leaning over the table to address Anthony. “I still have about fifty dollars worth saved from when my parents took me the summer after college, is the thing.” Anthony looked at him blankly. Natalie pretended to laugh, then stopped quickly, realizing that no joke had been made. Harold coughed, his face reddening slightly. “That was really quite the trip,” he stammered. “Of course, I guess we all remember our first time abroad. The sights, the smells. Everything was so cheap there, I sure remember that.” He gave a forced laugh. “Not that it mattered,” he added quickly.

Natalie turned to Pattie. “Pattie, when was the last time you were there?”

“Oh, yeah. Let me think,” Pattie gazed thoughtfully across the table into a watercolor portrait of an African woman wearing a tribal headdress. “I didn’t get that far on the Switzerland trip, or the…jeez,” she smiled. “I guess I haven’t been since I was in eighth grade. That was the first time I’d been anywhere further than Paris.”

“Natalie, this is great,” Harold interrupted. “Is this quail?”

“I went with my best friend—Natalie, you’ll love this. Your lab partner from seventh grade chemistry, Shirley Burden, and her step-father, Mr. Rose—well, we call him Charlie now.”

“Shirley!” Natalie exclaimed. “I forgot how close you two were in middle school. What was that like?”

Pattie shrugged. “It was right after the marriage, so they let each of them bring along a friend so it wouldn’t be so awkward for Amanda to be there with him and the kids.”

“Well, dear, this can be the second time someone’s paid your way to Athens,” Harold interrupted again. He turned to the rest of the table. “We’re headed to Greece this summer, all on my editor’s dime,” he added.

“Uh-huh?” Anthony asked disinterestedly.

“A little-known trick of the newspaper trade,” Harold said proudly, taking a tangerine out of the centerpiece bowl. “I just have to get myself assigned to cover something there, like the debt crisis, or afternoon naps, and there’s two weeks in Greece, bought and paid for. And of course, as long as I’m there, who’s going to notice an extra order of moussaka on the expense reports back in New York?” He winked at Pattie.

“Well, we didn’t discuss paying for it that way,” Pattie laughed tensely. “It’s for our tenth anniversary. We’re still in the planning stages, but I always think that’s half of the fun.”

“Of course,” Anthony agreed. “You really should wait until the early fall to go. You’ve read The Colossus of Maroussi, I presume? Miller describes September in Greece with such poetic accuracy. You should read it now, if you haven’t already. You’ll be transported.” Pattie nodded thoughtfully, smiling. She glanced over at Harold, who had placed the tangerine rind next to his plate and was dipping a corner of his napkin into his water glass.

“Harold, have you ever thought about covering trials?” Natalie asked. “I think that would be fascinating. Peering inside the justice system. Actually, do you know who wrote that Times piece on the first Freddie Gray trial, the one that starts tomorrow.” 

“Right,” Harold said, confused. “Freddie Gray.”

“Oh!” the rotund woman interrupted. “Wasn’t that horrible? That poor boy. His whole future ahead of him. I saw his picture in the newspaper. He looked like such a fine, thoughtful young man.”

“Yes, very thoughtful,” Harold agreed quickly, grabbing on to this nugget of information. 

“Well, he had a series of drug charges and minor crimes,” Anthony corrected. “But of course, you have to account for the environment in which he grew up…”

“Right,” Natalie agreed. “If you adjust for how, if he had grown up in a normal environment, there would be no criminal record and no cloud over him.”

“That’s what I’ve always said. When I ran for the Queens Library Volunteer Coordinator position last fall, I pressed hard for more public programs. We need to get these children off the streets and back in schools!”

“Of course, you can understand the rioting,” the bald man explained, reinserting himself into the conversation. “Some protest, even unrest, is healthy. Much like how the body sweats when it’s suffering from a fever, it’s a way of cleansing, of breaking that societal infection.” He gently reached for the bottle of wine.

“I’m right there with you,” Anthony agreed. “But did they need to start looting? I mean, what political point are they making by smashing a window and running off with a plasma television?”

“And all the destruction,” Pattie added, disapprovingly. “They burned that CVS. I think it only hurts their cause when people see that violence.” Harold nodded vigorously.

“And that waste,” the bald man concurred. “It hurts them more than anyone else to set a CVS on fire. It hurts their protest, it hurts indigent people in their communities that shop at CVS, and it hurts the optics.”

“Right,” Natalie exclaimed. “I’m all for protesting police violence, but, you know, there’s a correct time and place for it. When they block traffic and shut down a city, don’t they sort of become the aggressors?”

“There’s a difference between activism and anger,” Anthony declared. “You want to have your people being the ones getting attacked. You don’t want them to be the ones looting and burning. You know who understood that, was Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. He understood optics.” There was a chorus of “mms.” 

“Of course, it is good, like you said, to see the community sticking up for itself,” Natalie began.

“Yes,” Pattie affirmed. “It’s really beautiful.” There was a pause as the table reflected.

“They have fantastic seafood in Baltimore, I recall,” Harold added. “Crab. Shrimp. Probably even lobster.” His right thigh began to vibrate. Harold reached into his pocket, retrieving his phone and glancing at the screen. “Jeez, I’m off the clock!” he moaned. “My editor,” he explained to the table. 

“You can take it in the study, if you’d like,” Anthony offered.

“Oh, terrific. Probably just calling to see if I want to upgrade to business class for my flight to Athens.” Harold reached for a second tangerine as he stood up. Pattie slapped his hand away. 

“They’re decorative, Harold,” she hissed.

He shrugged and put the phone to his ear as he exited the dining room. “Hello, sir? No, no, I’m working from home tonight. Sir, I promise you, that man is a magician. I’m just waiting for a source to—oh? Oh, a new assignment?” Harold walked down a short, dark hallway lined with black-and-white photographs, into a wood-paneled room filled with bookcases. Several imposing masks, evidently African in origin, hung high on the walls. His heart swelled with envious appreciation.

  “Something different this time, sir? Not another D-Train masturbator, I hope. No, just, the last time you said that—oh? Covering the election? Well, if I catch the LIRR, I can probably be in the—how’s that, sir? You mean the American election?” Harold bumped into a bookcase jutting into the center of the room, knocking to the floor a small, phallic folk-art statuette. “No, sir, that was just the power adapter for my laptop. It fell to the floor, sir. Yes, hard at work, right. I’ll sleep when the news does.” Harold picked up the statuette and, noticing a fresh gash in the wood, gingerly placed it back on the shelf, rotating it around carefully.

“Sir? I thought that Joshua Martin was covering the Republican primaries. Didn’t you move him from his post in Moscow just for that purpose?” Harold listened intently. “Really? On tape? And his stories are different now? The last one was all about what a great dancer Putin is? What a shame, sir. And right after he landed the American election, too. No, no, absolutely. My gain, sir, one hundred percent.” Harold picked up a thick ballpoint pen off of the desk in the center of the room and examined it under the overhead lights for a moment before slipping it into his pants pocket. No one would notice a missing pen here, he concluded. 

“You know, sir, it occurs to me that Martin’s termination probably affects your coverage of Europe in general. For example, who’s covering Greece now? Well, Europe is pretty small, sir. I assume Russia and Greece are practically the same beat. Anyway, Greece is in the midst of a massive debt crisis at the moment. I hear they may even go back on the drachma. Perhaps I could cover both the American election and the debt crisis. I’m sure there would be some coverage of our election on Greek TV. Sky News, sir. It’s on all over Europe. I’m sure they would be talking about the election on a regular basis. I could plan to be in the room, or in the hotel bar, maybe, if there’s a TV in the hotel bar, and sort of take notes when the election comes up on Sky News, and just send that right along to you.” Harold examined a large, antique stapler sitting atop two volumes of Winston Churchill’s A History of the English Speaking Peoples and made a mental note to obtain some rare books. 

Pattie poked her head into the study. “Everything okay?” she whispered. “Natalie’s about to serve the tiramisu.”

Harold held his hand over the phone. “Ask her to wrap up my hen!” he mouthed. “I didn’t finish it.”

Pattie rolled her eyes and slipped back out of the room.

“Pattie! Throw a couple rolls in there, too!” Harold called after her. He took his hand off the phone. “Sorry, could you repeat that, sir? No, no, I just got distracted by an email. A confidential source just emailed me. Right, multitasking, like always. My first stop? Des Moines? Uh huh.” Harold twirled the rotary dial of a large black telephone mounted to the side of a bookcase. “Sir? It occurs to me that Des Moines is not especially close to Greece. Well, I hear that the Elounda Beach Resort has satellite TV in each room. They probably get Sky News there. Ah. So that’s a definite ‘no’ on the Sky News angle. Got it. No, Iowa sounds lovely, too. No, sure, if there’s going to be a primary there. Right, sir.”

Pattie returned with a small plate of tiramisu. “Natalie insisted that you not miss out,” she said quietly.

Harold placed the plate on the History of the English-Speaking Peoples. “I heard something about cappuccino?” he whispered. “Yes, sir,” he stammered, turning his attention back to his call. “So I assume I’ll follow the big players on the trail. Hillary. Mitt. Ted who? Ted Cruz. So the Democrats would have the first female nominee or the first Hispanic nominee. A Republican? Oh, right—that Ted Cruz. No, of course I’d heard of him, sir,” Harold said quickly. “Yeah, so those two. How’s that? Right, and sixteen other candidates. No, of course I know that, sir. Do you think I don’t read our paper? Every Sunday, like clockwork. Uh-huh, daily, sure.”

“The election?” Pattie mouthed.

“Yes, sir, the chance of a lifetime. So, I’ll be covering Ted and the sixteen other Republicans. And the Democrats are running just Hillary this year? Well, sir, I’ve been knee-deep in my beat, if you will. No, of course I know who Sanders is. Sir? Before you jump off, I was wondering if we could just play a quick game. No, a political one. I was thinking, maybe you could just rattle off the names of all of the candidates, and then I can see if you named them all. Hello? Hello?” Harold looked at his phone, pocketed it, and picked up the plate of tiramisu.

“What’s this about the election?” Pattie asked. 

“Bad news, Pattie,” Harold said woefully through a mouthful of mascarpone. “It seems that our grand plans for Greece are out.”

“What? Why?”

“Well, apparently, there’s a video of some Russian honeypot pooping on the chest of one of our reporters, which has created some objectivity problems, and now I have to cover the presidential election in his stead.”

“What? Harold!” Pattie exclaimed. “That’s incredible!” She looked at him with fresh admiration. “See, I told you, if you just started checking your email once over the weekend.”

“Well, yeah.” Harold pursed his lips. “But it puts the kibosh on our Greece plans, since I’ll be more or less on the road from now until November.”

Pattie paused, considering before she spoke. “That’s probably just as well for us, right?”

“Just as well?”

“Come on,” Pattie smirked. “Two weeks of time alone together to reconnect? Talk about treating the symptom, not the cause. What do we even pay Dr. Rothstein for?”

“Pattie,” Harold said sternly. “We had this conversation when you threw away your sock puppet.”

“Harold, you can’t even get through a single session without using Gary the Goat as a buffer. How were we ever going to survive two weeks alone together in a foreign country?”

“That’s why this will be so much better than Greece! There won’t be so much pressure, relying on each other to figure out what signs are for the bathroom. Just you, me, and the great American wilderness. Like Lewis and Clark but in a rental convertible.”

“How’s that, then?”

“We can expense the convertible.” 

“No, the part about about me.”

“Well, you’ll come with me.” 

Pattie laughed. “What about my job? The charity boards I’m on? Film Forum is about to have a retrospective on Fellini!”

“Pattie, this is what Dr. Rothstein was getting at when he gave us the dream journals and the olives. You need to feed all of you.”

“Harold, I can’t babysit you while you take a tour of America’s lesser-known pig farms. This isn’t like that assignment your editor sent you on out in Montauk. This is the election. I just can’t leave for that long.”

Harold sighed impatiently. “But that’s the same excuse you gave when I wanted to go to Niagara Falls last month. You can write your little blurbs anywhere. At some point, it’s now or never.” Harold gave the stately desk a determined tap. “A great American road trip could be just the B-12 shot our marriage needs. New Orleans, Nashville, Chicago, San Francisco—and what about this? San Diego?”

Pattie perked up. “San Diego?”

“Oh, Pattie, you’d love San Diego. It’s everything Greece is and more. It’s warm. It’s sunny. Waiters have to wash their hands before leaving the restroom.”

Pattie thought. “I have always wanted to see San Diego.”

“Oh, I hear it’s lovely. I hear there are seals that come right up onto the beach. Seals! And we won’t have to pay for any of it.”

“Sure,” Pattie said. “I’ve heard that before. Who ended up having to drive back to the South Huntington Pottery Barn with a personal check?”

“No, this is different. I have to go anyway. Who’s going to know if you’re staying in my hotel room? Who’s going to notice a few extra entrees when I submit my meal receipts? Do you have any idea how many receipts that paper gets in one day? Nobody’s going to notice an extra Cobb salad. That’s practically the motto of the journalism industry, Pattie.”

“I don’t know. When do we leave for San Diego?”

“Well, first we have to stop at Des Moines, but I assume we can find our way to San Diego pretty early on.”

“Isn’t California’s primary in June?

“Is it? See, this is why I need you with me.” He placed his hands on Pattie’s shoulders. “Anyway, once I get on the road, I’ll have plenty of latitude to make my own decisions. You don’t work your way up through the sewage industry without getting a little discretion to follow a story wherever it leads, honey.”

Pattie hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“Pattie, remember when you shared the entry in your dream journal about the dairy farm? Remember the promise?”

“Okay, okay,” Pattie sighed, gently removing Harold’s hands from her shoulders. “I bet San Diego would be nice in the spring.”

“You’ll be sunning yourself and sipping margaritas before you can even say ‘trial separation.’”

  * * *

  EXCLUSIVE BOOK EXCERPT: ‘From the Campaign Trail or Thereabouts’ ~ Buy It Today! was originally published on Weekly Humorist