Chapter Text
If he thought his flat was small before, he can’t imagine how Paddy’s Dobermans will dwarf it now. He pictures Rhea and Mell on the couch that was never really big enough for him and Andy and it's suddenly terrifyingly apparent how little space there is for all of them. He can't imagine how Belle will get on with the two dogs either, though they're old and more likely than not to simply ignore her.
At least in Paddy’s four-bedroom, he's comfortable enough. There’s a strange sort of therapy available in cleaning and dwelling in a dead man’s home. He entertains himself by envisioning a big house of his own someday. He scrubs and polishes each room. He mows the lawn and hacks away at the hedges like he’s got a clue what’s doing. He puts on music and cooks and sleeps until noon in the spare room. His time there is a surprising reprieve, disregarding the two blights on his conscience.
“You like dogs, don't you?” he asks Louis on the phone that night, peering over the edge of the bathtub at them, lying on the tile floor.
Louis doesn't answer right away. He's starting to fall asleep, though it's earlier in LA than it is in Mullingar. “Love dogs,” he says eventually.
“How about three?” Harry asks.
Louis laughs. “Sounds ambitious. Why?”
“I've got Paddy’s dogs with me,” Harry says. “Indefinitely.”
“Are you trying to goad me into taking them?”
“No,” Harry says. “Just saying, I've got a kid and three dogs now.”
“You've never been more appealing.”
Harry is mostly joking when he asks, “You don't mind all my baggage then?”
“I love your baggage,” Louis replies, which sounds like ‘I love you’, baggage and all.
Harry smiles, opens his mouth, licks his lips. He should say ‘I love you too’, even if it isn't a completely accurate response. He allows the silence to stretch for a second too long and misses his chance yet again. He's missed several already.
He shifts around, sloshing water, and pushes his toes up through the surface.
“Are you in the bath?”
“I am,” Harry says, sinking down briefly to wet his face.
Rhea yawns, issuing a loud, long whine.
“With the dogs?” Louis asks, and Harry can picture his brows raised high.
“Maybe,” Harry says. “Are you jealous?”
“I might be.”
“I'd much rather you were here, if that makes you feel better.”
“I’m not convinced,” Louis says. “Seems like you're replacing me already.”
Harry runs a hand down his thigh. “I could show you.”
“Show me what?”
He parts his legs beneath the water and cups himself. “How much I miss you,” he says, reclining his head against the tile.
“With the dogs watching?”
“They’ve been following me everywhere. It can't be helped.” They look at Harry like he’s the one who’s taken Paddy from them, like he's playing a game that's gone on for too long, and maybe if they linger around Harry will put Paddy back. “I don't want to think about them. I want to think about you.”
“What about me?”
“Your mouth.”
“Want to do what you did last time?”
Harry starts to fist his cock, letting his eyes close. The last time was minutes before Louis left for LA. They were stood in the hallway. Louis on his knees. Harry's pants around his ankles. “Yeah.”
“You want to fuck my mouth?”
Harry groans. “Yeah.”
“And let me fuck you after?”
“Yes.”
“In the tub?”
“Anywhere.”
“Be specific,” Louis says like he can't catch his breath.
Harry’s toes curl. His back arches away from the tub. “In our bed.”
“Our bed?”
“Ours.”
Everything blurs after that: his hand beneath the water and Louis’ voice in his ear. The line between reality and pretend blurs, until he's not in this home with these sad dogs under sad circumstances. He's with Louis in a place that's theirs and he can feel him more tangibly than he feels the water against his skin.
†
Paddy didn't have much left in terms of family. There were some second cousins in attendance and a very elderly aunt. Harry had found an old address book at the house and rang a few of the numbers. Most were out of service. All together, combined with the men Paddy often gambled or drank with, there were about twenty-five people in attendance. It's awkward enough just by product of a scant crowd. It's made more awkward by the tension in the room.
Andy looks sombre in all black, but she doesn't cry. Harry didn't expect her to. She also hasn't made eye contact with him for the past ten minutes and whenever she does, it's an aborted glance, like she hadn't actually meant to. He might also be paranoid. But he’d like to think that after eighteen years, he knows her well enough to discern between actual tension and paranoia on his part.
She stands beside him with her red-painted lips pressed in a frown as a set of gravediggers lower the coffin into the earth. His mum slides her arm around his waist and it gives him the bright idea to wrap his arm around Andy’s shoulders. It’s not paranoia when he feels her stiffen.
“Please join me in a word of prayer,” the priest says and Harry peels his eyes away from her and bows his head. “The Bible says, our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all…”
He rang her four days ago and she never got back to him. At the time, he'd thought she was simply too busy. He hasn't seen her since the concert in London and hasn't spoken to her since the day Paddy died. She’d been shocked, had even got choked up, but there’d been no tension. He runs through all that could have happened in the past week and there’s only Paddy.
“We fix our eyes not on what is seen, but what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. Amen.”
Another verse and a hymn later, they're finished. He’s relieved when he can drop his arm, accepting a hug from an old acquaintance. When he spots Andy again, she's climbing into a car with Gemma, headed back to Paddy’s home.
The weather is pleasant, at least, and Paddy’s garden, which Harry spent the last week tending, is beautiful. They have a few tables set up and food brought in from a local caterer. Harry lets the dogs out and sneaks a call to Louis. He doesn't answer so he leaves a voicemail. He has a shot of bourbon in the kitchen before bringing out the rest of the alcohol. He nearly runs into Andy on the way through the back door but she eases past him, careful not to let their shoulders touch. Harry stares after her.
“I'll take that,” one of Paddy’s friends says, reaching for the Maker’s Mark.
Harry doesn't try to stop him.
Harry has a drink and then another and only nibbles at the food. The sun sinks lower and lower. The air cools off a bit. He plugs in the fairy lights he strung up over the week and then moseys tipsily across the lawn.
Andy is sat on the grass with Alfie and the dogs, Paddy’s old camera in her hands. She doesn't look up when he approaches them.
“Could you help me with the cake?” Harry asks.
Andy lowers the camera. “Sure,” she says and stands, dusting off her dress. She starts towards the house. Harry follows her inside. He slides the door closed behind them and turns.
“I didn't know Paddy was sick,” he says. “I know all of this was incredibly sudden. I know you probably feel blindsided. But I didn't know or else I would've told you.”
“Paddy and I talked at least once a week,” Andy says. She grabs a bottle of wine on the worktop and reads the label. “I think he would’ve told me before he told you.”
Harry deflates.
“Are we saving this for a special occasion?” Andy asks, waving the bottle.
“No,” Harry says. “Have at it.”
She pops the cork on the bottle and lifts one of the overturned glasses on the drying rack and starts pouring. Harry goes to the fridge and pulls the sheet cake out with an itch still there at the back of his neck. He turns to find her watching him already.
“You know Maura, don't you?” she asks. “One of Louis’ publicists?”
The name vaguely rings a bell. “I know of her,” Harry says.
Andy sets the wine bottle down with a heavy thud like a death knell.
“I’m not supposed to know this, but according to her, Louis was seen at St Francis Hospital a week ago,” she says. “A day before Paddy died, same time you were there.”
Harry has never sobered so quickly. Not even that time he and Cassie dozed off in a steamer boat docked in the River Clyde and woke as the owner of said boat and a police officer were climbing aboard.
Andy’s gaze is more sobering than anything else. He sees it now. Can’t understand how he missed the rage at all, barely contained as it is.
Slowly, Harry sets the cake down on the worktop and then he faces her again.
“Weird, yeah?” Andy lifts her glass of wine and has a sip. She wrinkles her nose. “But then I heard that the following day, Louis was spotted in Northampton and it all suddenly made sense. Apparently everyone could see, except me. There's the way you talk, you and Louis. The way you look at him.”
“Andy—”
“I asked you a year ago, after Glasgow, right before Christmas— I asked you if there was anything going on and you told me no. And I believed you. And then in August, after the single dropped, a fan met you and Louis in the hotel cafe before it was even open, before the sun was even up—”
“That was after you ran off,” Harry says.
Andy ignores him. “A month ago, at our first concert, Louis left his family to sit with you. He didn't leave your side for the rest of the night. And then just last week, Louis Tomlinson spotted in bloody Mullingar at the hospital where my grandfather was dying.” Her eyes could burn. “It's all so obvious to me now, I must have been an idiot to miss it in the first place. But you told me no and I believed you.”
He reaches for her arm. “Bee—”
She takes a chilling step back. “How long have you been seeing him?”
Harry covers his face with his hands. He envisioned doing this with Louis. He envisioned it going more smoothly then. Louis has a way of disarming people that Harry doesn’t. Louis is the voice of reason. And most days, Harry can’t find his voice at all. He looks at her and some spring or gear in his heart comes loose. Because of course now, this is the moment where she looks ready to cry.
“Since Christmas Eve,” he says.
Andy scoffs. “Last year? Or the one before?”
“Last year.”
“And that’s when it all started?”
Harry squeezes his eyes shut. “I don’t think now is the best time—”
“Or was it in Glasgow a year ago?” she asks. “Or was it LA? You might as well come out with all of it.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Harry says. “A year ago, something happened—”
“You slept with him.”
“Okay, yes. If you want me to be specific,” Harry says. “But that was it. For a year, I tried. I did. And it wasn’t until last Christmas—”
Andy chokes on a laugh, dragging her wrist across her cheek. “I didn’t ask you to build me a bloody rocket. I asked you not to sleep with my producer. It doesn’t help that you resisted, if you turned around and shagged him anyway.”
She tosses her wine glass into the sink and of course, a good portion of it shatters, sending shards trilling across the metal basin.
He’s standing far enough away but instinctively, his hand rises to shield himself. “Jesus—”
“Everybody knows,” Andy snaps, her voice loud enough that Harry glances nervously through the window at the guests so close by. He's out of his depth here. He's got a temper as much as the next person, but this fire and brimstone sort of rage is of Cassie’s making. And he was never good at calming her down either. “Do you realise that? Literally everyone knew except for me. They've been talking about it for weeks! On bloody Twitter, there are even people who've caught on. And I look like a bloody idiot. I stood up for you! I asked you and you lied to me! I told Rose that Rachel didn’t have a fucking clue what she was talking about. Because I trusted you. You!” She pushes her hands into his chest. “I trusted you more than anyone and you lied.”
Harry’s vision blurs around the edges, his chest burning where her palms made contact. Trusted, she says.
Andy draws a deep, trembling breath. The silence stretches on for several seconds. When she speaks again, her voice is resigned. “I just hope he doesn’t leave you like Dave or Peter or Kevin or the hundred other men you've been with.”
If he were feeling himself, he'd scoff. He hasn't been with a hundred men. Christ.
“You won’t have me around to make you feel better about yourself,” Andy says.
That's the knockout punch and she knows it. Because after she's said it, after she's completely devastated him, she leaves.
†
Before Diane’s heart failed, Harry was packing his things and Andy’s things into a tattered leather carryall, the same one he sometimes took on road trips with Cassie. He wouldn't be able to take much this time. His best jumpers, two pairs of shoes, a week’s worth of pants that he could stretch for three weeks if he wore each pair for at least three days. Packing the baby things made his hands shake so badly he needed a break.
How would he warm the formula?
He packed the baby wash but how and where would he bathe her?
He looked at Andy, lying tum-up on the centre of his bed, big bright eyes following unseen creatures in the air. She blew a spit bubble and his heart skipped a beat.
He wouldn't let her die. He’d feed her and bathe her and keep her warm. Just anywhere but here.
He kept packing, chasing the energy before it ran out. He needed it to last at least until Glasgow. He and Cassie had friends there. He could rent a room and get a job in a pub. So long as he didn't think about the logistics of working and looking after a baby, his plan was alright.
The last few days, weeks, months had begun to run together, morphing into a nightmarish kind of oblivion. The longer he stayed, the harder he found it to get out of bed. And the rare times that he did, it was to use the loo or at the beginning, to accept condolences from neighbours at his parents’ door.
Life was bleak, but beyond that, Harry was paranoid.
Nearly a month after the accident and the subsequent ongoing investigation, Riley was interviewed by a local reporter and told them proudly: ‘I loved her’. Never mind that it wasn't true. It got people talking, which perhaps is what she wanted. She was quoted in the post and cited as ‘the girlfriend of the fallen teen’ and everyone pretended not to see it. But there were also things in Cassie’s room that she hid from her parents. Books and poems. Love notes to Alice. The pride flag she’d been given in Brighton. Things they now had access to, things they must have combed through and wrinkled their brows at.
By now, everyone knew.
And if they knew about Cassie, they’d suspect about him.
Andy’s face wrinkled, the way it did right before she cried. She was either hungry or she’d just shat herself. From the smell, it was the latter. Right as Harry lifted her from the bed and she began to wail, there was a knock at the door.
“One second,” he shouted, dragging the carryall from the bed with his free hand. A spare bottle tumbled free and rolled across the floor. “Fuck.”
The door opened and his mum barrelled in. She could only listen to Andy cry for so long before coming to the rescue. “She needs changing,” she said, headed to his wardrobe.
“I know. I’ve got it,” Harry said. “Really.”
“Where are all the nappies?”
“Mum, I’ve got it,” Harry said again. “I’ll change her.”
His mum turned and her gaze landed on his socked feet, or at the carryall just behind them, tumbling over with things, nappies included. Her shoulders fell.
“Going on a trip?” she asked.
He'd known that saying goodbye to her would be the thing to break him, which was why he'd planned to go without doing so. He'd leave a note for her, of course. But looking at her, knowing he wouldn't be back for a long time, that would ruin him. And it did.
His face wrinkled, similar to Andy’s, who was still writhing in his arms. His mum stepped forward and took her, rocked her against her chest until she settled down. She reached for the carryall at his feet and returned it to the bed.
“Shouldn't we at least talk about it first?” she asked when Andy was clean and dozing in her arms already.
Which was how and when and why Harry came out to his mum.
She left his room shocked and there was never a chance to smooth things over. Because the following day, Diane’s heart, which had given her trouble for years, finally called it quits in the car park at Waitrose. It was all those questions she couldn’t find answers to. Why would her otherwise happy girl throw her life away? What was she hiding? She must have known and it must have killed her.
Harry couldn’t keep still as Father Quinlan opened the ceremony admonishing Diane as ‘a loving and attentive mother’. (He missed the part where she tried to force her daughter to get married, but that was neither here nor there.) Harry kept thinking about the carryall waiting beneath his bed and glancing at Andy in his mother’s arms, wanting to snatch her free and make a run for it.
All thoughts were distractions from the one prevailing notion about the man standing across from him and when Harry lifted his gaze, he was met with Paddy’s slightly narrowed and markedly suspicious eyes.
“I have some of Pea’s things I think you'd want,” Paddy told Harry afterwards with a hand on his shoulder. “Come by tomorrow and get them.”
And so tomorrow came and Harry went.
Anyone who knew Paddy would say he'd had it coming. But to Harry, it was always wrong to attack someone at their weakest. And Paddy was weak and broken and full of questions without answers.
There was a box waiting for him on the couch when Harry stepped inside. Full to the brim with all of Cassie’s secret things — the flag, the notes, the pictures.
“Do you want to try explaining this to me?”
A fuse blew in Harry's head. He set the pram down at his feet and picked up a Polaroid of Cassie and Alice. Their hands were linked. Their smiles were private. What was there to explain about that?
“You should be just as confused as I am,” Paddy said.
Harry reached for her leather-bound journal with a thousand unsung songs hidden in its pages. Songs about love and longing. What was there to be confused about?
“But maybe you already knew—”
“Knew what?” Harry asked.
Paddy propped his hands on his hips. “You tell me.”
“But you know already,” Harry said. “Don't you?”
He got no response, which was worse.
“You can't even say it. It would kill you to even try,” Harry said. “You wanted me to come here, why? To confirm something you already know.” He lifted the flag from the box, its colours glaring and bright. “You know what this means.” He lifted the picture of Alice with flowers in her hair. “She loved this girl, but you knew that. It's obvious. There's a bloody love poem on the back of this picture. You've seen a love poem before, haven't you?
“You want me to spell it out? Fine. She was never attracted to a single boy her whole life, not even me. We got high one night and Andy happened. She loved me, just not in the way you thought she did. She loved Andy too and she was a good mum but not good enough for you. And I know she loved you even though you're hateful and angry and you made her miserable.”
Harry lifted the pram.
“Your daughter was a lesbian. The boy you tried to force her to marry is gay. And you're alone because you didn't see it sooner.”
He fled Cassie's childhood home for the last time. Paddy sold it within a year and moved back to Ireland. He took the box of secret things with him. In the fall, Harry returned to school. Time moved on and sometimes Harry could trick himself into thinking he had too.
But there's a sickly shade of karma coloured over his life now. He's caught in a redemption arc that never ends. No matter how much he cries and rages and suffers, it's not enough to account for all the pain he's caused.
†
He sends Louis a terse ‘We need to talk. Andy knows.’ And he shouldn't be surprised when Louis cuts his trip short and arrives the next morning. But he is, startled awake by the sound of his front door shutting and the dogs — all three of them — barking.
Louis enters his bedroom, dropping his carryall on the floor. His hair is a complete mess, but he’s still unbearably attractive. Under different circumstances, Harry would pull him into bed by his belt loops.
Louis looks at the dogs and then at him, “They’re lovely.”
Harry sits upright, his fingers pressed to his forehead like he can physically push the hangover away. His lips twitch. “Thanks.”
Louis looks at the bedside cabinet and the two empty bottles of wine there, then again at Harry.
“You're panicking,” Louis says.
“Is it obvious?”
Harry reaches for his phone, unlocks it, tosses it to the end of the bed. Louis takes it, gives the screen a quick scan, returns the phone to the bed.
“An article in the Daily Mail hardly means anything,” he says. “No one takes them seriously.”
He makes a valid point, but the Daily Mail also framed their relationship as a ‘bromance’ and everyone knows that loudly declaring ‘no homo’ tends to have the opposite effect. The comments were proof of that. There were pictures too of Harry staring embarrassingly — longingly — in Louis’ direction.
Harry ambles out of bed. “It's all over Twitter.”
“People thinking we’re together isn't proof we’re together. It’ll blow over.”
Harry heads to the kitchen with Louis strolling after him. “With the band too? Because they all know. Your publicist told them.”
“Maura told someone who told Rachel who told Rose.” Which doesn’t make a difference and they both know it. “We’ll talk to the girls tomorrow.”
Harry drinks half a glass of water from the tap. “And say what?”
“Everything.”
He sets the glass down and massages his head again. “Did you know we were seen? In Mullingar. And here.” When there's no immediate answer, Harry turns to him. “Louis.”
“Paddy had just died,” Louis says. “I had it under control.”
Harry leans into the counter like he can’t support his weight. “You’re still in the closet. Now there are people who know, people speculating.”
“People have speculated about me being gay for years. And when they aren't assuming you’re gay, they’re assuming you’re straight. We’re all making assumptions about each other all the time,” Louis says with a shrug. “It is what it is.”
“It was still irresponsible of me.”
“Stop looking for another thing to blame yourself for.”
“What if I outed you?” Harry asks.
“You didn’t.” Louis leans against the counter beside him. They don’t touch, but it helps that he’s close. “And it wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
Harry tries to gauge his expression but can’t. He waits.
“There were pictures,” Louis says. “From the park, when you kissed me. They’re grainy, but you can tell it’s us if you compare them to clearer pictures.”
Harry lifts his brows. “Can you get rid of them?”
“I could, but just hear me out. I told you that when I met the right person, I’d come out. It’s been the only thing stopping me, but it isn’t anymore. We could let the article run with the pictures and all. It’d be crazy at first, but then that’d be it.” Louis turns to him and there’s something wild about his eyes, something that scares Harry and thrills him at the same time. “I like people talking about us together. I’m relieved that even a few people know. But I want everyone to know.”
Harry is wide-eyed, speechless.
“Say something,” Louis says.
Harry’s heart soars at the prospect. He forgets Andy again. He gets trapped as usual in Louis’ gaze and the sureness of his words. Louis says everything like he would swear it on oath. “Are you sure?” Harry asks.
“Only if you did it with me.” He sets his hand atop Harry’s and threads their fingers together. “Will you?”
Harry doesn't think. He nods.
†
Andy’s got a baseball cap on, pulled low so that even if she cared to look at him, Harry could hardly tell. She enters the conference room after the rest and takes a seat at the opposite end of the table. He can always count on her to be tactfully late, to be tactfully anything. It’s Harry’s fate to feel consistently outsmarted by his own child.
He looks at her and no one else. He feels Rachel’s eyes on him and pictures her smiling. This is the moment she's been waiting for. He can only imagine the verbal lashing she’s prepared for them all. Beside her is Rose, then Mercy and her parents, Kendra and her dad.
The last time they were sat like this was over two years ago under happier, albeit equally stressful, circumstances.
Minutes go by in silence. Every now and then there’s the soft thud of a glass of water returning to the table or a distant phone ringing beyond the door. At five past ten, Louis enters with his two lawyers and Alberto. He's dressed down, wearing a baseball cap himself, faded jeans, and a black tee. He looks almost boyish with all his tattoos and a tentative smile he sends Harry.
He takes a seat at the head of the table while an assistant turns his teacup and fills it.
“Good morning,” he says, looking down the length of the table. He clears his throat. “Thanks for making the trip here. We don't have much to discuss, but I’d like to answer any questions you have and set some things straight. It’d be great if you held those questions until afterwards.
“Some mistakes have been made over the past year, but my relationship with Harry isn’t one of them. You might disagree but it’s also not something I felt everyone at the table needed to know about. When things were first getting started with the band, the last thing we wanted was to draw unnecessary attention to ourselves or cause more tension between you girls. Everyone at the table was in the dark about me and Harry’s relationship, including Andy, and we’re both sorry to her for that.”
“Just to her?” Rachel asks.
After a beat of silence and a breath, Louis looks at her.
“I think all of us deserved to know that Andy had an unfair advantage from the start,” Rachel says. “Andy has the majority of singing parts on the album, by far. She’s featured most often in the music videos. And of course, there’s the private studio time you’ve had with her, working on her solo music. Don’t you think we should have known about that? And that we all deserve an apology from you and from Harry?”
She meets Harry’s gaze and he doesn’t look away.
“She’s the lead singer,” Harry says. “Of course she has the majority of singing parts.”
“Which you’re very smug about, aren’t you?” Rachel crosses her arms over her chest. “The other girls sound just as good, believe me.”
“The other girls aren’t the lead singer.”
“That isn’t the point,” Rachel says, jabbing her finger into the table. “The point is that all of the girls are just as talented as your daughter and they don’t get nearly as much of the spotlight. And now we all know why—”
“Are you finished?” Louis asks.
“I’m just getting started.”
“I’d reconsider that,” Louis says. “You can either settle down or you can leave.”
Rachel’s pink lipsticked mouth twists and she goes quiet, although Harry can see that won’t last long.
Louis lets another second pass, has a sip of his tea and then continues.
“I’m sorry if anyone feels at all slighted or deceived.” He draws a breath. “The truth is that I’m a gay man who’s been in the closet for over twenty years and that doesn’t leave me much choice in regards to how public my relationships are. I’ve also never had any desire to be too public in the first place. Until now.”
Harry sees Andy turn her head. He wrings his sweaty fingers together in his lap, then dries his palms against his thighs.
“On Tuesday, there’ll be an article in The Sun, confirming the rumours about me and Harry and that'll be the end of it. I don't plan to do any interviews right now. We don't want to attract any more attention than this has got already. Especially not until things settle down around here.”
“And how do you imagine them settling down?” Rachel chimes in again. Harry catches Rose squeezing her sister’s forearm, but Rachel pulls her arm away. “No, I want to know. How do you two see this resolving itself? You think people are going to accept your love story without there being repercussions on the band? First, you’ve got Andy coming out and now you. It’s going to be clear to anyone exactly whose show this is. The rest of us are just the supporting act.”
“No, you’re not a part of the act at all,” Louis says, sitting forward. “You seem to keep forgetting that. Rose is eighteen and financially independent. Don’t make yourself more important to her business than you actually are.”
Harry can see his neck turning red, can hear his accent turning harsh and sharpening each of his words, and he’d love to reach out and curl his hand over Louis’ but it seems inappropriate now. He sits quietly, both hands in his lap, while Louis carries on.
“The implication that Andy had an unfair advantage over your sister or any of the girls is ridiculous. It’s a delusion you made up to whisper in your sister’s ear and I’ve had enough of it.” He looks at the girls. “I said from the beginning, I would make you all successful and you are, each one of you, and every decision I’ve made has been for the good of The Wonderlands as a whole. You’re all incredibly talented and I see that each day we work together. To ignore your individual talents, to not allow them to shine equally, isn’t how I do things.”
“With respect, Louis—”
When Kendra speaks, Andy lifts her head, finally.
“I don’t think that’s how everyone will see it,” Kendra says. “Once your article is published, everyone is going to milk this for as much drama as they can. And the obvious route to go down is that Andy had an unfair advantage.”
“But I didn’t,” Andy says.
“No one’s going to buy that,” Rose cuts in. “Whether you’re telling the truth or not.”
“She didn’t know,” Harry says. “Louis just said, Andy didn’t know.”
Rachel sits back in her seat, murmuring, “That’s unlikely.”
“Aren’t you tired?” Harry asks her.
“We will all be tired, Mr Styles, when the papers are full of articles about your love affair, and about the wannabe empire you and Mr Tomlinson think you’re building. Come Tuesday, you and I both will be sick of seeing your name across the internet. But maybe then your little girl will realise exactly how hard her daddy worked to get her where she is—”
“Get her out of here.”
The order comes from Louis. Alberto steps forward immediately, but Rachel is on her feet before he can touch her. “No need to kick me out again, Mr Tomlinson.” She grabs her handbag. “We’re both leaving.”
Rose stares after her sister for only a second before pushing her chair back.
Louis has his forehead in his palm when he speaks. “Rose, you don’t have to go anywhere if you don’t want to.”
After a pause, she stands and leaves anyway, her cheeks flushed red. Harry looks at Andy in the silence that follows. She’s looking at him too, then shaking her head. She stands and leaves as well, and Harry is after her without excusing himself or looking in Louis’ direction.
She races towards the lifts and steps inside, immediately jabbing the button to close the doors. But Harry slips between them.
“Just leave me alone,” Andy says, her voice marred by a sob.
“I can’t do that,” Harry says. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Bee. I know you’re angry with me, but I never meant for it to be this way. Just tell me how I can fix it and I will.”
Andy turns to him. “You can start by not releasing that article, by not coming out with him, and drawing more attention to yourselves than you have already. If you do this, Dad, it’s over for me.”
“That’s not true. It would blow over,” Harry says. “I told him I’d do this with him. I want to.”
“But what about me?”
“Don’t do that. Don’t make me choose.”
The lift doors open and Andy steps out. “Just did.”
†
Frances lets him into Louis’ office where Harry waits out the rest of the meeting. He can’t go back into the conference room. Call him cowardly, but he’s had enough. Louis is only a few minutes behind him. When he steps inside, he spots Harry on his feet by the coffee table and walks to his desk.
“That was terrible,” he says, as he pulls out a box of cigarettes and his lighter. He lights up quickly and has a long drag that Harry envies.
“Are you alright?” Harry asks.
“I'm fine.” Louis pushes his hand through his hair. “Shit happens. I have to keep reminding myself. Shit happens and we deal with it and then we keep moving.”
Harry drifts closer. “Wiser words were never spoken.”
Louis cracks a smile, which lures Harry even closer. Harry takes the cigarette from him and sets it down, pressing a kiss to his mouth in its place.
“You did well,” he says.
“As long as you think so,” Louis murmurs, his eyes downcast.
Harry cups his face in his hands. “I do.”
“It’ll blow over,” Louis says. “After the article, after a few weeks, they’ll forget.”
Harry drops his hands and takes a step towards the window behind Louis’ desk. “Maybe.”
“It’s guaranteed,” Louis says, lifting his cigarette. He taps the charred remains into the dish. “The public is fickle. A thing only holds their attention for so long.”
“And the girls? Do you think it’ll blow over with them?”
“Eventually,” Louis says.
Harry watches him. His silence forces Louis to turn and meet his gaze, and there’s a question there. Harry draws a breath. “I think you should buy the pictures and we should hold off on the article.”
Louis’ lashes lower and he turns back to the desk. “Why?” he asks, crushing what’s left of his cigarette.
“I think it’s not the best time.”
“But why?” Louis asks again, turning to face him again. He leans into his desk. “What changed?”
Harry crosses his arms over his chest, digging his nails into his biceps. “Andy feels that things won’t smooth over with the band and based on what just happened, she might have a point.”
“There are always scandals in a band, Harry. And they always blow over. They work themselves out over time. Andy might feel this way now but in time, she’d see.”
“She won’t buy that, and I can’t risk her not speaking to me.”
Louis stares at him. “You already risked that when we started dating.”
“Okay, that’s fair,” Harry says. “But I still think we should wait. I want to do this for you, but not now.”
“For me? Or for us? Because I would think you’d want this as badly as I do.”
“I do! That’s what I’m trying to say! I want this with you, but not now. Sometime in the future. When things have settled down, sure. But now with the band at risk—”
“The band will be fine.”
“I don’t know that!”
“But I’m telling you as much! Trust me. Trust what I’m bloody saying to you.”
“It’s not that simple—”
“When is ‘sometime in the future’, Harry?” Louis cuts him off. “How long are you asking me to wait? Because I’m almost forty.”
“I don’t know,” Harry says with his head in his hands. “I don’t know. But why the rush now? Since when are you in such a hurry to come out?”
“Since you!” Louis shouts, and Harry’s eyes widen. “It's you! It's always been you. How much clearer do I have to make it? How many more ways should I tell you I love you before you fucking get it? I’m here, putting everything on the line for you. Because I’m fucking mad for you. Because you’re my first thought in the morning and my last at night, and I want the world with you, for you. I don’t want to be with you and be in the closet. I want to be with you and I want the world to know. I read that fucking article in the Daily Mail and my head nearly split open seeing our names together, seeing us together. How can you not want the same thing? How can you not love me half as much as I love you?”
Harry tries to speak, but he can hardly breathe.
“Jesus Christ. You can’t even say it,” Louis says, with his hand on his heart.
“Louis—”
“Don’t say it now,” Louis says with a shake of his head. “I’m not sure you’d mean it.”
†
Until now, Harry realises he’s never truly broken up with anyone. He’s had relationships come and go, but never the kind of break up that people write a hundred songs about. Never the kind for which the term ‘break up’ doesn’t fully apply, not when you still feel inexorably linked to that person.
It’s saying a lot that Harry feels the way he does when Louis hasn’t actually broken up with him. Not yet anyhow. But his fate is becoming clearer and clearer with each phone call Louis doesn’t answer and each voicemail Harry leaves.
The first night Harry wakes following the meeting, it’s 1:00 AM and he can’t get back to sleep. He shuffles out to the couch and watches late night infomercials over a bowl of cereal and has a bit of a cry until Belle climbs into his lap and licks his face, hoping that’ll fix him.
He resists texting Louis and stops texting Andy and decides maybe it’s best that he not speak to anyone at all. But on Friday, his resolve breaks and he gets desperate.
“Mr Tomlinson’s office,” he hears on the second ring.
“Hi, Frances. It’s Harry.” He cracks his knuckle against his thigh. “Could I speak to Louis?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Harry. Louis won’t be in the office for the next few weeks,” she says. “He’s headed to Argentina tomorrow.”
Harry feels like he might fall over and presses a hand against the counter.
“He’s reachable on his mobile if it’s urgent,” Frances says. “If you’d like I could get a message to him for you.”
Harry obviously doesn’t tell her that he has Louis’ mobile number memorised, or that he hasn’t slept a full night without Louis for months, or that the thought of never speaking to him again hurts in ways there are no words to describe. He says, ‘No, thank you’ and ‘goodbye’ because he’s left enough messages and if Louis is bound to Argentina without telling him, one more probably won’t make a difference.
†
He leaves the flat that evening only because he’s running out of groceries and he may be starving himself of human interaction, but that’s where the malnutrition ends. He plans to feast on oven-ready pizzas and carrot cake and those Cadbury milk chocolate rolls he used to pack Andy for lunch. He’s in Tesco, on his way to buy wine, when he hears someone call to him.
He’s not in the mood to talk, or even in a proper physical state. He needs a shower and his eyelids are puffy. He wonders if he pulls his shades down and focuses intently on the fresh produce, they’ll leave him alone. He’s not the only Harry in Northampton and maybe, hopefully, he isn’t the one this person is looking for. He lets another second pass before he turns around.
He meets eyes immediately with a woman standing five feet away and his brows crease. The realisation when it comes leaves him momentarily speechless. And then: “Alice?”
Her hair is much shorter now, still black but cut into a trendy bob. She has new glasses, of course — black-framed and sleek. The ones Harry remembers were red and ridiculously large. She wears a long cardigan and a green silk scarf and a growing smile.
She steps forward and Harry instinctively does the same, opening his arms. They hug each other like no time has passed at all, but it’s been over ten years.
“Harry fucking Styles,” she says once they separate. “I thought I'd never see you again.”
“It’s been a really long time,” Harry says. “You look great. Different.”
She wrinkles her nose. “You didn’t think I looked great back then?”
“I think we all looked a bit odd back then,” Harry says. “Just saying.” Not Cassie though. She made the dorkiness and awkwardness work in her favour somehow.
“I’ll give you that,” Alice says. “I kept meaning to message you on Twitter. I started following you but I imagine you wouldn't notice with your million followers.”
Harry grimaces. “I've kind of fled Twitter in the last month or so, actually.”
“I don’t blame you,” she says. “Are you in a rush?”
“No. I’ve got time,” he says. “There’s a cafe across the street.”
“Perfect. Let’s go.”
For a while, they talk about politics and how much things have changed in England and about Alice’s years in the US. It takes some time before Harry says anything about himself and then it’s only because ‘Raise Hell’ comes on overhead.
“I love this one,” Alice says, smiling.
Harry tries for a smile as well. “It's a good one.”
She looks at him, her brows slightly arched. “So what’s up with you? With Andy? Your kid is a superstar and you’re not even gushing about it.”
“I’ve been gushing about it for months,” Harry says, taking a long sip of his iced coffee. “I feel like I’m all gushed out.”
“Sure.” Alice hooks her elbow over the back of the chair, giving the appearance that she's very mellow and relaxed, as opposed to gearing up for an interrogation. “Are you seeing anyone?”
“I’m not actually sure,” Harry says. “I might've ruined it.”
“With Louis?” Alice asks.
Harry looks at her and she smiles like a cat.
“I read the Daily Mail every morning before work,” Alice says. “Even when I was abroad. I’m all about celebrity gossip. My favourites are the articles that say one thing and mean another, or the ones that are blatantly untrue. Everyone knows bromance means romance.”
Harry laughs. “You have a point.”
“Louis Tomlinson is also exactly your type if I remember correctly,” Alice says. “Can’t see you being his friend for long.”
Harry is suddenly reminded that one of many reasons Alice and Cassie worked so well together was their mutual intolerance of bullshit. Alice was quieter and more reserved, but just as ruthless with the scope of her observations or opinions. There's really no point in putting up a front or deflecting now when Alice, to some degree, already knows so much.
“So, what happened?” she asks. “Or better question: How did Andy take it when you told her?”
“Well, I didn’t tell her. She found out on her own. And she’s not speaking to me,” Harry says.
Alice mouths an ‘ah’ like the lightbulb has gone off. “Explains why you look like you haven’t slept in days.”
“Not doing much sleeping, no.”
“She's just being dramatic,” Alice says, rolling her eyes. “Like you always were, actually. Cassie told me so. Good kids always come back to their parents. Even parents who’ve wronged them in some way.”
“That could be in five or ten years. After she's married and has children. I've seen that happen on Jeremy Kyle.”
“That won't happen,” Alice says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I give her another five days tops. We could bet on it, even.”
“I’m glad one of us is confident,” Harry says.
Alice gives him a sympathetic smile. “Where did things go wrong with Louis?”
“It’s where they didn’t go wrong. It’s what I should have done and didn’t do. He’s always been patient with me and his patience ran out,” Harry says. “I think it’s better this way, though. I’m most likely doomed. I feel like Sandra Bullock in Practical Magic, where she falls in love and everything is great. But there’s this curse, this force that’s completely outside of her control, and she loses the love of her life.”
“Why would you think that?”
Harry tries for another sip of his coffee but the cup is empty. He sets it down. “I was going to tell Andy. I was so ready to do it. Me and Louis, we were going to tell her together. It's absolutely my fault for putting it off for so long, I know that. But I was this close,” he says, demonstrating with his thumb and pointer finger. “An extra day or two would’ve made all the difference. It just feels like no matter what, it's never enough. Nothing ever works out for me in a convenient way.”
“That's life, innit?” Alice asks. “Nothing ever works conveniently for anyone. Some of us are dealt more misfortune than others, but it's still a fair dealing. We all have to adjust to whatever cards we get.”
“Not as easy as it sounds,” Harry says, his annoyance flaring.
“You’re right,” Alice says, her tone softer, kinder. “But you've done incredibly well so far. You're a single parent who’s raised an incredible kid.”
“You sound like my mum,” Harry says with a small smile. “Andy is the one good thing I’ve had any part in, but I haven’t done as much as I get credit for. She’s talented and she works hard. That’s all there is to it.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Look where it all got me anyhow,” Harry says. “She’s not speaking to me. I broke her producer’s heart. I can’t stop making a mess of things. I've spent years trying to redeem myself and I just can’t.”
The cool, measured expression Alice wore since they sat down falters. “What do you mean?”
“I think you probably know,” Harry says. “It’s been over ten years but I still sometimes think about what I could have done differently.”
The air between them thickens and Harry thinks he’s about to ruin this too, isn’t he? How nice it was to reunite with an old friend, but it’s over now.
“Can I tell you something?” Alice asks quietly.
“Anything,” Harry says, maybe too eagerly.
Alice gives a little upward push to the bridge of her glasses. “Before the accident, I was so angry with her. There were times I even felt I hated her. She broke up with me after I’d poured my heart out to her and made all these plans for our future.”
Alice wraps her hand around her tea as if she’s going to lift it and have a sip, but then she just leaves her hand there, gives herself something to hold onto. “And then she was gone and all the reasons I was angry seemed silly. And I realised I was partly to blame. I'd put pressure on her to leave home. I had some money at the time, obviously not enough to raise a child but I was stupid and naive. And I wasn't thinking of you like she was. I wanted her to be happy and so I tried forcing her to be happy. I cornered her and maybe if I hadn't done that, she’d be here. I don't know. I spent a lot of time thinking about it. I still think about it too.”
“It wasn't your fault,” Harry says, for lack of something better.
“I mostly believe that now, but afterwards, I felt so guilty. I tried to kill myself actually.” She laughs, seeing whatever horrified look has descended on Harry’s face. “Not in an obvious way. I stopped eating and sleeping and then ended up in hospital where they shoved a tube down my throat and forced me to live.
“Anyway, the very first night I was there, I swear to you, I had this dream — or maybe I was awake, I don’t know — but she was right there in front of me, right there in my hospital room, beautiful as ever. And she looked so unhappy with me. And I'm not saying this because I think she was actually there. Maybe she was, but I've never believed in any of that. I think I saw her then because deep down I knew that that wasn't what she wanted for me. I just needed that moment to come to my senses, to remember the person I fell in love with. How selfless she was. How loving. I think it’s easy to blame yourself if you let yourself forget her.”
“I would never forget her,” Harry says immediately.
“No, but maybe you’ve forgotten who she was. Not someone who would want you to suffer. Not someone who’d want you to be unhappy. I don’t know anything about God, Harry, but I know her. And the last thing she’d want is for you to keep punishing yourself or feeling guilty because it’s not your fault, any more than it’s mine or her parents’. I think deep down, you know that. Because you know her too. And she was good and honest and kind and she loved you so much. She talked about you all the time. Thought the absolute world of you. And she was so confident in the kind of dad you’d be. She never doubted you. Never once.”
Alice pushes the stack of napkins she grabbed across the table towards him before the first of Harry’s tears falls. He takes a few and swipes at his cheek.
“There’s redemption in pain,” Alice says. “And I think we’ve suffered enough.”
With that, she has a sip of her tea and gives him a moment to himself, a moment to ponder. It feels awful to admit, but maybe he had forgotten. He did. Ten plus years and a lot of repressed grief would do that to a person. But it feels euphoric to be reminded. It feels like he’s drawn his first breath in over a decade.
“She loved you too,” he says after some time has passed. Alice has long since finished her tea but looks in no hurry to leave. She’s watching pedestrians drift by the window when Harry speaks.
She smiles broadly. “Oh, I know. Which was why I chose to live the happiest, longest life possible.”
“Are you happy?”
“I’m ridiculously happy,” she says. “I’ll show you something.” She rummages around in her rucksack and pulls out a wallet. She opens it and leans forward. “This is my wife, Neha.” She points to a brown-skinned woman with dark curly hair and a little girl perched on her lap. “And that's our daughter, Summer. She's three now.”
Harry stuffs his damp crumpled napkins in his pocket and leans close for a look. “They're beautiful.”
“Thank you,” Alice says.
He feels her gaze on him and lifts his head.
“I think we owe it to her, right?” Alice asks. “To be happy. I think that’s what she would have wanted, don’t you?”
After a moment, Harry concedes. “I think you’re right.”
Trouble is, when he imagines himself happy, it’s with Louis.
†
“What do you think God would say about me?”
Harry craned his head back to look at her. Cassie sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, a blanket around her shoulders.
“Take an educated guess,” she said, smiling.
Harry sat upright, pushing his fingers further into the pebbly sand at Brighton Beach. “I think he’d be proud. He’d say ‘I really hit the nail on the head with this one’.”
“Unlikely,” Cassie said with a snort. “Want to know what he’d think of you?”
Harry smiled so his dimple appeared. “That I’m the perfect combination of fit and cute.”
“Shut up.” Cassie pulled the blanket more tightly around herself. It was starting to get too chilly for trips to the beach. Perhaps the next time they came, it’d be with their baby. “He’d think you were a mess.”
“Well, thanks.”
“In the way that paint splatter is a mess. You’re the piece of modern art that doesn't make sense to anyone but its creator.”
“I’m flattered, really.”
Cassie shoved him in the shoulder. “You’re the work the artist is most proud of. The one born out of the most chaotic parts of God’s brain. He made you when he was tripping on acid.”
“I’ll take that,” Harry said. “I bet he was high when he made us both.”
“Explains a lot,” Cassie said, laughing. She lied back and Harry followed her, both staring up at the sky. “Do you know how galaxies are created?”
“I think so.”
“I’ll tell you anyway. Clouds of space dust and gas collapse under the pressure of their own gravity. They’re born out of chaos. There are two forces at odds with each other and then everything bends and boom, you’ve got the Milky Way.”
Harry didn’t respond because he was picturing it happening at that very moment some light years away. Also because Cassie had a point she was getting to. She shuffled closer, resting her head on his shoulder.
“I've been thinking lately about how blessed our baby is. All those parenting guides say it's better for a child to be raised by parents who love each other. And I know they mean two people who are married and in love. But our baby will have that too. ‘Cause there’s no one I love more than you. We’re such a fucking mess, but it works and it’s beautiful.”
Harry smiled. “Beautifully chaotic.”
“Exactly.”
She was quiet again for a while, her fingertips moving across her rounded stomach. “I think we should name her Andromeda.”
Their parents would hate it. They’d prefer something conservative and preferably Anglo-Saxon, but Harry didn’t care. He looked at Cassie and her smile matched his own.
“I like it.”
†
Harry wakes from a delirious half-sleep to the sound of footsteps on the walls. He pictures a hundred military boots, a whole brigade, stomping up toward the ceiling. He opens his eyes and his head spins. Talking heads on the telly chatter on, the room bathed in their blue-white glow. More footsteps. Belle starts yapping and he quiets her. Too much noise. He sets his forehead in his hand and looks towards the door as the sound of the brigade starts up again. Not footsteps. Just a very inconsiderate person knocking.
Slowly, he tumbles out of the couch, careful to avoid Rhea and Mell spread out on the floor. He starts towards the door, keeping his hand on some surface at all times. His legs feel like pudding. It’s a miracle he makes it. He yanks the door open.
For a second, it's as if Cassie is standing there, leather jacket, thick eyeliner, wild hair, and a guitar case strapped to her back. He blinks again and it’s Andy, which is almost as unbelievable.
“Are you drunk?” she asks. No ‘hello’. No ‘sorry for not calling you back for nearly two weeks’.
Harry narrows his eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here,” Andy says, slipping past him and into the flat.
“Since when?”
“My bedroom’s the way I left it, so I technically still live here.” Andy looks at the empty bottle on the coffee table, a wine glass toppled over on the floor. “Who gets drunk alone on a Saturday night?”
Harry pushes the door closed. It isn’t what it looks like, but he doesn’t say so because he doesn’t owe her an explanation. Earlier he disposed of every cigarette in his possession, including the ones he hides for emergencies. He poured out his alcohol too, excluding the one bottle Louis bought him from Monaco. And then he drank all of said bottle as a last hurrah before entering into a hopefully more sober leg of his life.
“Why are you questioning me after not speaking to me for over a week?” Harry asks. He goes to the coffee table, sets the glass atop it and turns to face her. Her mascara is smudged and her hair unkempt. She curls her arms over her chest.
“I just need a place to stay for the night,” she says, ignoring his question.
He waves toward her bedroom. “Make yourself comfortable.”
She doesn’t move. “Are you actually mad at me?"
Harry laughs, looking at Belle who’s come to sit at his feet. “She makes it sound so unbelievable,” he says.
“What could I have possibly done that would even compare to you shagging my producer for months behind my back? And lying to me over and over again about it? And trotting around with him and getting papped and nearly ruining my whole band? If I did any of that to you, you wouldn’t talk to me either.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Harry mutters. “I don’t have that option as a parent to just stop speaking to you. That's not how it works for me.”
“The point is that you would if you could. The point is that you know what you did is a hundred times worse than the silent treatment—"
“Why are you here?”
“I'm not welcome here now?"
“I’m just surprised you remember the way,” Harry says. “What is it? What’s driven you all the way home?”
She reaches for her bag on the ground. “I’m going to sleep.”
“Andy,” he says firmly.
“What?”
He doesn’t say anything. He waits. She stares at him and then down at her feet. She draws a breath, her nostrils flaring, presses her hand to her forehead.
“I fucked up,” she says so quietly he nearly misses it.
His heart sinks. “How?”
“It doesn't matter.”
“It does to me.”
Her lips tremble. “Everything is a mess, alright? I ruined everything. It’s my fault. And it doesn't matter anymore because I'm done with those girls. I hate them. Every single one of them.”
Harry moves closer, cautiously. “What happened?”
Andy chews her thumbnail. “I didn’t mean for it to get serious.” She dries her palms on the sides of her jeans. The strap of her bag slips off and the bag returns to the floor. “We kissed once, on a dare, because we were drunk, and she was the first girl I ever kissed, so it got to my head or something. And I thought I was wrong about her.”
Harry doesn’t ask who because his first thought is Kendra and ‘Kandy’. He remembers how close they’d always been and how happy he was a year ago thinking Andy was making friends in the band. Maybe they were more friendly than he thought.
“I feel so stupid,” Andy says. “I can’t trust anyone. I trusted her and I look like an idiot now. Everyone lies all the fucking time. I’m sick of it.”
That's not meant for him, but he feels it anyway. And he’d say sorry again, except he’s left enough texts and voicemails doing as much.
Instead he asks, “How long have you and Kendra been—?” He gestures at the air. “Doing whatever it is you’re doing?”
“Kendra?” Andy blinks at him. “No—”
Harry's thoughts slow to a still. “Who then?”
“Can we just leave it?”
“No, we can’t,” Harry says. “You’re here in the middle of the night, crying—”
“I’m not crying.”
“Just tell me,” Harry says, his patience thin.
She’s barely loud enough for him to hear. “Rose.”
Harry cranes his ear towards her. “Who?”
She glares at him.
“Oh, fuck.” Harry pushes his hands through his hair. “Why?”
“I just told you,” Andy says. “I thought I could trust her, like I trusted you. And then she told the girls about you and Louis. She thinks I knew the whole time what was going on, and she wouldn’t believe me. She turned the girls against me. And they all hate me now. And everything is a mess. And I should hate her, but I don’t.”
The last bit she whispers and it makes him ill. He presses a hand to his stomach even. “How long has this been going on?”
“Since LA.”
“A year?”
Her eyes widen. “You're not actually judging me, right? When you kept secrets too?”
“But I could say the same to you.”
“It's not the same thing at all.”
“Of course it bloody is. You feeling anything for a band member in an all-girl band? That absolutely jeopardises your career. Way more than anything to do with me and Louis.”
“I specifically asked you not to do this with Louis.”
“But it doesn’t fucking work that way,” Harry says. “You don’t choose who you love. It just happens.”
“Then why are you yelling at me?”
“I’m not yelling,” Harry says, although he might be. “And Jesus, you don’t love her.”
“I might’ve if you didn’t ruin the whole thing.”
Harry chokes on a laugh. “You’ve actually lost it.”
“I don’t care,” Andy says, snatching her bag off the floor again. “I don’t care what happens to them. I don’t care what you do with Louis. None of it matters. I need to focus on being solo. That’s all I need anyone for now. Nothing else matters. They don’t matter.”
The words might have more impact if she weren’t crying, but they still make him recoil.
“Where do you get that from?” Harry asks. “You think it’s okay to just write people off and use them anyhow? Where’d you learn that?”
Andy rolls her eyes all the way around her sockets, which makes the fresh tears building there fall free. “It’s called having a backbone,” she says. “So probably from my mum.”
Harry feels like he’s taken a kick to the stomach, if the lack of breath for several seconds is any indication. Andy refuses to look at him. Neither of them speaks. He stares at her, trying to find his little girl buried under the smudged eyeliner and the big jacket like a suit of armour, but he can’t. It doesn’t sadden him as much as it resigns him.
“You wanted that one to hurt,” he says tiredly. “Nice work.”
Andy bows her head, he hopes, in shame rather than defiance.
“You couldn't be more wrong,” Harry says. “Your mum was crazy half the time but she never hurt people when she could avoid it. And I fight for a lot of things. Always for you. So that you can be happy and have the life you want.”
His eyes sting and suddenly, he wants to sob like a child and roll around on the floor and put his fist through a wall. Mostly, he doesn’t want to be the adult right now. Cassie may have thought he was cut out for being a dad but he doesn’t feel it in that moment.
“Some things I decide not to fight for and that’s also for you,” Harry says, his voice brittle. “You’ve got no idea—” He presses the heels of his palms into his eyelids harshly and when that doesn't work, he lifts the end of his shirt upward and blots his eyes and takes a moment with his face hidden to draw a deep, unsteady breath.
“Dad.”
Andy sounds five again, which is the last thing he can handle. He drops his shirt and looks at her again.
“Let’s get something straight, yeah?” he says without another breath. He holds his arms out. “I’m not sorry about Louis. I wish I’d told you, I do. I'm sorry I didn’t. But I’m not sorry for being with him. You don’t get to make me feel wrong for being with someone who loves me. Not you. Not anyone. And I won’t feel sorry for loving them back. Everything I’ve ever done, I’ve done for you. Or for your mum. But Louis was mine. I deserved him.”
He lifts Belle into his arms and turns away, then turns back. This is it. Should they never speak again, this will be his final lesson. One he's learning too.
“You should try forgiving people for the mistakes they make,” Harry says. “It might make it easier to forgive yourself.”
†
It’s unclear how much time has passed when his bedroom door opens. For a moment he thinks he’s dreaming. Socked feet shuffle on the floor. Curly silver hair catches moonlight. The bed creaks beneath Andy’s weight. She settles into the space beside Harry and then she’s quiet, but not for long.
The sound doesn’t catch him by surprise. He’s expecting it, the tiny sob that leaves her mouth. She presses half her face into the pillow like she’s trying to be quiet. She fails miserably. He listens to her until he can’t anymore and then he reaches out and pulls her close. He rests his forehead against the back of her head.
“It’s okay,” he says.
Andy cries and cries. She cries so badly her body shakes and it’s terrifying. He holds onto her as tightly as he can, worried he’ll watch her disintegrate in front of him.
“It’s okay,” he says again, his voice breaking. “I’m here."
He’s taken back to her first day of school. To the first onslaught of bullies and snotty-nosed boyfriends. He recounts her first fall on her first bike. Her first awareness of Mother’s Day. Her first audition for her first play, followed by her first rejection.
She’s never cried like this, but they’ve been here before. She could be small enough to fit into his arms or old enough to spew words so venomous he cries himself, but he will always be her dad when she needs him.
When there’s nothing left but half a box of tissues, she turns in his arms so they're facing each other. He combs the hair away from her eyes and rests his cheek against her head.
“I’m sorry for not talking to you,” she says.
“Say you’re sorry in the morning,” Harry mumbles. “Just sleep.”
“I can’t."
“Want me to tell you a bedtime story then?”
“I’ll pass,” she says with a quiet laugh. She pulls away a bit so she can look at him. He gives her a small smile. She tries to do the same but it looks like she's near to crying again. “I’ve ruined everything.”
“I know the feeling,” Harry says. “But you haven’t. There's always a solution.”
Andy shakes her head and turns onto her back. “I don’t even know if I want to fix it,” she says. “Nothing is the way I thought it’d be. It's hard to find people who are genuine. I know you said not to fall for fans but I’ll meet a nice person on the road and I’ll fool myself into thinking they’re into me just because and then it turns out they did it all for Twitter followers. I hate Twitter. I hate social media. I hate that I can’t just take a walk anymore without someone recognising me. Sometimes I don’t want to be recognised. I hate that I have to think so hard about how I look or that I’m self-conscious now about my stomach.”
“There’s nothing at all wrong with your stomach.”
Andy lifts the hem of her shirt and pulls at the bit of pudgy flesh above her waistband and looks at him.
“Christ,” Harry says, slapping a hand to his chest. “You're right. How could I miss that?”
She laughs. A real genuine laugh for the first time in forever. “Shut up,” she says, swiping her wrist beneath her nose. “I’ve seen people say stuff on Twitter.”
“You shouldn’t look at what people say about you from behind a computer screen. That person could live under a rock with fifty cats.”
“Maybe.” She shrugs. “I still hate that I care. I don’t think I used to care about that stuff. I don’t know why I do now.”
“The spotlight changes you.”
“I hate the spotlight. I hate that it’s on me and not the music. No one cares about the music.”
“That’s not true.”
“The media doesn’t care about the music. They care about who I’m dating and who you’re dating and it’s all such bullshit. It’s exhausting. I keep thinking I’ll get used to it but it’s already been two years.”
“Two years isn't enough time to adjust to anything. I still forget you aren't in your room sometimes. Or I'll pull a second cup from the cupboard when I'm making tea.”
“How cute,” Andy coos.
Harry rolls his eyes. “I say give it four years at least. You'll get the hang of it all then.” He props his head up in his palm and looks at her. “You know you don’t have to keep doing this, if you don’t want to.”
“I signed a contract.”
“We’d work it out,” Harry says. “If this isn’t what you want anymore, we’ll figure it out.”
She goes quiet for a while after that and Harry thinks seriously about the logistics of it. Niall would shit himself. He’d try to talk them out of it. The legal fees would be horrendous, he’d say. And Harry can’t imagine how much money they would lose or owe in the end. And if there was any hope of repairing things with Louis, it’d be unlikely if he destroyed his first and only girl band. Any hope of moving into a new home or getting a new car would be dashed too. He’ll be a florist forever.
“I love performing,” Andy says, interrupting his brain’s downward spiral. “I love being on stage and singing. I love the crowd. And it sucks sometimes, but that never does. I love inspiring girls to be whoever they want. I like what I do, even if I hate it sometimes. I think it's what I was born to do.”
“Your mum would agree.”
In a month, there would be a break in the tour. Andy could come home. They could go on a trip. Maybe everything would look different then.
“Rose isn’t a nice person,” she says. “I think maybe she wasn’t always that way. But she is now.”
“She's young. She's got time to change. You deserve better, though. You know that.”
Andy looks at him. “Should I be saying the same to you?”
His brows crease. “What?”
“I know Louis is in Argentina. Without you,” she says. “Did he dump you?”
“No,” Harry says immediately, and vaguely defensive. “Well, maybe. But it was me. I messed it up.”
“What happened?”
This is the last thing he wants to talk about, but she’s voiced so much of her inner muck, it seems unfair not to do the same. “I don’t know. Maybe I panicked,” he says, letting his head fall to the pillow again. He turns onto his back, his eyes on the ceiling. “I don’t want you to feel guilty about this, alright? My life since I was seventeen has been devoted mostly to you. I’ve tried dating for years but I never loved any of those men or cared enough to let them get close to you, in my heart or otherwise. But Louis— When I’m with him I can hardly think. There's this constant feeling of being swept up, of floating. And you're always there in my mind, Bee, but sometimes for days on end, it seemed like he was all I could think about. And it scared me, especially when it came to the article and feeling like I had to put you first. I love you, Bee. I’ve done everything I can to show you that. I just think maybe I didn’t do enough to show Louis that I love him too.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Just sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
She quiets. He thinks she’s dozed off after several minutes of silence and then her voice comes again.
“At first, I genuinely hated her, you know? But then we got drunk a few times and talked and it’s hard to keep thinking of someone as a monster when there's so much about them that's human. Her favourite color is blue. She’s a beast at footie. She hates grapes, but loves raisins. Puts them in her oatmeal. She never knew her dad and her mum died in a car accident when she was nine. Rachel worked three jobs and saved up for a year to buy her her first guitar.
“She can be so good when she wants to be. So kind. But she’s not nice,” Andy says, her voice breaking again. “She’s not nice to me, I know that, but it doesn’t change what’s going on here…” She presses her hand to her heart.
Harry drags both hands over his face. “You absolutely get this from me and I’m sorry. I used to fall for the worst men. I know how it hurts, but I promise, it’s not always this way. One day you’ll fall in love for real and you’ll know when you do. Because someone will come along and show you how it feels.”
“Like Louis?”
“Like Louis.”
“Are you going to get him back?”
Harry sighs, pushing his hair away from his face. “I’m going to try,” he says. “I think I might have ruined things. Don’t date arseholes like me, by the way.”
“You’re not an arsehole. If Louis loves you, he knows that. You're human. You make mistakes.”
“Too many mistakes.”
“Then stop,” Andy says. “Giving up is a mistake. Start by not doing that.”
“I haven’t given up.”
“But you’re preparing yourself for the worst possible outcome, which is almost the same thing.”
“Jesus,” Harry says with a short, surprised laugh. He feels too exposed all of a sudden. Because she’s right. As much as he wants to feel hopeful, there’s still that voice in his head telling him to lower his expectations. As much as he wants to forgive himself, the voice says ‘No’.
He often imagined it was Cassie, communicating to him from the other side, but Cassie never thought anything but the best of him. It’s been him the whole time. The person who expected the worst of Harry, thought the worst of him— It was always Harry himself.
“It's been awhile since I've felt this way without someone,” he says quietly. “Like half a person.”
Andy turns to him, dropping her arm across his waist. “Since mum,” she mumbles, sounding sleepy at last.
“Right,” Harry says.
“He completes you,” Andy says.
“I think so.”
“Say it to him like that.”